#Aftermath of Captivity

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

day 11: escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound + daero

Prompt from the Augusnippets @augusnippets challenge!

Path of Comfort: day 11: escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound

Could loosely be read as a follow-up to this, with the same caretakers

Content Warnings: demon whump, aftermath of captivity, aftermath of torture, trauma, nightmares, comfort, rescue, recovery, pain medicine

----

A week later and it still doesn't feel real.

The two humans tell Daero that he is safe and sound. That there will continue to be food and water, that their hands won't strike him. Their touches are soft, their voices quiet. They smell like citrus and cinnamon.

But still Daero flinches when either one enters the room. He still expects to wake in that damp dungeon, chained, beaten and starved.

Nightmares plague him, disrupting his much needed rest. On the worst nights, like tonight, his cries wake the humans and they are quickly by his side.

He is just awake enough to hear and feel them. One soothes him with kind words while wiping his tears away. The other holds a spoonful of pain medicine to his lips until he drinks. Then they sit on either side of him and wait.

In the moments just before falling asleep, when the medicine kicks in and he melts into the cushions, Daero feels something like peace.

[fallenwhumpee]

"An Hour."

• Masterlist •

Warnings: Hospital settings, aftermath of captivity, mentioned death.

Medic, despite what their job would suggest, wasn't a caregiver. They were just a mechanic working on circuits, not who carefully kept the whole mechanism running. They could fix people, but it was that. Someone would have to take over the aftermath.

Much to Medic's relief, Leader was a caregiver. A good one, even.

Too good, they lately noticed. Too good that it was starting to make Medic worried. But just like every other day, Medic knocked the infirmary door in exactly same time, before opening it fully. Youngest was asleep in the hospital bed - Medic had said Leader that it was unnecessary, but Leader  brought one anyway - and at last drops of their IV.

"An hour," Leader muttered. At this point it felt like a ritual. So, without a word, Medic moved and changed Youngest's IV to antibiotics as Leader deserted the room silently. Probably to sleep.

Good, Medic thought. Leader needed it.

Medic made their way to the armchair, only to see Leader's office keys on it. For a moment, they considered giving it back. They respected privacy, but they were also curious. For the last one month and a half, all Leader did was looking for Youngest, caring for Youngest or staying in their office. The first two was understandable, but the third...

Now Medic could learn whatever Leader was doing in their office.

Medic hesitated. They shouldn’t invade Leader’s privacy—Leader had done nothing to earn suspicion, at all. And Leader never broke anyone's boundries, so Medic doing it to them was just wrong. But something had been gnawing at the back of Medic’s mind for weeks now, something beyond the usual worry for Youngest. Leader’s behavior, so single-minded, so intense, felt wrong. So wrong for someone almost obsessed with making the future better. And if there was something in that office that could explain it...

Steeling themselves, Medic turned and walked down the hall to Leader’s office. The key slid into the lock with an ease that almost felt too simple. "Where's Leader?" Medic shouted. Leader's room was wide open and Leader wasn't there.

"Went for a quick walk," Right Hand shouted back.

Medic took a deep breath. "Okay," they muttered. With a simple twist, the door creaked open. Medic slipped inside, shutting it quietly behind them slowly. The room was dim, the only light filtering through the half-drawn blinds, casting long shadows across the walls. At first glance, it looked like any other office—neat, organized, professional. Just like how Leader liked to keep everything. Medic opened the lights.

Notes. Dozens of them, pinned to a board on the wall, scattered across the desk, and even taped to the edges of the bookshelves, almost creating a wallpaper. Most were in Leader’s precise handwriting, detailing locations, names, dates, and other pieces of information that, together, painted a picture out of a detective's office. Medic’s gaze was drawn to a map on the wall, marked with pins and red string connecting various points. They moved closer, recognizing the locations as places where incidents had occurred—break-ins, disappearances, attacks. All related to Youngest.

Their heart pounded as they picked up a file from the desk. It had a picture, the person's face partially obscured, but there was no mistaking who it was. Medic had seen that face around Whumper—one of the underlings of them. The person had been found dead two weeks ago, the cause still under investigation. There were detailed reports about them, autopsies, locations, biographies... informations that Medic doubted Leader had the authority to kno let alone storing.

They set the file down, their hands trembling slightly. Leader had been gathering evidence, but it wasn’t just about finding Youngest. It was about something more.

Another photo on the desk caught their eye. Medic took it, revealing more photos, more notes underneath. Some were crossed out, others highlighted. A list of names—people connected to the kidnapping—each one with a note beside it: confirmed dead, under surveillance, possible lead.

Some of these people were no longer a threat because they were dead. Was it coincidence, or had Leader...?

