friendlylocalwhumper

[friendlylocalwhumper]

"Please."

The villain raised an eyebrow, but didn't otherwise look up from their desk. "You can walk out of that door any time, darling. I'm not stopping you."

"I'd come back. It wouldn't - I don't want to break our deal."

"You don't want the consequences of breaking our deal. You absolutely want to break it."

"People are dying," the hero snapped. "I can help."

"Mm, of course you can. You're a miracle on legs."

"I'm just suggesting a pause," the hero said. "A temporary change of terms. That's all."

"And I'm just saying no."

The hero stopped on the other side of the table, fingers digging into the fine wood in an effort to control their temper. They took a deep breath. Released. Another.

"I'm still yours," the hero said. "I'd still be yours."

"Always. But N-O spells no."

"I'm begging," the hero said, through gritted teeth.

"Is that what that is?" The villain finally deigned to glance up. Their eyes - a dark and stormy night for all bad things to happen in - did not match their light tone. The amused curve of their slight smile. "Gosh. Your standards are slipping. You're not even kneeling or anything."

"Would you say yes if I knelt?"

The villain's head tipped to one side. "No," they said, after a long moment. "But I'd sincerely appreciate the view. Perhaps it might even distract you from this latest bout of self-loathing."

"Screw you."

"But it's so much more fun when you do it, dear."

"This is serious!"

The villain scoffed and merely pointed a finger at the door, expectant and waiting.

The hero's jaw clenched hard enough to hurt but they didn't move.

"Mm," the villain said. "Are you kneeling or are we done here?"

The villain could have lied, they knew that. They could have pretended there was a chance that they'd say yes. They could have offered false hope, only to rip it away again once they'd had their fun.

In the grand terms of their arrangement, the villain had done absolutely nothing wrong. They were even, in their own particular way, being kind.

There was a bitter taste in the hero's mouth.

"It's bad out there," they said, voice cracking. "People need me. They could - maybe it could be fun. You've never played at saving the world, have you? We could do it together. Go together. It could be an experiment. A game."

"Perhaps," the villain shrugged. "But I don't think that would be very good for your mental health."

"This isn't very good for my mental health!"

The villain simply looked at them.

The hero could leave. They could end the deal at any time.

But, then, the villain would simply leave too. An apocalypse slipping free of its gilded cage. The horrors on the TV would seem mild compared to the fight to come.

"I could be back in an hour," the hero said. "You wouldn't even notice I was gone."

"And I could end the world by lunch time," the villain said. "You'd be dead before you had time to be too distressed. What's your point?"

"You really don't care what's happening out there?"

"No."

"You have to care."

"I don't."

"If you're worried I'd get hurt-"

"-I'm not. I'd slaughter anyone who tried to hurt you before they got the chance."

The hero's mouth dried. Their fingers flexed on the table. They wanted to scream. Fight. Throw things.

The villain leaned back in their chair and sighed, at whatever they read on the hero's face.

"You are saving the world, love," they said. "You're here. With me. Do I need to prove that I still have teeth?"

"No," the hero said. "I - no. Thank you."

The villain nodded, just once. "Good. Come here."

"It's okay. I - I'm okay."

"You're not. Come here."

Feeling foolish, and furious, and raw, the hero rounded the desk. The villain's arm wrapped around them, pulling them close. The grip was painfully tight, mercifully impossible to wriggle free from, and so the hero had to settle against them. They could hide the prickle of tears against the deceptively vulnerable line of the villain's neck.

They stayed like that until the hero could no longer hear the screaming beyond the window.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

i LOVE noncon drugging of a strong character. a resilient, stubborn character left pliant and soft and easy from a substance. not just useless, but gentle. that endless strength broken, left a crooning mess with their emotions on ruthless display, pushing their face into any kind hand that comes close.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series | Office Hours (pt.46)

The professor’s office hours have been so few and far between, lately. It’s hard to catch him available to ask about this project, the one with the crazy strict parameters and a heavy impact on their grade for the semester. The way Professor explained his expectations for the paper made it sound like he would personally expel anyone who dared to underperform.

So here he stands, outside of the lecture hall, notebook clasped in clammy hands. To be twenty-two – old, according to the kids who just got out of high school – and so nervous, makes him feel like an idiot. But he knows he’s doing well in class, he can tell from how rarely Daniil has to walk all the way up to his seat to help him with problems anymore. Niil hasn’t been climbing those steps much anymore, even though there are people who need some assistance working out the exercises on their papers and laptops. Maybe he’s tired of his low pay, considering how much effort he puts into being a teacher’s assistant. Maybe he’s sick. Daniil’s been looking under the weather for a few weeks now.

Professor’s last class ended half an hour ago but he usually stays after to sort papers and gather his things. Talk to any stragglers with pressing questions about phonemes and syntax and stuff.

With a tense breath out of his nose, Simon shoulders the hall door open and steps into the massive room. The lights are low, shadows hanging heavily in the ascending rows of seats. Professor isn’t behind the podium, or at the desk. The room echoes with his footfalls as he steps further in, frowning with confusion. It’s not like the professor to leave so quickly. To be fair, it isn’t like him to cancel most of his office hours, either. Simon’s pretty sure it’s, like, required for professors to have a certain amount of hours like that available each week.

To Professor’s office, then. He hugs his notebook closer to his chest and casts an admiring glance at the chalkboard – so old fashioned, just like Professor to demand a hall with one of those still up – and his eyes scan across the languages still scrawled across the green matte surface, trying lazily to decipher Italian and Greek and French. He barely manages to piece together the phrase that was being translated between the languages, but he recognizes Professor’s symbols scratched out around random clusters of letters.

As he turns back to the door, he catches a glimpse of worn leather. Daniil’s messenger bag is barely visible around the corner of the desk. It lies open across the floor by the podium, a book splayed beneath it, a puddle and a water bottle a few paces away.

Simon blinks. Daniil never sets that bag down for long, never leaves it behind. Weird. Across the pit he walks, stooping down to scoop up the bag and its abandoned contents.

The dark room is so unsettling that he makes sure to check around every few seconds, squinting up at the dark eaves along the top row of empty desks. As he shoves the book into the bag and tosses the empty water bottle into the waste basket, he imagines the power trip you must get standing here under the lights, teaching a big room full of people watching. It sets sweat prickling across his skin just thinking about it.

Right, to Professor’s office next. Daniil must be there, too – Simon can feel, through the leather hanging against his thigh, the bulge of the keychain attached to the mechanism Niil uses to open his bike lock. He adjusts the messenger bag’s strap across his shoulder and strolls out of the eerie room, out into the well-lit corridor.

Damn elevators are down again. Simon huffs, pinching his graphic tee and tugging it away from his stomach and back again to cool himself as he ascends the last of twelve flights of stairs. Poor teachers having to do this every day, just to wrap up stuff in their offices and head right back down the stairs. For the cost of tuition, you’d think they’d make sure to keep the elevators at least functional.

The hallway that he finally groans into is dark. There is only one office with any lights on, and from the faint orange glow, it seems to be a single lamp that’s lit. It’s the right doorway to mean it’s his professor that’s still here. Grinning around his pitiful gasping for air after his climb, Simon adjusts his shirt self-consciously and clings tighter to his notebook. He should have practiced his questions on the way up here. Professor isn’t mean, but he doesn’t ever seem to have much patience for ill-thought-out questions.

As he draws nearer to the door, his smile fades. It’s starting to feel stupid that he took Daniil’s bag. He shouldn’t have it on him, it wasn’t his to pick up. Niil’s been looking so tired lately, he might be annoyed to see it on Simon. And Professor, he doesn’t like to be interrupted when he’s working. Simon didn’t send him an email asking to meet. This is unprofessional, it won’t look good.

