#I love defiant whumpees

[fulcrumwrites]

Trial and Error

Summary: After a failed escape attempt, a patient is punished treated with solitary confinement and a new method.

CW: Asylum/psychiatric hospital, medical malpractice, isolation, sensory deprivation, restraints, blindfold, muzzle, chains, straitjacket, mentioned kidnapping, gaslighting

“You can’t keep me here! Let me go!”

Dragged through the vacant hallways, the young man’s cries bounced off the walls unheeded. The grips on his arms were iron-clad as he struggled every step of the way. Digging his heels proved futile; his paper shoes slipping on the vinyl floor.

“As a matter of fact, we can, Mr. Doe,” Dr. Malcom threw over his shoulder. His professional tone only added to the fire that was Luca’s rage. “Your family admitted you into our care. That makes us responsible for your health and wellbeing, even if you disagree with our methods.”

“My family?” Luca laughed incredulously. “You have no right to bring them into this. You kidnapped me! You stole me away from them to satisfy your… your sick little experiments!” He yanked his right arm in hopes of breaking the large orderly’s hold. The desperate attempt resulted in nothing more than a deeper bruise. “And my name’s not Doe. Not ‘Mr. Doe’ not ‘John Doe’… My name’s Luca. Luca Barone.”

“I see your delusions still have a hold on you, Mr. Doe. We’ll have to adjust your treatment and boost your medication.”

Luca rolled his eyes. “Please. The only delusion here is that I’d believe my name is ‘John Doe’. You could have at least tried to come up with a convincing name.”

He was walking at their pace now, submitting to whatever punishment awaited him. This was not his first attempt escaping Mayfield Psychiatric Institution, and it won’t be the last. He wasn’t even sure where Mayfield was. It could be a fake place. A fake name. A fake asylum. All lies.

Dr. Malcom paused at a familiar door. The man shook his head and looked at Luca with those mournful gray eyes that he wanted to punch since he was first brought to this hell-hole.

“I had high hopes for you, John. You were improving. This escape attempt will only set you back. I’m disappointed.”

Luca barked out a laugh in the doctor’s face. “I couldn’t care less about your approval, old man. Do your worst.”

“And what of your family? They sent you to us to get better. Do you want to disappoint your mother, John? Your sisters? Valentina, Contessa, little Mia–”

The glob of spit splattering on his face cut the doctor off, and that’s all Luca could do as the two orderlies held him back.

“You keep their names out of your mouth!” the boy hissed with venom. “And my name is Luca Barone.”

Dr. Malcom removed his glasses and wiped off the spittle with a cloth. Then he pushed them back onto his nose before dabbing away the spit on his skin. His actions were calm, but Luca could see the flush in his cheeks and how his hands shook in contained anger. What once made him afraid now brought a rush of victory.

He held onto that triumph as the old doctor snatched Luca’s jaw and forced him to look him in the eye.

“I’m your psychiatrist with more years of practice than you’ve been alive, boy,” he seethed. “You will show me some respect.”

Luca grinned around the hand squeezing his face. “Only my mama deserves my respect.”

His jaw was released only for his head to whip to the side, cheek smarting. The boy’s impertinent smile only grew.

Fuming, Dr. Malcom turned to the door and jammed his key in the lock. His movements were clumsy with anger, but after a moment, he unlocked the heavy door and swung it open with a bang.

Luca braced himself for what he knew was next. The orderlies would stop in the doorway and shove him in. He would land on the floor on his hands and knees as the door shut behind him, locking him in the dark and silence. They would leave him there for a few days, maybe a week. Then they would let him out, he would try to escape again, and the cycle continues–if he’s caught.

“No,” Dr. Malcom says suddenly, stopping the hands on his back before the final push. Luca and the orderlies look at him expectantly, curious as to the change in routine. Dr. Malcom nods into the dark room. “I think the patient requires a firmer hand. Use the maximum security protocol, if you please.”

The orderlies’ grips tighten once more as they personally drag him into the room. Forcefully, they turn him around with his back to the wall as Dr. Malcom passes a folded white bundle as if summoned from thin air.

“Are you serious?” Luca groans when it’s unfolded to reveal a straitjacket. “Come on. How can you think I can escape this place? The door doesn’t even have a handle on the inside!”