The sound of footsteps in the hallway snapped Medic out of their thoughts. They hurriedly closed the folder and placed thr picture back on the desk, glancing around to make sure everything was as they’d found it. The door clicked shut just as the office door opened.

Leader stepped inside, looking tired but alert. They froze for a moment, eyes narrowing as they stared in the sight of Medic standing in their office.

“What are you doing here?” Leader’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a warning.

Medic tried to keep their expression neutral, forcing a casual shrug qs if they weren’t digging through the room for the last ten minutes. “You left your keys on the chair. Thought I’d drop them off.”

Leader’s gaze flicked to the keys in Medic’s hand, then back to their face. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, slowly, Leader crossed the room, taking the keys with a nod.

“Thank you,” they said, their tone polite but distant. “Please wait for my return next time.”

Medic nodded, feeling the tension in the air like a physical weight. They turned to leave, but couldn’t help one last glance at the desk, at the folder now lying innocently on the surface.

Leader didn’t miss the look. “Is there something else?”

“No,” Medic replied quickly, shaking their head. “Just... take care of yourself, okay? You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Leader’s expression relaxed, a smile so soft and tender taking over. “Don't worry. Byt you should get some rest too.”

How could Medic be suspicious of them when all Leader did was worrying and caring for the team? Shoving the guilt down, they forced a smile and left the office.

-•-

Later that day, Medic was in the break room when the news broke. The television mounted on the wall buzzed with static before the anchor’s voice cut in, somber and urgent.

“We interrupt this program with breaking news. Henchman, a key figure in the recent string of criminal activities linked to the late terrorist Whumper, was found dead earlier this evening. Authorities are investigating, but details remain scarce at this time.”

Medic’s blood ran cold. Henchman—another name on Leader’s list. Dead. Just like the others.

They stood frozen, the room spinning around them. The timeline didn’t add up. Leader couldn’t have done it—they had only left the office for ten minutes, not enough time to cross the city and back. But the coincidences were too many, too pointed.

When Medic next saw Leader, they couldn’t help but study their face, searching for anything. But Leader looked even more drained than the last time, still trying to hold it together desperately. When Medic mentioned the news, Leader’s response was calm, almost indifferent.

“Tragic, but not unexpected,” Leader muttered, shrugging slightly. They weren’t even focused— they looked like they could just collapse and take a twenty four hour nap. “Agency was after them. It was only a matter of time.”

Medic nodded slowly, but the uneasy feeling in their gut only grew. There was something, something that was beyond their understanding. But as Leader walked away, Medic knew one thing for certain— Leader was doing something wrong. It was either their sleeping habits or the team had a huge problem.

-•-

Soo, have another random one. This is standalone, but I wrote this with "A Score to Settle" in my mind. Not quite part two, but I began writing with that intention.

[whumpshots]

Whumptober #29

Trope of the day: “What happened to me?”

_

Machines are beeping, footsteps walking in and out of the room. Someone talks to another person, but they can't hear out anything they are saying.

Whumpee remembers the coldness in the cell they had been sitting in for weeks. Their body throbbed and hurt with every breath they took, now they are warm and ... painless.

Is this death?

It takes a few more moments for them to finally open their heavy lids, the room is not as bright as they anticipated. The talking stops and someone rushes to their sides.

There are hands on them, warm and gentle. Whumpee's throat hurts as they open their mouth and croak “What happened to me?”

[catwings-writes-things]

Febuwhump day 1, prompt “helpless!”

Helen exists, helps Jon escape the Circus of the Other, and does some self-reflection.

[whumpster-dumpster]

A whumpee with glasses who's been in captivity for years, finally seeing the free world again with a new clear, crisp prescription through lenses that aren't scratched and cracked and filthy

[serickswrites]

I'm Glad

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, rescue, hurt/aftermath

Hero burst into the dungeon, fully expecting to find a heartbreaking scene. They braced to see the corpse of the one person who cared about them and would do anything to protect them. Hero prepared to see Villain's dead body, mangled and broken by the days of torture that killed them.

"Took you long enough," Villain said weakly as Hero froze when they walked in.

"Villain! Thank God!" Hero surged forward to free Villain from their restraints. Villain looked awful. But they were alive. Hero hadn't failed to save them. "I'm glad you're still alive," Hero said as they gently uncuffed Villain.

"Course I'm still alive. It would take a hell of a lot more than a little torture to kill me, Hero. Besides, who else would take care of you, love?" Villain looked up at Hero, a crooked smile pulling at their split lips.

Hero carefully lifted Villain into their arms. "Right now, darling, the only person who needs taking care of is you. Let's get you home and get you cleaned up."