There are noises coming from inside the office. The door is ajar, just slightly. Simon stares at his own hand as he reaches for the doorknob. It would be stupid to pretend he doesn’t feel afraid, now. Of being met with annoyance. Or a lack of recognition, if he’s not a memorable enough student for the Professor to know his name. Or… or something else. Simon doesn’t know what. The sounds in there aren’t right. His first thought is that someone might be in there, rummaging in Professor’s desk. Stealing a paper to change the grade on it, or get some kind of important research, or…

As he pushes the door, it swings open slowly without a creak. This isn’t right. Simon steps inside. There are shoes on the floor behind the desk, moving. His mind is blank. Professor doesn’t seem like the type, it’s impossible to imagine. It’s almost funny. He should sneak back out, he must be… he can’t, but he must be in some kind of relationship, with another teacher. This is awkward but it’s fine, he’ll back out and leave as quietly as he can, no one needs to know.

“Whoever you are,” Hums a familiar, warm voice, “I have a letter opener to his throat. So close that door and come have a seat.”

A gray buzz floods in around the edges of his thoughts. Numbly, blinking, Simon pushes the door closed behind himself and takes halting steps deeper into the room. All he can see, still, are the two pairs of legs, and the desk. He could’ve left without even being recognized, he could’ve tried calling for help. But Professor is important, he’s smart, and power is thick in the air. Besides, apparently, he has… a letter opener to someone’s throat.

There’s a soft, muffled sound. Like someone’s distress caught behind a hand over their mouth, sounding just after the door clicked shut, confirming Professor’s theory that someone had walked in.

As much as he wants to keep being clueless, Simon knows that voice. The messenger bag weighs more heavily on his shoulder.

“Have a seat,” Professor repeats. Daniil whimpers again, so quiet and pitchy. The shoes that are a little lower than the other pair twitch with apparent pain. Simon feels for an armchair in the near-dark and sits in it, staring at the desk like it’s got the voice threatening him.

“Simon.” The professor’s voice is low and sure. It’s a guess, but he may as well have x-ray vision.

“Yeah… yes, Professor. It’s me.”

Daniil croaks out a miserable, breathless sob.

“Simon, you’re smart. Top of the class. You know… you know how this has to go.” Professor’s voice is strained, his breaths sharp and random. Both pairs of feet aren’t holding still.

“Stop.” He doesn’t know what to do with his notebook. It feels like setting it down on the floor might make the room explode into chaos. He grips it so tightly that the metal binding warps. “Whatever… whatever this is, please stop. I won’t, we won’t say anything.”

“Things are more complicated than you know. I don’t need you going around, talking about something you don’t understand. You wouldn’t want your friend to end up hurt, hmm?”

Daniil’s already hurt, Simon thinks. But the letter opener could make it a lot worse. Simon swallows past a lump in his throat and glances over his shoulder at the office door.

“Run and you’ll never see him again,” Informs the Professor grimly.

That snaps the student’s head back to front. The notebook is nearly unrecognizable now. Professor always knows things. “Okay. I won’t.” It’s like someone else has his voice. Simon has no idea how this is working on him. But it feels impossible to do anything else. That deep voice is just so self-assured, like Professor knows, too, that Simon won’t make a break for it.

“Good. That’s good. Have a drink.”

Chest rising and falling with too-steady breaths – why can’t his panic come out, visible and real? – Simon turns his head robotically to see the classy wooden furniture piece with a scotch glass and a bottle of amber liquid on top. There’s some in the glass, untouched.

“A drink? Why, what are you…”

Those legs jerk, and Daniil makes a louder, more desperate sound of pain before it’s smothered hard and the noise is cut off into silence. And silent, panicked, spasmodic kicks.

Simon stands abruptly and hurries to the bar, snatching up the glass and downing it before he can let fear stop him. He wipes away the drip left on his chin with the back of his wrist, clutching the glass desperately. “I did it,” He croaks around the burn of the liquor. “I drank it, stop, just stop. Please.”

Niil keeps struggling. It’s obvious that it’s not hard to pin him. Some terrible terror keeps Simon from rushing around the desk to help. The glass grows heavy, so heavy against his palm. Blinking, gritting his teeth at the  soft sounds of the TA’s panic, Simon tries his hardest to stay upright. As he falls, crashing into his chair and sliding to flop onto the carpet, he thinks he hears his professor tutting in disapproval.

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy , @apokolyps , @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite ,

@wollemi-whump , @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire , @notactuallyluska

@neverthelass , @whumpr, @hellodecisionparalysis, @sir-fenris

[friendlylocalwhumper]

Whumper holds a recaptured Whumpee by the chin, examining the new collage of bruises and bloody wounds on their body.

“Hmm…they’ve been sloppy with you.”

“Yeah, because you were always so gentle,” Whumpee spits and tries to wrench away, and is immediately met with a blow to the face.

“Sloppy in more ways than one. I guess I need to remind you not to have a smart mouth - not with me.”

[friendlylocalwhumper]

continuation of this drabble.

Their neck is fine. They think. As they step hesitantly out of the bloody room, Quinn flinches back into the doorway a few times at various imagined sounds. If Tank is coming back to finish the job, hiding won’t save them. So they finally make it all the way into the hall.

Creeping along, hands held protectively close to their stomach, they head straight for the place they’re sure Major has gone to hide. To the bathroom, cracking the door open and slipping inside.

The shower is dripping. Looks like it wasn’t fully turned off. Quinn finds Major curled up on the bottom of the tub, naked, shivering and covering his head with his arms. Beads of water glistening on rough, raised burn scars. Frizzy hair slicked down and plastered to his head by the water, one knee drawn up higher than the other to try to cover himself.

Unabashed – or maybe numb to their shame – Quinn plants one palm gingerly on the edge of the bathtub and climbs in. Their knee nudges Major’s legs apart to slot their leg between his, and lay the other across him. Their left arm folds up between their chests and the right drapes over his side. Nose to nose they lie together, now, with his eyes shut the whole time and jaw clenched.

“You healed your hip,” They whisper in approval. “Was that scary?”

He doesn’t scoff at the nearly condescending wording. He doesn’t mock them for cuddling up to him in here. Major grunts and doesn’t try to clarify what that means.

“I think I died, for a minute,” Quinn continues, planting a trembling hand at his back. “I, I, I… my head’s not okay. I’m dizzy. I threw up.”

“Boohoo,” Major mutters, chest and back moving with his slightly-too-rapid breaths.

“Are you okay?” The question is pointless, ridiculous, and whispered with unusual tenderness.

“...He knew. That happened. Before.”

Despite how bad it hurts to do with broken fingers, they press their hand harder to his back for a moment in a sort of hug. His eyes remain closed, and they keep on watching him from inches away. “Is that why you went away? It was too much?”

No answer. Major is shivering more and more. Quinn wriggles closer to him, lending their warmth. They shift up and tuck his head down to their collarbone, lending more of their warmth and a place to hide.

“I wanted to ask you to heal me.”

That earns a little scoff against their chest. “My shit hurts more’n Remy’s. Should go beg him.”

“Yeah, but you’ll like it. Make you feel better. I’ll cry.”

His head tips back to finally crack those hazel eyes open and squint at Quinn. “You’re a freak.” His arm is already moving to grab theirs and pull it, getting their hand within reach. Now the nineteen year old is the one closing their eyes and clenching their teeth.