“Your numerous attempts has made me cautious, Mr. Doe,” Dr Malcom replied dryly. “Additionally, this will be part of the upgrade to your treatment plan as other methods have proved inconclusive.”

Luca scowled but managed to not resist as they wrangled his arms into the stiff sleeves. As each strap was pulled snug and fastened behind his back, he felt smaller and more cramped as if the walls of the cell were closing in on him. Luca focused on his breathing as they finished buckling him in. His arms stretched securely around his torso and the final, uncomfortable strap between his legs prevented pulling the suit over his head to freedom.

“Happy now, Doc?” demanded Luca sarcastically.

“We have one more new method to try, Mr. Doe. It may be uncomfortable, but remember this is all for your benefit.”

“Can’t wait.”

As if on cue, a timid nurse stepped into the cell just long enough to deliver a box into the doctor’s hands. With great care, Dr. Malcom removed the lid and slowly lifted the contents into the air for all to see.

A mass of leather and metal dangled limply in his hand. Luca squinted at it in the dim light.

“What the hell is that?”

“This, Mr. Doe, is a device I had specially ordered for my new therapy. Since you were admitted into my care, I’ve been researching and experimenting new psychiatric treatments for your unique case.”

As he spoke, Dr. Malcom set aside the box to hold the contraption with both hands. He examined it from all angles, his eyes never leaving it as he addressed Luca.

“I had heard of an incarceration method where prisoners are deprived of their senses in a white room. I know that sounds inappropriate for a medical institution, but I wondered of the psychological effects as a temporary treatment. My hopes is that this method will help reset the brain and reduce mental ailments.”

Luca stared at him. “‘Reset the brain’? Do you even hear yourself, Doc?”

Dr. Malcom finally tore his eyes off of his new toy to glare daggers at his patient. “You dare question me, boy? What do you know of medical science?”

“Enough to know you shouldn’t get ideas from actual torture methods. And you all say I’m the sick one. You don’t even know if this will do anything.”

“Trial and error, Mr. Doe,” said Dr. Malcom as he lifted the device to Luca’s face. “Thank you for your involvement in the advancement of science.”

Luca instinctively stepped back and was once again trapped by the silent orderlies. They held him still as the leather straps and metal buckles inched closer.

“Don’t touch me! Get that thing away from me!”

He twisted and pulled against the straitjacket in vain. His hands itched to be free to push the offending device away from him.

“No! Stop, you bastar–”

Rubber was shoved between his teeth and over his tongue, cutting off the insult. Leather encased his face from beneath his chin to over the bridge of his nose.

The doctor breathed a sigh of bliss. “At last. I don’t have to listen to your insolence another moment.”

A strap at the base of his skull was tugged tight and buckled, followed by another above his ears at the middle of his head. The final strip of leather ran from his nose over his dark hair all the way down his cranium.

Once fastened, Luca’s teeth clenched over the bit, unable to open his mouth. Already his teeth and jaw began to ache from the strain. He inhaled sharply through his nose and smelled overpowering new leather.

Gently, Dr. Malcom took his chin in his hand again, tilting his head to admire his contraption.

“Excellent so far.”

Luca swallowed a moan of despair. If he could not speak, he would not give Dr. Malcom the satisfaction of hearing nonverbal sounds from him.

Metal flaps swung over his eyes, perfectly cupped to block out any light. He felt the doctor’s hands securing the blindfold. If he could talk, he would inform the overeager therapist that a blindfold was not necessary in a dark room.

“Perfect,” the old man breathed, sending a shiver down Luca’s spine. “I had this made with you in mind, you know.” The remark was casual as if he expected Luca to be grateful. “Used your measurements to ensure it would fit perfectly.”

He hardly had time to processes that information when his ears picked up the rustle of the doctor’s coat and his footsteps. He circled his patient, no doubt taking mental notes.

“You won’t hear me after the final step, so I’ll tell you now that this cell is to be your permanent residence since the normal rooms can’t hold you.”

Horror plummeted to his stomach. Protests lingered restlessly on his tongue, unable to be freed. Now he couldn’t resist a muffled whine, regretting it too late to take it back.

“Try to remember this experience. I’ll be interviewing you on it after I deem this first session complete.”