Villain's eyelids drooped as they sighed. "That sounds like a wonderful idea."

Hero kissed the top of Villain's head as they carried Villain out of the dungeon. They could feel Villain relax in their arms. "I've got you, darling. You're safe. You're alive. You're safe. I've got you."

"Thank you," Villain murmured as their eyelids fluttered closed.

"Sleep. When you wake, we'll be home. I've got you, darling. You're safe."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[pretty-face-breaker]

Clarity

Emir makes a friend.

cw. infection, fever, aftermath of torture, hallucinations, forced to strip and shower in front of someone

—

The fever came in waves, like the heat that rises off tank metal left under the sun too long.

His body, prone beneath the thin wool blanket, never cooled. Sweat had soaked into the mattress beneath him, so long and so deeply that the fabric clung to his skin like a second, fetid hide. He couldn’t shift without peeling himself free of it, and even that was agony. 

The lashings hadn’t healed. Not properly, at least. Some had crusted over with yellow at the edges, others still wept, angry red slashes that stuck to the blanket every time he tried to shift, tearing open again with a whisper of wet fabric and a delayed shock of pain.

And the fucking brand.

It burned hot on his palm, even when untouched, throbbed like it had its own pulse. The flesh around it was puckered, split open in places, swollen with heat. 

Infection had bloomed inside him like a mushroom cloud. His skull boiled with it. His lips cracked with it. It stripped the sense from the world. He could barely blink without hallucinating or wondering what was real and what wasn’t. 

For days he hadn’t left the bed, not even to piss. He’d barely even spoken. The barracks carried on around him with voices, boots, drills. But his body had sunk under the noise like the ocean, muffled and far away.

A soldier had come once. Then again. Not Pavel. A different one with short-cropped dark hair, a round face, pale skin gone ruddy from cold, and a uniform hanging too loose at the sleeves. Smart eyes. He’d brought bread first, then a small cube of stewed meat wrapped in a napkin without saying a word either time. Just crouched near the bed, nudged the food into Emir’s reach, and left.

At first, Emir thought it was a test.

Then he thought maybe the soldier assumed he didn’t speak Russian. Or English. Something about his face—brown and sun-creased, foreign—made people speak past him.

He'd entertained the idea of saying something, asking his name or offering something in return. If he could keep the man coming, he might survive the winter. Maybe sneak rations. Maybe hide when Pavel came near. Maybe, if he got lucky, get someone to intervene.

But that had been days ago. Before the fever hollowed him out and turned his brain into a soup of fog and fire.

Pavel came once, or maybe not. Maybe it was a dream, the same way his limbs sometimes floated off his body in the middle of the night. But it felt real. He remembered Pavel crouching by his side, the same way the quiet soldier had, and sneering something ugly about his brand.

"How’s the mark, little dog? Did it keep you warm at night?"

Then a hand poking the wound. Emir had flinched so hard he’d nearly rolled off the bed. Pavel, if he really had been there, had laughed at him or breathed in mockery. He hadn’t been able to tell. Only felt contempt there. 

—

That night, when the world was just blurred outlines and every inch of his skin burned with its own private sun, Emir felt the mattress dip.

He flinched and tried to sit up, but his limbs wouldn't work. His hands trembled at the wrist. His back screamed.

"Shh. Don’t move."

That voice, and not Pavel. The quiet soldier. Again.

The rustle of a coat pocket followed by something pressed into his hand. What looked like a blister pack of chalky white tablets. He couldn’t read the text scored on them and, for all he knew, they could be sedatives or poison. 

Then, the soldier offered a canteen. The water was lukewarm and stank of tin. He drank it all without asking. 

He didn’t care if it killed him or melted his stomach from the inside. He wanted the boiling agony to stop.

Next, two dull blue pills that were rounded at the edge. Sleeping tablets, he noted and relaxed a little. The soldier pressed them into his palm, then, once Emir took them, carefully tucked the rest under his pillow with a warning look and a finger to his lip.

Emir nodded. "Spasibo," he rasped.

The soldier's eyes flicked toward him, then away again without so much as a smile. Then, he vanished back into the rows of beds.

—

It happened again the next night. And the night after that.

By the third night, the fever had broken.

Emir could breathe again and even think a little. The pain hadn’t gone, but it had numbed into a deep, angry ache that lived in his back and legs and palm. His lashes had begun to scab over and the flesh around the brand had stopped oozing.

The bruises on his jaw had turned a strange greenish-brown. His ribs were still sore when he breathed, but it no longer felt like knives.

He started taking the sleeping pills without waiting to be told, keeping the remaining tablets hidden in the hem of his blanket. The soldier still came with food, water, then another stolen dose of something that must have been analgin or codeine phosphate. After those doses, the air stopped beating down on his injuries quite so viciously. 