“I feel bad.” Quinn’s whisper sounds more vulnerable now that he’s taking hold of swollen knuckles, supporting crooked fingers that tremble violently. “For what happened to you. For – f-for… being so weak. Dying and not, not stopping him, being useless.”

The glow of his magic starts up, and Quinn whimpers like a hurt animal. Major shudders again, this time for a different reason, and presses closer to them, crushing them in a hug.

“Whaddaya keep talking about, dying?”

Tears are slipping down their cheek and over the bridge of their nose as their hand finishes getting bones popped back into place. “I got… I th-think my neck broke. Remy fixed it, he… nnh!” Quinn whines in some mix of fear and pain when he dumps their hand to grab their chin and tip it up, inspecting their neck with sharp eyes and unusually careful prodding.

“And your head?” He asks, seeming to approve of the healing to their throat so his hand finds the back of their skull. Blood gives enough traction for his roaming fingers at the same time that Quinn yips and tries to twist away. His grip tightens and they fall still with a wobbly chin.

“Hit, on the floor, couple times.”

“Get that through my skull faster next time,” Major grumbles. Quinn weeps softly as the pain of his magic burns terribly under the bloody clump in their hair.

“So-orry. It. It’s hard to think.”

“You can say thank you,” Major guides meanly, searching for any more damage to their skull and mending it painfully.

“I’m good,” They quip, voice tremulous.

Their neck and head are fine. So he grabs their other hand, finding the breaks and squeezing.

They try to scream, but find his palm pressed over their mouth as their brows shoot up in distress.

“Sassy bitch,” Grumbles the healer as he starts to mend that hand, too. When the healing is done he stops covering their mouth and pulls them close again in a big, rough bear hug. The pressure seems to be comforting enough to get them letting out big, chest-heaving sobs. Or maybe that’s from getting their hand crushed. “Hey.”

Quinn takes a big shaky breath in. “Ye-eah?”

They get their back rubbed, now, as he tries to hug them so hard they turn into mashed Quinn. “Thanks. For dying for me. Comin’ in here. Took balls. ‘m fuckin’... glad you were here.”

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series | Leveling (pt.45)

“I owe you an apology.”

The words coming out of Simon’s mouth don’t make sense. Major squints suspiciously at him from where his chin is propped up on his folded arms, body flopped over to lean heavily on the kitchen table. “Huh?”

“I need to say sorry to you,” Simon amends, turning to lean back against the counter. His face is drawn with more exhaustion today than Major’s ever seen. Pajama pants and a faded band T-shirt, looking like he didn’t sleep at all last night. “I want to.”

The captive frowns and picks at a loose corner of the metal banded around the table, trying to work a stubby fingernail up under it. “For beating the crap out of me?”

“No, I don’t have to apologize for that.”

“For being wrong about the door.”

“Nope, it made sense to think you did it. And I don’t need a good reason to hurt you.”

Cupcake doesn’t point out the doubt he hears in that one.

“For forgetting to get me a six-pack?”

Simon’s expression cracks from stress to a half-amused smile. “Okay. I am a little sorry about that. But that’s not what’s bothering me.”

Cupcake hums, scratching at his cheek and wincing when it makes his black eye ache worse. “Okay. What, then?”

“The three whole syllables thing.”

Major looks clueless for a second, then his face shuts down into something more careful. “Dunno what you mean.”

With a soft sigh, Simon pushes off the counter and crosses the room. Cupcake busies himself with peeling harder at the metal as Simon sits across from him.

“Yesterday. The door thing. When I told you to come up with three whole syllables.” The reminder hangs in the air unchallenged. “...That wasn’t fair.”

Cupcake shrugs up one shoulder, head hanging. “Nah. ‘s fair. I think.”

“It wasn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were probably scared.”

“I wasn’t scared.”

“And on top of that, I said… you know I don’t think you’re stupid, right?”

Bushy brows knit with confusion and that jaw squares with some kind of emotion. “Then you’re stupid. I don’t even know what that is.”

Unbothered by the comeback, Simon hums. “Don’t know what what is?”

“What you said. Three whole… I heard it before. I know it’s mean. I dunno what it means.”

A blink. Simon’s fingers tap on the table in thought. He clearly considers defining what a syllable is, but reconsiders. “Does that bother you?”

The warlock shrugs. He still won’t look up. “Not knowing? Nah. I’m not like Quinn. Don’t know everything. Or anything, I guess. Bothers me when it gets pointed out, I guess.”

“Quinn. One of your friends?”

“Not my friend.” Major finally lifts his head, grinning a moment and throwing his hair back. “Loser kid who hangs out with us. Know-it-all. They’re, like, married to this fed.”

Simon’s brows shoot up at that. “They’re a kid, but they’re married.”

“Well, not a kid really. Nineteen, act like they’re sixty. Boring, up their own… yeah. And not really married. I mean - I don’t know. Maybe he married them. Not like they’d know.”

This is the most Simon’s ever gotten out of him about his friends. He’s relaxing back into his seat now, arms crossed, trying not to look too interested. “How would they not know if they got married?”

Major laughs, a single bark with no humor in it. “‘Cause he keeps ‘em drugged out. It’s creepy, way creepier than here. He has, like, pictures of them all over the place. In the hall, on the table here.” His finger taps the edge of the table closest to the wall. “Floppy, big doe eyes. They go, oh, Jon, I’m so sorry, Jon, I’m yours, I’m yours…” Rolling his eyes after putting on the high-pitched voice, Major shakes his head.

“So they’re the prisoner of a fed. How long have they been gone?”

“Gone?” Another bark-laugh. “Nah, they’re out, with us. Or… they were. Sometimes he takes ‘em back. Quinn’s free, long as they run back with their tail between their legs every time he calls.”

Simon is nodding slowly, processing. Major has a nineteen year old friend who’s the on-call pet of a fed. Kept drugged, definitely assaulted, treated like property. And this is all casual, funny even, to his own pet.

“You don’t ever want to help them?”

Major flings his hands into the air with an exasperated noise. “What can I do? They fucking… my bad.” He shakes his head as if to dislodge the foul language. “They got me stuck there, too, one time. And I…”

He’s getting those skittish eyes where he’s feeling cornered. Thinking about being hurt. Simon tenses, watching for a chance to change the subject without upsetting Cupcake.

“Guy creeps me out,” Major continues hesitantly. His hand balls into a fist and comes up to his mouth so he can chew on it. “I got, I got… you know, my fair share. Quinn wants to keep going back to him, that’s on them. Not tryna help again.”

Using the excuse to go grab his cup of tea to give him space before asking his next question, Simon chews on his words a moment. “What did he do to you?”

Major’s biting turns more destructive as it hones in on further whittling down his already too-short thumbnail. “Not gonna talk about it.”

The finality to that works in Simon’s favor, really. He could punish the refusal to answer. That’s why it’s the perfect time to ask about something else. “Then talk about Tank and Remy.”

Cupcake shoves back from the table, standing with a screech of the chair across the floor. He heads for the doorway.

Simon is up just as quickly, catching him with an arm across the chest to send him staggering back. “Not a request,” He smiles dangerously. An edge of authority has to be used if he ever wants Major to remember his place and submit.

“Not gonna,” Major repeats, hissing out breaths from behind gritting teeth even as his eyes get skittish with fear. “You talk about your Master, first.”

Cupcake croaks out a startled cry when his head is bounced off the wall. He staggers, caught almost kindly by Simon and guided to lean against the wall as he feels dazedly at the back of his skull.

“This conversation started off friendly enough,” Simon reminds, a supportive hand on Cupcake’s shoulder sliding up to grab a fistful of his curls. “But it can end in a beating if you want. I own you, Cupcake. You’ll talk when I want you to talk.”