Hands groped the sides of his head and buttoned down leather flaps over his ears. Plugs precisely measured fitted into his ears. If the doctor was still speaking, he couldn’t hear him over the silence and the roar of his own blood pumping.

In his dark, silent world, Luca had no idea if he was alone. He stood exactly where the orderlies had placed him for what felt like hours, trembling. When his legs began to ache, he built up the courage to walk around his cell.

He only managed two steps when an unexpected pull at his waist brought him to his knees. Without sight, sound, or his hands, Luca twisted and pulled to deduce what had ensnared him. It was strong and unyielding. Possibly a rope, but more likely a chain. They chained him to the wall like some misbehaving dog. Not only must they deprive him of his senses and lock him away, they couldn’t even let him walk more than two paces in any direction.

A scream of frustration tore at his throat. In a surge of mad desperation, Luca thrashed against the excessive restraints. He flexed his muscles, pulled his arms, strained his jaw, and shook his head like the rabid dog they thought he was. For all his efforts, they many buckles and straps and links refused to budge.

At last, Luca collapsed onto the ground in exhaustion. Sweat beaded his skin as the exertion made him hot in the jacket. He took as deep of breaths as he could through the muzzle.

Hopelessness took hold and all the fight drained out of him. The faces of his mother and sisters flashed in his mind; a memory to treasure rather than a reason to rebel.

So long as Dr. Malcom had control over him, Luca had no hope of seeing them again.

[chaotic-orphan]

Whump prompt:

Whumpee hit the ground at the force of Whumper’s fist cracking against their cheek. They got their arms under them, and had just moved their head to see Whumper’s leg going to their chin and Whumpee was on their back, coughing out a wheeze when Whumper planted a boot on their chest, digging their heel into their ribs. Whumpee set their jaw, their lips curling back exposing their bloody teeth as they grabbed Whumper’s boot and tried to move it.

“See? Why do you always chose the hard way?” Whumper demanded, leaning forward so they looked down at Whumpee and whumpee gasped as the closer Whumper got the more pressure was placed on their chest.

“All I wanted was something to just be easy with you, but no. You have to fight me, and try to be defiant just to end up more bloody and bruised than last time you defied me, hmm?”

“You’re a prick,” whumpee said with an effort. Whumper slapped them and Whumpee looked up at them with a small smile.

“I’ll always fight you fucker. So do your worst. I know you won’t kill me. You need me alive or you’re screwed. So just fucking try me.”

Whumper hummed, thumb rubbing their fist as they looked down at whumpee.

“Alive, is a very broad term, whumpee.”

Whumpee’s eyes narrowed as Whumper lifted their leg and then came down harder on them this time with their knee and Whumpee was winded, their legs and head lifting with the force, mouth open in a silent scream as they inhaled a lungful of air. Whumper grabbed whumpee’s cheeks in one hand and squeezed them, not letting Whumpee close their mouth. Whumpee threw up a hand in defence but Whumper grabbed it by the wrist and put it under their other knee and whumpee let out a frustrated scream.

“See? All this unpleasantness. We could be friends, whumpee. But you just refuse to yield.”

“-UCK YOU. WUFUCK AGH!”

Whumper grabbed a bottle from their designer jacket pocket and popped the cork. Whumpee’s eyes went to it, going wide as they tried to shake their head free of Whumper’s grip.

“It’s for both our sakes,” said whumper, fingers digging into the flesh of Whumpee’s cheeks and poured the entire small brown vial into Whumpee’s mouth. When it finished, whumper threw the bottle to the side and clamped a hand under Whumpee’s chin shutting their mouth and then holding Whumpee’s nose.

Whumpee kept struggling and writhing beneath Whumper but whumper was patient and looked down at whumpee with a calculated calm. A look that told whumpee he could wait all day, but one way or another whumper would win.

Whumpee swallowed the liquid and glared up at whumper who smiled and stood. “Now, see? I always get my way, whumpee. You’ll feel a little woozy in a moment. Don’t fight it.”

Whumpee got to a sitting position, arm cradling their ribs as they glared at whumper. “I fucking hate you. When I wake up I’m going to kill you.”

“Promises, promises.”