No one else touched him. Maybe they were too busy. Maybe they thought he’d die on his own. Despite Levkin’s initiation, he still didn’t know what his role was supposed to be in this place—prisoner? conscript? 

Impressed asset, Levkin had said.

But Emir didn’t believe in impressment. He believed in being used, bled slowly, and kept alive just enough to scream.

It was the fourth morning when he half-dreamed of Beirut.

The smell of kibbeh nayyeh, his mother’s laugh in the kitchen, piano keys clinking under his fingers. His sister Layla trying to sing, and his father banging the table for rhythm. His arms were outstretched for a hug, his mother moving toward him, glowing in warm light—

—and then the air shifted.

His eyes snapped open.

The soldier was standing beside his bed, watching.

Emir froze. The light from the hallway cut across the soldier’s face, his tired eyes, a twitching jaw, one boot unlaced.

Emir blinked at him, breath shaky. "Ya luchshe. Bol’she ne nado." I’m better. You don’t need to bring more.

The soldier gave a small nod. Then, silently, reached into his pocket.

Not pills this time. Emir’s heart raced. It was a folded newspaper clipping.

He handed it to Emir and stepped back.

The paper was creased, faintly damp. The Cyrillic was bold and blocky, easy to read even through Emir’s bleary eyes. There was a photograph, blurred, but recognizable. Emir in a flight suit, arm in a sling, standing against a red wall—when had they taken that picture of him?

СИРИЙСКИЙ ПИЛОТ ПЕРЕХОДИТ НА СТОРОНУ СОВЕТСКОГО СОЮЗА Heroic defector from Western-aligned air force joins Soviet cause in a time of global tension. Officer Emir Suleiman cited moral clarity and international unity in his decision to reject imperialist servitude and embrace socialist brotherhood.

The color drained from his face. He held a long, mournful silence.

The soldier smiled but it was nowhere near the cruelty from Pavel. It was pitying. Rightfully so, Emir thought, staring slack-jawed at the newspaper. He really was a miserable son-of-a-bitch.

Emir held the newspaper like it might fly away if he let go. "Kak tebya zovut?" What’s your name?

The soldier hesitated, then leaned in and whispered, "Mikhail."

Emir nodded, lips dry. His mind spun in circles, trying to take in what it meant to be called a traitor in print, a tragic hero in fiction, and a thing to be beaten in secret. This wasn’t just prison. It was theater .

He looked back up. "Mne nuzhen drug." I need a friend. "Ya mogu delat' veshi... v obmen." I can do things. In return.

Mikhail tilted his head and thought for a moment. His eyebrows rose in a look of genuine consideration. Then he sniffed, wrinkled his nose, and waved his hand.

"Idi. Ty vonyaesh.” Get up. You stink.

Emir stared. Then, slowly, pushed the blanket back. When he stood, his knees trembled like a newborn foal’s, but they held. He had thought the first time he stood up since Pavel’s stupendous beating, he might have collapsed face-first.

—

They walked in silence, the barracks hallway dark enough that Emir kept to the wall, brushing one shoulder against the concrete for balance as his legs recalibrated to walking. His whole body was still stiff, like the tissue had set wrong around his bones.

Mikhail kept ahead of him by a few paces, not leading him like a prisoner but also not beside him either. It was unfamiliar and scared him a little. Emir didn’t know what kind of rules governed this kind of proximity, or if he was allowed to call it trust.

The showers were farther than Emir remembered. When they finally turned the corner past a low-slung supply alcove and two doorless changing rooms, he recognized the space. A single corridor of frosted concrete stalls, some cracked at the corners, tiled with chipped gray squares that looked like they hadn’t been properly scrubbed since Stalin was in power. 

At the far end, the heads: five rusted nozzles in a row, each leaking brown at the base where the pipe met the wall. The floor sloped inward to a disgusting slatted drain.

Mikhail cleared his throat quietly, then leaned against the peeling metal frame of the shower entrance. He looked embarrassed by the fact that he had to explain it.

“I have to see,” he said, English slow and slurred but clear enough. “Not because I want. You know this.”

Emir gave a weak nod and leaned one hand on the wall to catch his breath. He did know.

“If you run,” Mikhail continued, gesturing vaguely at the hall, “they kill me first. After they make... ehh... meat soup out of you. Your skin first.”

The corners of his mouth quirked grimly, but he wasn’t joking. Emir forced a breath through his nose, and gave another nod, smaller this time.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered, rubbing one palm—the unbranded one—over the other wrist as though trying to warm it. “Even if I wanted to, where the hell would I go?”