Major grapples with that for a few seconds, chewing on the inside of his cheek and staring hard into Simon’s face. Then his gaze flickers away and he gives a jerky little nod. Simon’s hand slides free and he steps back.

“Uh, you asked about…”

“Tank and Remy,” Simon reminds calmly and watches as Major feels in his hair for blood, only to sit back down reluctantly in his seat.

“Sure you don’t, you don’t wanna hear about uh, the Hunter?”

This is something. An offer of new information. Simon shrugs. “Tell me, we’ll see.”

“The guy who made these.” Looking down at his own wife-beater, Major gestures to the burns across his shoulders and down his arms. Lifts the shirt to show the ones at his stomach, which catch Simon’s curious eyes predictably.

“I’ve wondered about those. I know you wouldn’t hold still for burns like that.”

The warlock grunts in confirmation. “Had chains.”

“Chains.” Unexpectedly, Simon sounds a little haunted. “What did he do to you?”

Slinking back in his seat, Major rests his arms in his lap and shrugs. “Mostly the burns. Had a bunch of tats, way more than you. Now they’re gone. He was a creep. Said darling, and called me sweet, and shit. And - and stuff. Did stuff to everyone.”

“To everyone? What did he do to Tank and Remy?”

Realizing his mistake in mentioning that, Major’s mouth falls open for a second as he tries to figure out how to deflect. “I don’t - I just mean… he like, held me down. Fire in his hand, with magic.”

“But you said he did stuff to everyone,” Simon presses, leaning forward with interest. “So I want to hear what he did to them. And before you try to distract me again, Cupcake, I want you to know…” The gun clanks onto the the table as he sets it down. Major’s eyes lock onto the weapon immediately. The fucking thing has been out a lot more recently. Simon’s quicker to anger. “This is how seriously I’m taking disobedience today.”

Cupcake swallows, visibly annoyed and nervous in equal measure. “I wasn’t there,” He admits, quieter now. “With them. I didn’t see. I just know… they have nightmares. Tank’s in pain, like… all the time. Hard to walk. His bones, and… shoulders, and knees, and stuff, they’re bad now. I dunno if he, like… broke ‘em, or popped ‘em outta place, or what. Tank’s tough, he doesn’t like us to know. We act like we don’t notice. He’s so strong, but he has to, like… sit, all the time. Goes to another room when it’s bad enough.”

“And Remy?”

“I dunno. He’s never said. I don’t - he’s soft.” Cupcake is grimly serious about this. “He’s just… soft. I never wanted to know. It’s like, like if you heard someone punched a baby. You wouldn’t wanna know more. He’s so good, he… always just tries to make us feel better. He’s so good at that.”

“Sounds like he’s really nice.”

“They both are.” Cupcake crosses his arms now, tight and miserable. “Both of them. Better’n me. And I’m a dick to them. I dunno if that’s a curse. But I dunno what else to call it. I’m not like them. They help people, they both - they’re both so good. Good that I’m here. Bet they’re happier now.”

Simon’s face goes from curious, amused, to unhappy. “You don’t know that. I bet they miss you.”

“Why?” Major smiles again, dark and angry. “Why would they? I don’t heal anyone. I can’t, can’t even heal Tank, my magic hurts.”

“Does someone have healing that doesn’t hurt?”

The smile drops. “No,” He answers instantly. Protecting someone.

It makes Simon’s heart hurt to know how sweet Major is, under the mean defensive stuff. To understand how lonely he is. Simon gets that.

“My Master was like a god to me,” Simon shares out of nowhere.

Major blinks. “What?”

“Smarter than anyone else I’ve known. Furious so much of the time, just… so loud. Cursing. He beat us, didn’t even need the belt usually. The muzzle, the blindfold, the cage… all were his. Whole house was.”

The captive looks simultaneously uncomfortable and curious. “What are you telling me this for?”

The gun slides off the table to slot back into its holster. “You finally opened up, about your boyfriends. It’s only fair you hear my stuff.”

“...Okay,” Grunts the captive awkwardly. “Uh… so you were like, a pet?”

Simon lets out a tense breath, then hums. “Yes. I guess I was. Master was… he liked control. I should’ve known, before, from… yeah. Anyway. I was here, and… every day I thought we’d die. All the old stuff I’d cared about, grades and taxes and car troubles, it was gone. My life was how do I make sure he doesn’t get so angry today. How do I beg this time. Don’t look up, don’t breathe too loud, don’t cry.”

Cupcake watches the confession and tries to imagine it. “You don’t act like that. That scary.”

“Mmh. I try not to. Couldn’t work up the nerve to change the house at all. But I tried to be different. You’re the first one it’s really worked out with. I mean, you seem… kind of happy enough.”

Major huffs a breath from his nose and looks away. It’s too hard to admit that he is happy enough. Almost feels better than being out there, being free. Gets hurt sometimes, and Tank never hurts him enough when he asks. It just pisses him off getting put in his place so much. And… the Cupcake thing, and the cage freaks him out, and feeling like he’s in trouble…

“One thing you gotta get,” Major asserts, lounging defensively. “I am stupid.”

That frown is back on Simon’s face. “Cupcake…”

“No, I am. Don’t know stuff. Can’t write, or read, and I like it here.” His foot scuffs across the floor to feel the smooth linoleum. “It’s chill. Safe. You’re nice.”

“I beat you half to death sometimes.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Major waves a hand dismissively. “It’s whatever. ‘s stupid to like it here, but I do. I don’t… I dunno what your Master was like, really. But I like what you’re… like. I had worse.”

Simon doesn’t look like he knows what to do with that. With an expression of consternation, he finally gets a response out, slow and uncertain. “That’s… good.”

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy , @apokolyps , @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite ,

@wollemi-whump , @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire , @notactuallyluska

@neverthelass , @whumpr, @hellodecisionparalysis, @sir-fenris

[friendlylocalwhumper]

When you’re the first to fall asleep at the sleepover 😰😰

(Cover for my most recent fic!)

[friendlylocalwhumper]

Shout out to characters who want to be used. Shout out to characters who are so desperate to be worth something that they'll endure anything. Shout out to characters who build their entire self worth around being useful, being a tool. Shout out to characters who don't care how they are treated, as long as someone pays them any attention at all

[friendlylocalwhumper]

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series in chronological order | Ghosts (pt.44)

The room is quiet. Shai’s dozing, lying on his back, legs cocked out wide and an arm draped up over his head.

Miles lies on his side, knees to his chest, eyes distant and aimed at the stained corner of the mattress. Trying to think of a hot lady, just to picture one in his mind. It’s not really working. Shai’s soft, random snores keep making the red bikini and bouncy blonde hair disappear.

A chill races across his skin. Shitty tattoos, done with shaky hands for free, litter his body, and since his daydream won’t take, Miles twists to start tracing the gray-green lines of them.

Downstairs the hum of people talking is an infuriating comfort. They never do shit to help him, except someone might bother to bring him food once in a while. If they’re awake down there, Shai might fuck off and go hang out with them. Probably not, the guy mostly just likes smoking cigs and fucking. But he might wander down there and get to playing poker, crash on the couch, not come back up here until tomorrow. That would fuck.

It’s hot out, lately, and no A/C in a safehouse with no electricity, so he doesn’t mind not having a blanket. The winter was rough. Summer’s shit, too, sweat prickling across his bare skin. Being exposed.

Shai jerks. Takes a sudden sharp breath, face scrunching up in his sleep. All thoughts evaporate from Miles’ head and he holds very, very still. He’s not up for being fucked right now. Being curled up at the guy’s feet like a dog is humiliating, until he’s scared - and then all shame goes out the window and all he wants is to be left alone to stay curled up.