The sleeping fraught worked quickly. One minute whumpee was wide awake and glaring at their captor. The next they were slumped over, falling to their side at Whumper’s feet.

[rule-masochism]

we all love our gagged whumpees, but the way im automatically won over is when the tiny process of whumpee being gagged is described in very careful detail.

pushing the tangled hair out of their face so you can slide the straps under it. maybe it's coated with sweat.

if whumpee is defiant, i love seeing how they toss their head back and how you have to force their mouth open. maybe they bite a few times? very annoying for whumper. but shoving their head back towards you, gripping onto their hair and telling them to cut that shit out...ooh, that's fun.

obedient whumpees are just as fun because they'll just open up for whumper. stick that pretty tongue out and remain still as you clip it behind their head. maybe you can even stroke their hair a little. throw in a 'good boy/girl' for good measure 🙏🙏🙏

then theres the look!! i wanna know what they eyes are doing!! are they glaring straight ahead to avoid looking at whumper, or shooting daggers at them anyway? do they stare at the ground? or is it all listless if they've done this many times before?

and when you're done... i wanna know the result. what kind of gag is it (personally im a sucker for open-mouth) and how does it make em look? are they drooling already? what does whumper have to say about this?

i dont care how unnecessarily long you think you made your gagging scene, we're whump writers we're all here to indulge!! give your whumpee's mouths some love 🫶🫶

[letitbehurt]

A Whumpee who’s tied down but relentlessly defiant, so Whumper has to keep finding more ways to restrain them.

When Whumpee kicks, Whumper ties their feet. When Whumpee spits, Whumper gags them. When Whumpee rams their head against Whumper’s face, they secure it to the floor with a short length of rope.

Even as Whumper immobilizes them, Whumpee’s eyes gleam with triumph, because Whumper’s not walking as well as they were before, and blood runs steadily from their freshly crooked nose. Because even tied down, Whumpee caused plenty of damage.

[galaxywhump]

Whumpee whispering "I want to go home".

[abhainnwhump]

Whumper dancing with a defiant Whumpee who keeps trying to get away but every time they do Whumper pulls them back into another sweep. Meanwhile they're singing and getting too close and personal with Whumpee who just feels like a puppet on strings as they grow more embarrassed and hopeless-

[ashintheairlikesnow]

WIP - The Cry of Distress Rings

I haven't written anything worthwhile in longer than I'd like. But here is a little bit of what I managed to work on this morning!

-

“The rabbit is excellent tonight, I think,” Guilford Wentworth said, taking a sip from his wine glass and then swirling the dark liquid inside. He smiled, and his teeth seemed stained slightly red. Kira fought back the way her stomach flipped and bile seemed to rise in her throat, fighting to find its way out.

Behind him, from the display against the window, there was a whimper half-suppressed. 

Kira didn’t dare look.

There was a building fury inside her that she feared would burn the entire house to the ground around her if she raised her eyes and set it free.

Instead, she focused on her plate. She kept her eyes down and forced herself to look at the pale ivory ceramic with its lovely swirling blue, images of men and women with parasols and bowties strolling through a wooded area alongside a stream.

Her fingers kept tingling, as if there were sparks and embers burning just beneath the tips. She kept thinking about the silver melting in her hand before, the singed handprints on the wall of the bedroom she'd been held in.

The siren's soft insistence on wild magic - not something that belonged to the fey creatures and monsters alone, but something a human might wield, too.

Something she might wield.

She didn't look up.

But gods above and below, why did the rabbit have to be covered in a berry-sauce that was so dark and rich and thick and red?

She chose a particular bit of rabbit flesh and stabbed her own fork into it as she would have if she held a knife and Guilford himself was at the other end. 

As if he felt the tines, the siren groaned.

She couldn’t help it. She dropped the fork and it clattered against the plate, the sound far too loud in a room where the heavy silence had been broken only by Guilford Wentworth's rambling.

"Make her look," Guilford said, in a low voice.

The siren sang.

His voice was broken by the pain, hushed and cracking, but there was still enough power in it that Kira felt her chin lifting against her will, her eyes moving to meet Areyto's as his pain washed into her and commanded she see.