Mikhail watched Emir closely, then shrugged one shoulder.

“You survive too much,” he said. “Maybe you survive that too.”

Then he turned slightly, hand over his eyes, but posture straight as a rod at the edge of the tiled space—clearly not joking about being ready to intervene if Emir so much as flinched the wrong direction.

Emir sighed and began to undress. The uniform stuck in places, to scabs and dried blood, the seams stiff with salt. He peeled the shirt off in increments, hissing under his breath each time it tugged across one of the lashes on his back, and when he finally managed to drop the trousers to the floor, he didn’t look down at the bruises blooming down his legs, nor the state of the wound on his palm.

He stepped under the showerhead without ceremony and twisted the knob.

The water sputtered for a moment. Then came out in a weak, lukewarm stream that turned cold almost immediately when it splashed against his skin.

He nearly sobbed from it. It was the first time in weeks that he had felt water that wasn’t snowmelt in a rag or the spit from a canteen. The heat that rose off his skin as the grime sloughed off made him tremble. His eyes burned. It took all his focus not to fall to his knees. He let the water wash over him, his eyes closed, forehead resting against the tile, breath fogging softly on the wall. It hurt—because it always hurt—the water cutting through the film of dirt and dried sweat, sliding into the raw cracks in his back, the weeping edges of his wounds. But he just grit his teeth and swallowed the sting.

He grabbed the small bar of soap sitting on a ledge and worked it over his chest, then his neck, arms, thighs, every inch of himself he could reach. His hands shook and the effort made his vision darken at the edges, but he finished the job. He wasn’t going to leave this place still smelling like fucking Pavel.

At one point, he risked a glance.

Mikhail hadn’t moved. Hand still over his eyes. Spine straight, one foot braced behind the other. Still giving him that thin layer of dignity, even when he couldn’t afford to demand it.

So Emir took his time.

When the water finally ran clear, or as clear as it was going to get, he reached down for the bundle of blood-stiffened fabric that he’d dropped on the floor before stepping in. But it wasn’t there. In its place, folded and squared neatly in the small recess carved into the wall beside the shower, was a clean uniform.

Standard-issue Soviet fatigues. One size too big.

Emir froze. The shock of it was sharper than the water.

He stared at the bundle for a moment too long, then looked toward Mikhail, who had kept his hand over his eyes. Obviously, he had moved just long enough to leave the uniform there. 

The corners of Emir’s eyes prickled. He reached for the fabric and clutched it to his chest, half-wrapped in the steam.

"Spasibo," he said softly.

Mikhail didn’t drop his hand, but he gave the faintest nod and, with a heavy accent, muttered, “You’re... welcome.”

By the time Emir dressed, his hands were steadier. The new uniform felt as wrong as the last one, like someone else’s skin, but it didn’t chafe his back and it didn’t stink with his weeks of misery.

As they walked back down the hall, quieter now, he kept glancing sidelong at Mikhail—who said nothing. Emir didn’t know what the damn man wanted. If anything. He hadn’t asked for gratitude. Hadn’t used the pills or the food or the clean clothes as leverage.

But Emir knew enough to recognize a kind of mercy when he saw it. 

He had no idea how long it would last, if Mikhail’s loyalties would hold, or if this kindness was just a way of salving some private guilt over watching Emir’s torture. But Emir was no longer entirely alone.

And for now, that was enough.

—

@straight-to-the-pain @heathenville @quirkykayleetam @yet-another-heathen  @undertheburrow​ @lektricfergus @punchhimagain @whumpasaurus101 @kakaboomc4 @alexmundaythrufriday @kixngiggles @rabbitdrabbles @whump-queen

[whumporama]

I see alot of stuff for winged whumpees with bird like wings. But what about winged whumpees with more batlike wings. Obviously there aren’t like, feathers to pluck. What can you do with a whumpee whose wings are more batlike?

(You got me looking up bat wing facts and they're so cool! Anyway-)

Maybe they get compared to Whumpees who do have feathered wings. They get called ugly and weird.

Their wing tears, either through activity, or Whumper stretches them to see how far it can go

They heal fast; Whumper injures them again and again just to see how fast they can heal.

Their wings are sensetive, maybe Whumper or the environment overloads them with sound or vibrations. Even curling up doesn't help, they can't hide begind anything

Whumper likes to display their Whumpee. So they drives nails through their wings, keeping them spread out for all to see

Whumpee is forced to fly with injured wings. Either by Whumper or in a desperate escape, or maybe to save someone

Whumpee gets called a demon, hated for how they look

In the aftermath, Whumpee's wings are horribly damaged. The membrane is torn and will never heal well again, so it just looks like a skeleton on their back

Since the main structure of the wings are bone-like, maybe one breaks, leaving Whumpee in horrible pain with a deformed wing

Their wings get damaged and burned by too long exposure to heat

[whumpshots]

Whumptober #8

Trope of the day: “It’s all for nothing.”