~

Raw, violently desperate screams tear out of his throat, leaving the heavy taste of blood. The palm holding flames over his skin doesn’t let up until this tattoo, too, is sizzled away, leaving a swath of furious pink-and-blackened skin in its wake.

Years of ink, erased. Too much of his body full of agony, every whisper of air over the burns painful enough to keep the tears streaming down his face.

“Oh, Miles, Miles, stay with me! If you can be a good boy and ask me to burn you again, I’ll give you water.”

Tongue thick, lips cracked with thirst, Major croaks out another sob and shakes his head. “Fu-, fu-, fuck you. Nnh, no please…”

The Hunter chuckles above him. The sound swims disorientingly in the air as more fire is pressed to his thigh. Major jerks in the chains, rattling and wailing, all the machismo drained back out in an instant with the new wave of pain.

“Good, good,” Murmurs the creep as his hand wanders down across Major’s chest, his stomach. Feeling the fluttering desperate breaths. “Alright. Beg for mercy, then.”

That bleach-ruined hair is splayed across the floor. Chest hitching up and down, full of distress. Major’s bite-split bottom lip wobbles as he tries to steel himself to refuse.

Grinning calmly, the Hunter ignites the magic flame in his palm again and lowers it to start burning away a tattoo of mushrooms and snails sprouting up from the knee.

The captive howls. Arches up off the floor, yanks on the chains, falls back to the floor weeping breathlessly. His wet eyes stare unseeing up at the ceiling, his fingers with nails bitten down to the quick flex and jutter. But save for the curses and insults, his jaw stays locked to keep the pleas in.

~

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you’ll be okay!” Remy’s voice is soft, always soft, like his hands. He cradles Quinn against his chest, and it’s the first time Quinn’s let one of their friends touch them in weeks. Their face is pale, freckles standing out more than usual, and their breaths are coming too fast, too ragged. Shaking like a leaf and whimpering in wordless agony, they look nineteen for once.

“Alright, I’ll go slow, palms first. Okay?”

Quinn kicks their heels against the floor and shoves harder against him. It’s not clear if they’re trying to escape or to get closer to the healer. “Mmh - please, please, please…”

“I know. I know.” Remy is never weirded out or startled by someone in pain. He has one arm wrapped around their stomach to keep them in place, and one hand cradling both of theirs tenderly. Quinn doesn’t even try to pull their hands away, half out of the fear of making them hurt worse, and half out of the instinct to keep their injuries close to Remy’s hands. Once you’ve felt his healing magic with numbing woven into it, you don’t hesitate to accept it the next time. “I know it hurts. It won’t hurt so bad in a minute. Take a breath, try to breathe in… and let it out for five seconds. Five, four, three…” His magic glows, cool and silver, and Quinn shudders violently, shoving harder back against him and letting their head fall back with eyes squeezed shut.

Major lounges with a bag of chips in his lap, crunching open-mouthed on them with apparent boredom. He only sneaks an occasional glance at his boyfriend coaxing Quinn to stay conscious.

Good fucking thing his own magic hurts like hell. No one really tries to get him to use it unless Remy’s not around. And even then, if they’ve felt it before, they hesitate. They flinch. Sometimes they say nevermind, no thanks. Means he doesn’t have to use it much. Means no one expects him to.

Across the room, Remy rubs Quinn’s chest in big circles to soothe them through the cathartic sobbing after magic sets their fingers straight and numbs away the unbearable throbbing ache. Quinn is flopped, weeping, letting their friend comfort them. It’s such an absurd sight, Quinn Mae letting someone help them. But if anything can get them to do it, it’s those gnarled hands.

With a huff, Major stands, dumping the chips on the cushion beside him and fucking off to a quieter room.

~

The TV is on, but neither of them are watching it. Simon’s hand is still on the gun where it rests in his lap. He chose an armchair he doesn’t usually sit in, the one with its back to the wall. Major’s on the couch, sitting criss-cross and chewing at his thumbnail.

He could say sorry for cursing. Could try to guess what Diego was doing when he snuck in. Could ask what Simon’s thinking. But right now, he feels like he’s stuffed in a duffelbag. Low on air, too warm, safer if he keeps his piehole shut. So he keeps chewing on his nails until they hurt.

“It was someone.” Simon speaks, finally, thumb running up and down the side of the gun as he thinks. “It was someone. Not him.”

Cupcake looks up, wiping spit onto his wrist and continuing his chewing. “Not Diego?”

Simon shakes his head, glancing toward the hallway. Toward the basement door, the master bedroom.

“Your master?” Cupcake asks, quieter. “He’s dead, right?”

“Yeah,” Simon mutters, a twinge of doubt nearly wedging a crack into his voice.

“He’s not like, a ghost.”

A shrug, his thumb pressing anxiously to the handle of the weapon in his lap. Simon doesn’t seem to see Cupcake right now, his eyes checking on various areas of the house within view. “He was… a lot. My master. If you knew him, you wouldn’t believe he could stay dead.”

The couch creaks when Major shifts his weight, itching at his jaw idly. “...Yeah. I get that.”

“Do you?”

Brows furrowing a little, Major nods.

“Tell me.”

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy , @apokolyps , @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite ,

@wollemi-whump , @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire , @notactuallyluska

@neverthelass , @whumpr, @hellodecisionparalysis, @sir-fenris

[friendlylocalwhumper]

[flirting] you seem pretty cool. i think i'd like to spend the rest of my life waking up screaming from psychological horror film production level nightmares next to you and instinctively flinching from the sight of you before leaning into your touch.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series in chronological order | The Door (pt.43)

“Come on, that’s cheating!”

Teeth bared, feet planted on the couch cushion so his knees are up by his cheeks and arms hanging down between them to grip the controller, Major keeps his eyes locked on the screen. “Not cheating, you just suck.”

Colorful flashes across the screen announce that Simon’s been thrown off the track again. He tosses his arms into the air with a sigh. Major grins bigger and tips to the right as he steers to avoid a COM.

“Let me win this one. Just one. I can’t even catch up to you! Are you slowing down on purpose?!” Simon's voice is light with competitive amusement.

A lazy, lumbering shrug as Major leans back. "Eat my dust."

~

“You were trying to get out.”

Huffing sharp breaths against the wall, Cupcake tries to shake his head. His cheekbone is too firmly mashed in place to find leeway. “No. No, I didn’t-”

“You were trying,” Simon hisses again, wrenching the right arm up behind Major’s back. He feels muscles twitching and tensing, fingers flexing fruitlessly. “To get out.”

“No!” Cupcake barks with his mouth hanging open to pant around the pain.

“Then why was the door open?” 

It’s shut and locked, now, but Major remembers the light pouring in. The fresh air spilling across the floor. How his legs locked up with terror.

“I dunno, I dunno, AH-” Stretching up onto his tiptoes, Major squeaks with the tension of his arm twisting up farther than the bone wants to allow. “I don’t fucking know!”

Fire lances up from somewhere around his elbow, through his shoulder, pouring ice down his spine. Cupcake shudders and chokes on a scream, grinding his eye socket against the wall to try to vent the agony. Simon’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist to keep the arm twisted. To keep tension on the fresh break.

“Hnn, hnn, hnn,” Cupcake moans on each exhale. Stars are fizzling in his vision. “I don’t, I don’t, I didn’t…”

“I didn’t open it. You’re the only other one here. I told you, I told you if you tried anything again…”

His arm is released, and for a minute, everything is a blur. Simon’s hands are never this forceful - not lately, anyway. But now Major feels his sense of gravity blurring as he’s spun to press his back to the wall and something crashes into his head. He’s falling, then - kicked, crashing into the wall on his way down, his arm crushed under a heel. He’s screaming into the floor and then being rolled onto his back where he lies, punches landing again and again across his skull.