Strung up like a tormented saint, the siren’s arms were up over his head so his back was arched and his muscles stretched, body lean and long. The length of him was framed by the yellowed evening light coming through the window, making of the siren’s agony a near-silhouette, the suggestion of an endless darkness ringed in a terrible light.

Kira’s fingers tightened around her fork as the siren’s head turned to the side. Heavy cuffs with chains that went up to the beams in the ceiling kept his wrists up above him, spikes on the inside buried deeply into his skin. Kira could see rivulets of blood running downwards, the siren's muscles shifting and twitching as the lines worked through way into the crook of his elbow and towards his shoulder.

The same red droplets ran down his chest thanks to the spikes inside the metal collar he wore now as well. From his ankles, blood dripped onto the ground.

Naked, the markings that kept him in this terrible slavery were on full and total display. Kira’s heart beat faster than the rabbit on her plate had ever been able to run.

Areyto's eyes had gone blank and empty except for the pain. There was no one there, only a statue staring back at her while it bled.

Areyto would bleed and never die from the blood loss. He no longer had the option to die unless his master wanted him to.

What a terrible cruelty.

What a hopeless captivity

Kira’s stomach kept turning. She set the bite of rabbit back down again. 

Her fingerprints were burned into the fork she had been holding.

[yet-another-heathen]

The First Ember - IX

1,921 words. Original work: The Jackal of An Nadr

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Content Warning | unintentional drug overdose by captors (bad side effects but not life threatening), fever whump, the very first signs of pneumonia, undressing while unconscious (medical reasons), heavy bruising, evidence of past noncon, wound/scar reveal, mention of unsanitary bodily fluids, [Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings]

Tag List | @killtheprotagonist @secretwhumplair @ink-and-salt @kixngiggles @brutal-nemesis @thebewilderer @whumpsical @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whimperwoods @shydragonrider @pizzasthengym @thecyrulik @ceph-the-ghost-writer @mylifeisonthebookshelf @ohwhumpydays @redwingedwhump @whump-queen @scoundrelwithboba @suspicious-whumping-egg

The human looked like it might not survive the night.

Yeezumon had been cradling it for the last fifteen minutes while Odrai climbed down the side of the ship to gather sand from the dunes. It was already several hours into the night, but below the topmost inch of sand, the dunes were nearly as warm as they had been during the day. He returned to the deck and passed the bags down to Ifyaa. As he did, he cast a somewhat worried glance at the human. "How bad is it?"

"...I don't know yet," Ifyaa admitted, creating a nest on their cot with the bags. "It's running a bad fever, and...." He paused, sharing a worried look with Yeezumon. "And I think we may have overdosed it on the eadh."

The little thing was showing every sign of it there was. Breaths clouded with heavy mist, despite the warmth of the cabin. Excessive tears. Cold sweat. Everything across its body that could produce water was doing so in abundance. On its own it wouldn't have even been that concerning; eadh overdoses weren't fatal. But with the fever already ravaging its system? That changed everything.

Odrai seemed to realize as much. But all he could offer was, "If anyone can save it, it's you."

Ifyaa said quietly, "Thank you, Odrai."

"We'll call on you if we need anything, but you should go," Yeezumon said gently. The human was starting into another fit of incoherent crying. "It isn't safe."

Odrai just nodded, giving the human one last, lingering look. Then he was gone, the trap door shut behind him.

The Husbands shared another look, then turned their attention back to the human. It was clinging onto Yeezumon like a lifeline, face pressed flush against the heat of his chest. Every inch of it was violently shivering against the cold. Its clothes were nearly soaked through with sweat, even to the outermost layer of its robes. Long hair had come loose from its braids and gotten tangled from tossing and turning beneath the sheets. Tear tracks, snot, and saliva smeared parts of its face. It was entirely a mess.

It was crying. Sometimes letting out incoherent jumbles of words as it dreamed, but mostly just crying. Every whine sent waves of glowing, orange pain through their chests like embers being caught by a breeze. It felt like a barb tugging on the wrong side of Ifyaa's sternum, as sharp as it was disturbing. 

He sat down on the edge of the cot, wringing out the cloth in warm water. Its eyes barely opened at all, and when they did there was no coherent thought at all behind them. Drifting, unseeing. Wherever it was in its dreams, it was lost there. And still, when Ifyaa brought the cloth to gently dab at its face, it immediately twisted away. Gasping. Taking in deep, clouded breaths like it was struggling to breathe.