_

Caretaker has a hard time keeping whumpee quiet. The other is still delirious, still panicked and hurt. It breaks caretaker's heart to see them like this, whumpee often talking to them in a hushed voice as if whumper was still lurking somewhere.

One night, caretaker checks up on whumpee, who freed themself of their blankets and sits under the window, eyes unfocused, muttering to themself. With their heart racing against their chest, caretaker comes closer to kneel in front of them.

"What is it, kid?", they ask and furrow their brows.

"Whumper ... they fill find me. You shouldn't have taken me. It's all for nothing, all for nothing," they mutter, eyes wild and tears streaming down their cheeks. "You- you really shouldn't have taken me."

Caretaker stretches out their hand and wipes away a tear with their thumb. "I'm the one who gets to decide this. Not whumper."

[darkthingshappen]

Aaawwweee! I want to give Ben all of them! 🥺❤️

Ok gotta make a choice🤔

Let‘s give him: 🥰+🍳

Post Nightmare Cuddles and Breakfast in Bed

Ben awoke with a start.  He was gasping for air and covered in a cold sweat.  He sat up and pulled his knees to his chest.  He pressed his head to his knees and tried to calm his breathing.  

“Benny?  You okay?" Zoe said, rolling over next to him in bed.  

She rested her hand on his bare shoulder and he flinched.  She pulled her hand away and sat up to be next to him.  She gently rubbed his back, her fingers absently tracing the lines of scar tissue that criss crossed his body.  

She didn’t say anything.  She simply waited with him.  Waited for him to come back to her.  

“It was just a dream,” He finally whispered.  “I’m okay.  I’m… I’m okay.”

Ben was still panting.  It felt so real.  He could feel the cuffs on him, the collar, the hands…  Ben scrabbled his fingers down his face.  

“I just need a minute.  I’ll… I’ll be back.  Go back to bed.”

Ben tossed the covers back and got up and walked to the window.  He threw the curtains back and stared out at the moonlit night.  The air in the room chilled his damp skin.  He flexed his fingers, his palms giving a slight throb at the stretch around the scar tissue.  

Being able to see the wide open sky always helped when he felt like this.  

A moment later Zoe’s familiar hands were on his shoulder, her soft, warm body pressed up against his back.  

“It’s okay, Benny.  You haven’t had a nightmare in a while.  Deep breaths, my love.  It’s okay.”

Her hands moved slowly, caressing from the back of his shoulders, around his strong arms, over his chest and then flattened out over his abdomen.  She rested her head on his back and they swayed slightly in the moonlight.  

He laid his hands over hers.  She was right, it had been a while.  The demons that haunted him at night were long gone, but every now and then, they reared their ugly heads and tried to claw him back again.  

He turned in her arms.  “I love you.  You’re so good to me.”

She rested her head against the solid plain of his marred chest.  Again her fingers traced the scars on his body, the ghosts of old tattoos that were long since removed.  She’d memorized every mark and kissed the hurt away from each and every one of them.  

He rested his cheek on the top of her head and together they stood in the quiet and the dark.  

“I love you, Benny.  You’re so good to me as well.”

“Hmmm,” he hummed into her hair.  

Zoe listened to his heart rate slowly calm down.  There had been many a night she’d helped him battle his demons.  But they grew less frequent as time passed.  

Finally she looked up at him.  “Come back to bed?”

Ben exhaled and nodded.  Zoe sat and pulled him to her, pulling the blankets up to cover them both.  He pillowed his head on her breasts and she stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head.  

“Rest, my beautiful darling.  I’ll keep watch for a bit.”

Now it was Ben’s turn to listen to a heartbeat.  He let the slow steady rhythm of it lull him back into a peaceful sleep.  

*!*!*!*!*

Morning arrived with the sound of birdsong and the smell of coffee.  He breathed a contented sigh as he thought over the night before.  The nightmares sucked, but at least he wasn’t alone.  

Zoe came into the room and handed him a steaming cup of coffee.  He could smell the hazelnut.  She settled in next to him and they both drank in quiet solitude.  He read morning headlines on his phone while she scrolled through social media.  It was all so mundane.  He wouldn’t have it any other way.  

Was he whole?  No.  Part of him never would be.  Was he happy?  Completely.  There were things that he’d wished he’d never experienced, but they were all part of who he was and how he came to be in this moment right now.  

He pulled Zoe towards him and kissed her temple.  She smiled at him, placed her hand on his cheek and pulled his face toward her.  Their lips touched and Ben wondered if he’d make it out of bed today.  If he didn’t it would be okay.