Minutes pass where he’s trying to choke out any excuse he can come up with to make it stop, until he’s too dazed to try to form words anymore. When his cheek and eye and jaw feel hot-cold and tender, sticky with blood, Cupcake registers pressure at either side of his jaw. Forcing his mouth open. His teeth part, panicky breaths huffing over his tongue until they’re blocked by metal. His vision is blurred and red, but he can see Simon’s rage looming down close as the gun clatters into his mouth. Solid against his teeth, heavy on his tongue, tasting like pennies.

“You weren’t that expensive, I guess,” Simon muses darkly, sounding distant with betrayal. “Couple thousand. There are dogs that come cheaper.”

The gun is loaded this time. Major’s sure of it, although he doesn’t know how. The way Simon’s eyes are glinting, maybe. Like there’s real danger here for once, and he thinks it’s worth it. It’s justified.

All Cupcake can do is take ragged breaths through his busted nose that barely wants to let the air pass, and hold as still as he can.

Metal clicks, reverberating through his skull. Major’s lashes flutter in a flinch. The gun is cocked. His head’s about to be soup.

“Hnn,” He tries to plead, choking on the moan it comes out as. Hot tears of embarassment itch at the corners of his eyes. “Hnn, hnn…”

“What? What’s that? You want to beg for your life, promise to be good?” The tattoos on Simon’s face contort with a sarcastically sympathetic frown. “You want to bark on command and crawl on your knees, saying sorry?”

The gun clatters out of his mouth, clacking against his teeth. Major gags on it and blinks away the tears, licking at his bloody lips.

“Well? Go on, come up with something good. Come up with three whole syllables.”

Hurt flashes across Major’s face, twitches of adrenaline-fueled terror making his cheek and brow shudder. “F-fuck you,” He whispers, chin wobbling.

“Oh,” Laughs Simon, the letters and chains and vines of his tattoos moving as he sneers. “Those are your last words? That’s all you have to say?”

His chin is wobbling harder now, eyes flitting to avoid locking onto the man above him. The worse the wobble gets, the harder he tries to twist, only to hide his face against the baseboard inches away.

“No, no, no hiding.” Simon grabs him by the jaw again and forces his head back to look him in the eyes. Cupcake is baring his teeth, now, forcing out shallow rapid breaths from behind them.

There are tears rolling down his cheeks, now. Simon’s mask of fury falters a little, confusion peeking through. Beneath his straddle his can feel Cupcake’s chest trying to rise and fall in short bursts.

“Why are you crying?” Leaning down closer, as if he can find the answer in those eyes that have flown shut now, Simon nearly presses his nose to his prisoner’s. “One chance to talk.”

In his peripheral vision, Simon can see Major flexing his hand over and over, letting it fall only to bunch up tight again. The broken arm. That’s got to hurt - more than Simon could ever bear to do to himself.

“Don’ wanna leave,” Croaks Cupcake, sounding smaller than ever, save for when he was curled up in the closet sobbing about the thunder storm. “Didn’t… open the door, not tryna leave. Lemme stay. I… I got no one else. You can… the cage, the shit on my head, you can - whatever, just don’t, I didn’t do shit don’t kill me for it I don’t, I don’t wanna die feeling like, like this, I was being good, I just… fuck, please…” Spiraling into sobs half from disgust with himself for pleading, Cupcake sucks down a sob-breath and tries one more time. “Just hit me and, and lock me up, I can do that.”

The barrel of the gun is planted against the corner of the jaw that is flexing with upset. Simon watches from inches away, analyzing every second of this. “...You don’t want to leave?”

So wet with tears, Cupcake’s hazel eyes look blue. He gives a single jerk of his head instead of shaking it.

“You expect me to believe someone else opened the door.”

A tense half-shrug with his unbroken arm. “Y’can think I did,” Mutters the wheezing healer. “‘f you want. Break my legs, be in the cage, and… whatever, do whatever you want.”

“You don’t get it.” The gun stops pressing at his jaw. Cupcake doesn’t try to see where it might be aimed next. His cheek is throbbing, eye feels hot. Gonna swell shut, probably. If he lives that long. “I might believe you, that you didn’t open the door. And I know I didn’t. So who did?”

A sob, low and deep, jolts out of his chest at the thought of Simon believing him. Of forgiveness. More hot tears clog up his eyes and it’s all Cupcake can do to keep from letting out any more little bitch sounds. “Uh. Dunno. Guys broke in before, and… and uh, mnh, maybe that guy, Diego?”

The weight on his stomach shifts again, as Simon leans back down after sitting up. Cupcake tips his head away, eyes closed.

“Diego? What makes you say that?”

There’s something fragile in the air. A secret he’s supposed to keep, it feels like - something he doesn’t want to believe himself, or maybe a stupid bad dream that it’s pointless to even mention. Humiliation creeps red-hot across his blood-smeared cheeks. “I, uh, ‘m not… had this dream, thought it was a… a dream, but it hurt, and… like, he was uh, in my room. Maybe. I dunno.”

“What?” Simon’s off of him, all of a sudden, and Cupcake peeks to see the gun’s still in his hand. He stays flat on his back, panting. “When? In the house?”

“Dunno,” Deflects Cupcake, still flexing his broken arm repeatedly. “Thought it was a dream, but - but the door, and… that’s why I been sleeping in your room, on the, you know, ‘cause…” A gesture toward the floor with his better hand. “Freaked out about my room. ‘m not - I’m not lying, I just don’t… it was late, and I was still, like… you know, hurt. I dunno what happened.”

Simon is pacing, now, arms draped over his head. He keeps looking toward the door that he’d found open, then toward the bedrooms.

“This isn’t working,” He mutters, and it sets Cupcake pressing his better palm to the floor to inch closer to the wall.

“What, what’s not working?”

Simon shakes his head, gesturing toward that door with the gun. “Break-ins. The house. The dead ones before, you. You should just… here.” He starts toward Cupcake, suddenly, and Cupcake’s eyes go wide, both his working arm and the broken one bracing suddenly against the floor to prop himself up. He grunts high-pitched in distress as he’s scooped under the armpits and hauled up to his feet, pushed to the wall for support.

“I’m gonna unlock the door. You can go.”

Major blinks, leaning heavily on one hip and swiping blood out of his eye with the back of his wrist. “Go?”

As he nods, Simon’s hair brushes over his shoulders. Not tied up right now. It’s part of why he looked so scary, moving suddenly in a flurry of hair and tattoos and the gun. “Yeah. Go. Back to your friends, wherever you want. Go out there, free.”

Simon’s already walking toward the hall, heading down it. Major limps after him with an arm around his ribs. “Out there? Out of here?”

“That is what out means,” Simon quips flatly, turning the lock, finger still resting near, but not on, the trigger.

“Wait-” Limping faster, Major slides to jam his shoulder against the door. It sends agony shooting through to the other arm, but he steels himself against making a sound or going woozy. Simon’s the one avoiding eye contact, now. “Just… hold on. I don’t… just put that away, and let’s go to the couch. Yeah? I need to sit anyway. Come on.”

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy , @apokolyps , @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite ,

@wollemi-whump , @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire , @notactuallyluska

@neverthelass , @whumpr, @hellodecisionparalysis

[friendlylocalwhumper]

𝕷𝖔𝖛𝖊 𝕷𝖆𝖓𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖌𝖊

Thatcher(arm lol) belongs to Coreath ~

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series in chronological order | Too Easy (pt.42)

No one should be here. Simon said he won’t do this shit, and no one else should be in the house. Startled awake by the hand pressed over his mouth and the weight across his back, Major wheezes rapidly.

“No screaming,” Diego whispers from above and behind, pulling Major’s head up and back to look into his furious, terrified eyes. “Wouldn’t do any good, anyway. He told me to do this.”

Bushy brows knot together at that. Simon said he wouldn’t. He really sounded honest about that.

But Major doesn’t scream when the hand slides off his mouth.

It’s weirdly quiet. The rustling of the blanket being torn away, of a hand sliding down his stomach and fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers. The thought of tearing this guy’s throat out with his teeth is a comfort. The fact that he can’t get himself to put up a struggle is not.

“I know,” Breathes Diego against his cheek, straddling him from behind. “I know about your friends.”

“What?” As soon as the question is startled out of him, Cupcake tenses. The hand that snaps up to cover his mouth proves that he wasn’t quiet enough.

“Your friends. The ones out there.” His teeth are on Major’s ear, his breath sliding into his hair, as Diego sneers. His knee is wedging up between his legs to part them and Cupcake can only allow it with his mind racing. “I know what you do to Quinn.”

Quinn. Major’s brow furrows as his boxers are pulled down. Sharp, uneasy breaths stutter out from flared nostrils. What does this guy know, and how?

“Curled up on your knees in that cage you look pretty small. With the muzzle on, stumbling around. You don’t look like a killer. Guy who fucks his friends when they’re begging him to stop.”

It’s simpler here. Cupcake doesn’t even try to buck him off as an arm wedges under his hips to pull them up. It’s easier here, with the gun and the cage and the rules. All he’s gotta do is not try to leave, not curse, take some beatings. There’s no being a good person or an asshole, here. There’s food when he wants it. Beers, free. A TV that works and a couch that doesn’t stink.

No one around who really pushes his buttons. Even the shitty stuff, it’s worth it, because Simon talks to him. Warns him, explains stuff nice and slow. Gives him space. Even healing has gotten easier, his magic can work with someone watching.

Rough fingers work into him, and Cupcake growls through the pain. Muscles tense with the urge to struggle. But he can’t, he can’t. Simon would kill him for fighting. Or… or Simon would want him to fight back, and if Diego got caught, if Simon came in here, he might…

“You’re worth so much less than them.” Diego pets over Major’s arms as if teasing about how he doesn’t even have to hold them down. The restraints are already in place by Simon keeping him here. “All your friends. They never even tried to look for you. Better off with you gone. The one who fucks you, Tank? He’s walking better. Hurting less, without your shitty healing on him.”

An unwilling grunt is pressed out of him, muffled by the hand over his mouth and nose. Major puts all of his focus into feeling the burn of Diego trying to fuck into him, instead of picturing Tank melting in relief when Remy lays a hand on him. Remy’s perfect, gentle, numbing magic. Soft hands and a quiet voice and more worth than Major ever had. Which is fine, it’s fine. Major never claimed to be a good guy, to be any help at all.

“Better to just keep… keep you in a cage.” Diego’s breaths are heavier now, hotter, wetter. “Useless. Hell, you couldn’t spell your name if you tried, could you?”

The old taunt scrapes goosebumps up his spine. Major whimpers through the unbearable feeling of getting fuller, of someone finally successfully sinking into him. Another old feeling. He’d kind of hoped that it wouldn’t ever happen again, since Simon seems so serious about not doing it. And he was scared, too, that he’d never get it again. He should almost be grateful Diego’s doing it. Not really, but… if it was Tank, it’d be nice how it hurts.

“Just relax. We both know you won’t fight. You like it.”

Hell, he almost kind of could. Cupcake tries to relax. The fantasy of struggling, of killing this guy drones on in his mind, randomly interrupted by flashes of unbearable pain and good pain and thoughts of Tank and Remy. Tank holding him. Tank being glad he’s gone. Remy not flinching as much, Remy kissing him shyly. Quinn making cold bitchy jokes about how Major isn’t missing, he probably got lost and couldn’t read any signs to get back to the safehouse. Probably out there somewhere, fucking up, hurting people, not a care in the world.

“You’re better off here,” Pants Diego into his cheek, pressed so close from above and behind. Feels like being pinned under a pile of bodies, like he’s lying still to try to avoid being noticed. Rocking with the thrusts and holding his breath to try not to smell the other guy’s. “That’s why you don’t try to leave.”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t try. Chest hitching with the painful recycled breaths from the hand over his face, Major dizzily tries to shift, restless with the heat of all the contact. It hurts to move. The muscles in his stomach cramp around the effort, punishing him for moving an inch from where Diego’s planted him. The weak attempt to twist free is allowed, somehow, as his thoughts go muddled and the difficulty of breathing makes his head buzz. The weight on top of him is gone, the heat still there… sweaty blankets stuck to his back, legs twisted up in the sheets, feeling sticky against the mattress.

Disgusted, confused, Major kicks the blankets off and drags his body toward the edge of the bed, blinking away furious tears. No dip in the bed from Diego’s weight - no Diego at all, nowhere in the dark room as Cupcake tosses his head back and forth to look. Quaking, scar-ruined hands drag down over his face and rub the tears away.

His body aches. It has for a long while. Feels like he got fucked, but… hell, that could still be the pain from a few days ago. He never healed it right, all the way through, too disgusted and pissed off to try.

The sweat stuck to his skin prickles and sets him shivering. Cupcake snatches his boxers up from the end of the bed, slides into them, and limps across the room. Out the door he doesn’t think he left open, but maybe he did… through the hall, and opening Simon’s door quietly.

The gun is aimed at him as soon as he shoulders through the doorway. Major just stands there, a silhouette, leaning on the wood for support.

“Cupcake?” Comes Simon’s voice, his face barely visible in the faint light leaking from behind blackout curtains. “If you’re finally trying to kill me in my sleep, not gonna happen tonight.”

Cupcake shakes his head slowly. Shrugs one shoulder up. “Bad dream. Sleep in here.”

The shadow of Simon sitting up in his bed doesn’t move as Major takes a step farther inside and crumples slowly, achingly, to the floor. Onto his knees, then flopping down to curl up on his side. The carpet feels scratchy and cool on his face.

Silence. Then the gun clicks as it’s set down on the nightstand. The bed squeaks. Major closes his eyes and tries not to flinch when air brushes across his chilled skin.

His whole body jerks when something is draped over him. A blanket, warm from Simon. It’s adjusted to cover him from his feet up to his shoulders, and then Simon pads away again, the bed creaking to announce he’s returned to the far side of the room.

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy , @apokolyps , @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite ,

@wollemi-whump , @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire , @notactuallyluska

@neverthelass , @whumpr, @hellodecisionparalysis

[friendlylocalwhumper]

What do Major's favorite sessions look like? Like what does he hope for when Simon says it's time for a session?

major likes a good, classic beating! something a little like this.

The Cycle series in chronological order | Fair Enough (pt.41)

“So I bought a different brand of bread this time.” Rustling in the kitchen, Simon calls down the hall toward Major’s bedroom. “It cost, like, fifty cents more. But it has seeds on it. I think it’s more filling or something.” The trash can is opened, the plastic bag shoved in. Footsteps down the hallway’s carpet. “Are you hungry for… toast?”

Simon slows to a stop in the doorway. Major is sitting on the floor picking at the sole of one of his shoes. Scattered around him are crescent-shaped pieces of rubber that he clearly dug out of the sole.

“Hey. What is it?”