Tags: @i-can-even-burn-salad @peachy-panic @deluxewhump @arwenadreamer @whumpcereal @melancholy-in-the-morning @dont-touch-my-soup @whumpsday @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @oddsconvert @melennui @susiequaz12 @morning-star-whump @crystalquartzwhump @whump-and-other-things @mylifeisonthebookshelf @reflected-pain @hold-him-down @quietshae @quietly-by-myself @there-will-always-be-bloodblood @whumping-seven-days-a-week @hiding-in-the-shadows @mj-or-say10 (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone - please let me know if I am and I’ll fix it. I’m still getting used to this) 

[mtg-cards-hourly]

Ob Nixilis, Captive Kingpin

Artist: Krharts TCG Player Link Scryfall Link EDHREC Link

[whumpster-dumpster]

When the team's Brawn finally comes back from captivity alarmingly thin and atrophied, dreading how long it will take to recover and rebuild their body and feeling like they've lost their usefulness

[serickswrites]

Go to Sleep

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort

"Hero, love," Superhero said as they watched Hero nod off and jerk awake for the third time in the row, "let's get you up to bed. You'll be far more comfortable there. You can go to sleep and you'll feel better."

"No," Hero said as they stifled a yawn. "I'm not even drowsy yet. I can finish the movie."

Superhero knew Hero was lying. They knew Hero hadn't been sleeping well since they were rescued. No doubt they were afraid they would dream of the days of torture they endured. But Hero needed to sleep. It would heal them faster.

"Well, I'm feeling drowsy," Superhero lied as they watched Hero's eyelids droop lower and lower. "Maybe you can come cuddle me while I fall asleep?"

"Mhmmm," Hero hummed. "I....I can do that."

Superhero smiled as they watched Hero carefully climb the stairs. They knew Hero was still hurting. That their body was still in pain. But they were glad Hero was home. And that they could hold Hero in their arms once more. Even if they had to trick Hero into going to sleep.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@pepeniascat

[sainteclectic]

Can you guess who I’m about to ask for relationship dynamics for,,, is it quite obvious? Anyways Heart and Soul?? :3 ← #1 platonic bloodmoon fan

ohhh heart and soul...

heart is protective of soul i think, against mind specifically. because soul is clearly struggling emotionally, and that's not something that cold automaton freak could ever help with. he wants soul to be stable and happy more than anything, it hurts to see soul in so much distress. he justifies the juno incident in that way - he did it for soul. because mind wouldn't listen about what soul really needed, he never would. he had to get rid of mind for soul to be happy.

(it's a lie, of course. heart's actions were mostly for himself in the end, a spiteful need to even the score. maybe it's a lie he's convinced himself of, maybe it's a lie to appeal to soul... who knows.)

soul cares deeply about heart, of course. heart is passionate, motivated, supportive... but he's also stubborn, impulsive, and argumentative. a part of soul resents heart for the juno incident, but most of soul just resents himself for never being able to stop it. no matter what, he can't help heart enough to save him. and maybe that's what hurts the most, beyond all of heart's ugly flaws. no matter how deeply he cares, it's not enough to soothe heart's pain.

[whumpedupgood]

Whumpees who hoard things after they’ve been rescued.

At first, it’s just an extra snack they didn’t (couldn’t) finish, so they held onto it for later. Then it’s a spare blanket. An extra towel. A spare toothbrush they found still wrapped under the sink when healing finally earned them a moment of privacy. When it’s time to change their bandages, change them into new clothes-

(Clothes that haven’t been bled through, clothes that don’t have tear stains or bit marks, clothes that haven’t been sullied with the sweat of nightmares)

-they hide the socks they were wearing under their pillow so they won’t be taken away.

It only gets worse once they’re mobile. The stress toy they were given becomes a permanent fixture in their hand, never out of sight for long. One snack becomes four five six, rations and water bottles and everything they know now, know how precious it is, knows how their absence leaves humanity with no choice but to gnaw and beg and plead.

Caretaker leaves a sweater out. Shamefully, they squirrel that away too. They know caretaker probably wouldn’t mind, but more than that they know terrible loneliness.

They begin to run out of places to hide everything.

Caretaker finds it.

The solemn sadness in their eyes breaks whumpee in two, but worse than that—

“It’s alright. Keep it. Whatever you need, whatever helps- you can have it. You can take as much as you want. You’re allowed to take as much as you want.”

—the shame is the worst part. The way it curls like acid, pooling behind their eyes and burning everything good it touches.

It’s rotten work.

“What happened to you was rotten; and you’re not work.”