One shoulder shrugs up. For a moment Simon feels guilty that there’s less muscle there than there used to be. Major twists the mangled shoe sole between his palms. “Mmh. Dunno. You gonna need one today?”

Simon scratches at his scalp, hair still damp from an overly hot shower. “A session? Yeah, soon.”

“Okay. But not, like… not the iron.” It’s almost pitched up at the end like a question.

Brow quirking up, Simon slowly crosses his arms. “No, not the iron.”

“Maybe, like, a knife, or hitting or something.”

The injuries from Diego’s stay are still painted across his stomach and back. Major poured so much healing magic into the shattered knee and broken wrist that he didn’t have enough left to erase the bruises, he’d keened. Simon had brushed his sweaty hair back and reassured that time could take care of the purple and green splotches, that Major could rest.

“I can’t put off the session, but if you’re scared, if you need time…”

“No, it’s…” Cupcake shakes his head, hair splaying as he does. “Just, let’s do it.” The shoe is twisting into odd shapes with the force of his fidgeting. “Just do it now.”

~

Each impact is bright. It’s all he can think. A flash of fiery white across his vision, the distant sound of his own muffled cry. He jolts with each punch, instinctively trying to shield his stomach or ribs, and then his arms shove right back down to his sides to stay out of the way.

One hand stays braced on his right shoulder the entire time. Major breathes around the cycling thought that Simon has him, Simon has him, he’s getting held down, it’s helping. The palm planted across the bone of his shoulder refuses to let him curl up, keeps him from wasting time by crumpling in on himself defensively and having to be dragged or coaxed back out to lie on his back.

“Did you bite your tongue?”

“...Wha-?” Major slurs, blinking his eyes open. Didn’t realize he’d had them screwed shut. He drags the back of his wrist across his chin to find a smear of blood.

Simon raises his punching hand, no longer cinched in a fist. It’s shaking with adrenaline. Major flinches, eyes closed again as a finger swipes across his bottom lip.

“Your lip. You’ve been biting through your lip. Careful.”

“...Okay,” Grunts the captive, licking at the split in his lip and then nodding, keeping his eyes shut now out of embarrassment. Simon is watching his face after the flinch, he knows it.

A pause, and then a tap to the aching side of his ribcage. “Ready?”

“Mmnh, yeah.”

The next blow hits him like a car. Major croaks out a moan and, realizing the pressure on his shoulder is gone, twists to try to plant his own hand there.

The awkward angle makes the next punch hurt badly and Major whines in distress, instinctively fighting it when a grip finds its way around his wrist to try to make him let go of himself and lie flat again.

“Hey, hey, hold on. Just…”

Major is growling low under his breath, brows cinched up, muscles tense against being maneuvered.

“Cupcake, relax. Now.”

With a frustrated sigh, Major obeys nearly instantly, flopping down and heaving for air.

“I was going to put my hand back.” Simon taps Major’s shoulder in gesture. “In a second. You needed that? Here.” The pressure returns. A hand at his collarbone to keep him pinned. Major settles down further into the floor.

Another flinch, harder this time, when there is sudden warm touch at his cheek. Major breathes experimentally through his nose as pressure slides across his eyebrow, his forehead, across the cheekbone. It makes his thoughts go blank and easy again.

“Don’t psych yourself out. You can take more.”

A shuddering breath. Cupcake nods. “Yeah. I can.”

That earns him fingers scratching through his hair. And he used to hate that so much, but damn it, he leans into it, huffing out pained breaths.

The next punch comes after an under-his-breath warning, and bracing for it makes his muscles ache worse. Simon’s still here. He hits, and hits, and hits, until something goes crunch. 

Cupcake sucks in a startled breath and braces for a scream, but… no, breathing is still manageable. There is no fresh, bone-deep agony lacing through his ribcage. Disoriented, he blinks his eyes open, swiping tears out of them as he tries to focus on Simon. Simon, who is cradling his own right hand, grimacing and sucking in breaths through his teeth.

Major reaches out for the hand that Simon is protecting, stubby fingers grasping through the air to try to catch it.

In a flash, his wrist is pinned on the floor, new weight across his stomach, the gun from Simon’s hip holster drawn and shoved up under his jaw. Cupcake breathes hard and fast with his head forced back at such a sharp angle. The room is silent all of a sudden, both of their chests heaving rapidly.

“If you think I won’t-”

“I was just gonna-”

Both fall into silence at the same time, after blurting out their words over top of each other.

“What?” Simon breathes, leaning down close. Intimidated, Major tips his head away an inch further, chewing on his split lip.

“...just gonna heal it.” This is not Major, this is Cupcake speaking. His voice is soft with submission, with fear. “I was just tryna fix your hand.”

The gun presses a little less ferociously up under his jaw. Simon adjusts his weight self-consciously. “You weren’t going for my gun.”

“Nah.” A gulp, and then a softer, “Sorry.”

The weight on his wrist lessens. Simon slides off of his waist to sit beside him. The gun is the last thing to leave, pulled away and holstered. Cupcake holds still.

After the gun is away, the freshly broken hand is left quaking violently. Major only notices when it’s lifted in gesture. “Go ahead. If you want to.”

The healer licks his lips and grunts, reaching slowly to support Simon’s hand from below. He pulls it closer, peering at the damage without lifting his head. Every breath is coming as a whistling wheeze and his ribcage wouldn’t allow for him to sit up to do this.

“Gonna hurt. Don’t got numbing.”

That tatted face scrunches up in worry. “How much?”

“Like it’s getting broken again.”

Simon opens his mouth, then allows it to fall shut. He nods finally, and Major draws a shuddering breath, eyes flicking to the gun one more time, cautious.

“Make sure you breathe,” Comes the healer’s final warning. His hand wraps around Simon’s swelling knuckles with unusual care, and then the space between their skin starts to glow white.

~

“It hurts that much? When you heal yourself?” Hunched over his knees, hair hanging loose over his shoulders as he breathes through the sobs that came on without warning, Simon looks at Major incredulously.

Major hums, still lying flat on his back. “Yeah. Sucks.”

“So… so, I guess you don’t want to heal yourself, after this session.”

A glance down at his own chest and stomach. “Just bruises. I might, if it sucks too bad to breathe, to go to sleep.”

“Yeah. Well. I’m - I wanted to say sorry. For the gun, earlier. You were just trying to help. I know you know your place. I should’ve…”

Frowning with distinct discomfort over being shown compassion instead of punished or rewarded mockingly, Major averts his eyes. “It’s fair. Gotta do what you gotta do.”

“After those guys breaking in, after Diego, the window… I know you don’t try to get out. But what would you even escape to? You never told me anything about your life out there.”

Cupcake is chewing hard on the inside of his cheek, staring up toward the ceiling in silent rage. The reminder of the assaults, being shot as punishment. The hint at Simon wanting to know more about Tank and Remy. More about Major, about what he’s really like. It’s not the kind of thing he wants Simon knowing, bringing up.

“Well, we should get you up, onto the couch maybe. Staying here won’t feel great. You want a hand?”

Blinking in confusion, Major accepts the freshly-healed hand offered to him and groans in agony through the process of being hauled up to his feet, hugging himself around the ribs and shuffling forward. “Think, you think, th-think I can hop on the game?”

Simon’s hand finds his back and gives a friendly pat. “Sure, I’d love to watch.”

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy , @apokolyps , @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite ,

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[friendlylocalwhumper]

"Don't be scared. You're allowed to speak. If I wanted you to be quiet, I'd do something about it."

[friendlylocalwhumper]

happy leon whump wednesday!!!!!!!

get stabbed, idiot!!!!