[darkthingshappen]

📚 - A bedtime story for Ben?

A Bedtime Story for Ben

Bed loved his father’s voice.  Growing up it had always been a reassuring part of his life.  His dad was a good dad.  He encouraged him, taught him, loved him, and valued him.  Ben wasn’t an athlete, but his dad never made him feel lesser for it.  He took him to science competitions and bought him books to feed his brilliant mind.  

Ben could recall his father reading the Christmas Story each Christmas Eve to their family.  He recalled his dad doing the same on Good Friday and Easter Sunday.  His dad was a wonderful reader.  Even with simple Bible stories, his dad did all the voices.  Ben was certain that God must truly sound like his father’s voice.  

Ben hadn’t opened his eyes yet.  He knew if he did, he’d have to face all the torment, hurt, and destruction that had been wreaked across his life and the life of his family.  Jake was okay, mostly.  They were still in the hospital, but they were both safe.  Jake would have to be in the hospital for a while yet.  Ben was going to be discharged in a few days.  There was much to be done and cleared, but at least he was finally hydrated and on the mend - physically at least.  

Ben’s bandaged hands ached and throbbed from where Volkov had put a nail through each of his palms.  The doctors had said there might be permanent nerve damage there.  But he was alive.  Jake had a bullet go through him, but he was alive.  Ben could deal with a few nails.  

He was lying to himself.  He knew what had happened to them was bad.  Bad was an understatement.  He was staring down years of therapy and recovery.  

Ben tried to focus on his dad’s voice.  He was softly reading from his Bible.  Not just any passage, one of Ben’s favorites.  It was the story of Joseph from Genesis.  Ben had always found it enthralling.  He himself was named after Joseph’s only full biological little brother.  His dad had already passed the part where Joseph had been wrongly accused and thrown in prison.  He was on to the best part of the story.  The… what was that word his professor had taught him… one of the only words he’d picked up in an English class that he’d thought fascinating.  What was it… The divine or unexpected turn of events for a sudden good.  

“Eucatastrophe,” his mind finally supplied and his mouth said.  Ben hadn’t realized that he’d said it out loud.  Not at first.  But his dad stopped reading.  Ben opened his eyes.  

“Morning.”

“Morning.”  Ben looked at his dad.  “Why did you stop?  You were just getting to the good part.”

“I didn’t know you were listening.”

“Can you finish it?”

Jacob Adkins smiled and continued reading the story of the young man that had gone through hell to come out on top and save his people.  

Ben drifted in that soft space of safety and comfort as his father’s voice washed over him.  The familiar story and victorious ending made him feel warm and fuzzy.  It wasn’t lost on him that the themes of slavery, familial betrayal, mercy, and a God that had a plan even in the darkest of times hit very close to home.  Did Ben feel angry at the turns his life had taken?  Yes.  There was no denying that.  Could he do anything about it?  Not really.  He would have to heal and process all of it.  But he wasn’t alone.  He had his family.  He had Zoe.  He had their future together - a future that he’d thought he’d never get to see just a few short days ago.  And things were moving so rapidly on that front.  

Ben’s was comforted in his own eucatastrophe.  He’d thought for sure he and Jake were going to die on that island.  That he was never going to see his mother and father, his Zoe, their family.  But here he was, surrounded by them and waiting for the best days of his life to start.  It was almost overwhelming.  Yes he had a long way to go, but he would get there.  They all would.  There would still be trials and tribulations, there would be court cases and testimonies would have to be given.  But it was going to be alright.  Just like it was alright for Joseph.  

His dad smiled at him as he took off his reading glasses and closed his Bible.  

“I love you, Benny.”

“Love you too, dad.”

There was a knock at the door of the hospital room and Zoe, with her wild red hair curling around her face and her blazing green eyes peeking out to gaze at both of them.  

“Come on in, Zoe.  I was just finishing up reading to Ben.”

Zoe smiled and her nose crinkled in a way that made Ben’s heart skip a beat.  A beat that they all heard.  Ben smiled while the other two laughed.  He wasn’t ready to laugh yet.  But he would be.  Eventually. 

Tags: @i-can-even-burn-salad @peachy-panic @deluxewhump @arwenadreamer @whumpcereal @melancholy-in-the-morning @dont-touch-my-soup @whumpsday @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @oddsconvert @melennui @susiequaz12 @morning-star-whump @crystalquartzwhump @whump-and-other-things @mylifeisonthebookshelf @reflected-pain @hold-him-down @quietshae @quietly-by-myself @there-will-always-be-bloodblood @whumping-seven-days-a-week @hiding-in-the-shadows @mj-or-say10 (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone - please let me know if I am and I’ll fix it. I’m still getting used to this)