There was every chance it was. The only time that an eadh overdose could be dangerous was if the lungs began to fill with fluid. That usually took weeks of constant overuse before it became a problem. But Ifyaa could hear the crackling of its lungs when it breathed too deep. Just because something was safe for the ifrit didn't necessarily mean it was for a human.

It took a while for the wave of crying to pass, the human already so burnt out that it simply couldn't continue. Yeezumon continued murmuring reassurances against its temple, running hands over it to try to give it more warmth.

Both of them were worried. But the look on Yeezumon's face was heartbreaking. 

"Habibi, if I've killed it—"

"No. No, love." Ifyaa laid a hand on his cheek. "It won't be because of the eadh. If it doesn't make it, it will be because of the fever. You haven't done anything that can't be fixed with time."

"It might not have time."

All he could do was manage a small smile. "Have you met this thing? Don't give up on it just yet."

That managed to get a huff of air. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"Here. Help me get it out of its robes."

They moved it to the bed, Yeezumon settling in behind its back. His fingers started on the lacing of its robe. The little thing barely even stirred, boneless aside from the rhythmic strain of its breaths. 

They worked its clothes off in effortless tandem. First the burnt sepia-orange of its outer robes. Then the long pants it wore beneath, and finally the soaked-through fabric of its kurta. 

Both of them stopped entirely when they saw what was underneath. 

Bruises, mottled all across bronze skin. Across its stomach. Its knees. Rope burns spun around its wrists and ankles. A massive, red-purple blotch colored its hip most of the way down one thigh. But they were nothing compared to the dozens of bruises along the inside of its thighs and encircling its upper arms. Many the still-recognizable shape of hands.

Its chest had been wrapped with a long length of bandaging, nearly covering its entire ribcage. Just beneath its collarbone on the side of its heart, an angry red brand lay scabbed and broken. The symbol was nearly the size of the boy's own palm. It looked like calligraphy, the kind that the Qa'imrani merchants along the east edge of the desert used for trade. 

Ifyaa recognized the script before Yeezumon did. 

"The boy has been branded a thief."

It took several long moments for the implications to sink in for both of them. The horror of it wasn't even that it was a criminal. They were on a pirate ship, after all. It was so much worse than that.

"So that's why we found it all alone out there." Yeezumon wiped a hand down his face. "Its own people left it out there to die."

Over something that as an ifrit would, at worst, have lost a hand over. The two of them already knew what little regard humans had for each other's lives, but staring down the evidence of it was sickening.

"The mark can't be more than a week or two old."

"No wonder it reacted to the iron as badly as it did. And all this...." He was still staring at the bruises that disappeared all the way up under its innerwear. "It didn't even show other signs that it was hurt."

Ifyaa probed gently over the bandage on its chest. "Help me lift it up a little. I need to see how bad the wounds are." 

They readjusted, and Ifyaa began unwinding the linen starting at the bottom of its ribs. He was careful not to press too firmly, no idea what he was going to find. 

But with every unwound coil, he found only more unbroken skin beneath. A few mottled bruises, but no cuts. And his gentle probing only produced the faint winces that he'd expect of tender bruising. Nothing that indicated broken ribs. 

Ifyaa's eyebrows furrowed. And then with one more undone loop, his face lit up with surprise. "Oh."

The jackal wasn't hurt. 

It wasn't a bandage. 

Beneath the soft, brown waves of chest hair he'd been expecting, there were breasts. It was clear they'd been intentionally softened and made flatter over time, either by the repeated compression, or by hand. The boy wasn't hurt. He'd been binding. And by the looks of it, he'd been doing so for a very long time.

The Husbands made a flash of eye contact over the top of him. Then after a pause, Ifyaa's hands moved to carefully check over the rest of its ribs. It had a rather spectacular bruise on its shoulder to match the one on its hip, but aside from that he found nothing.

"Well....that's far better than I'd expected to find. At least nothing is broken. Here, lend me your hands."

Yeezumon helped him to work off its innerwear. He'd been planning to do so anyway, it needed as much skin-to-skin contact as possible for warmth. But it was the final confirmation of what they both suspected. While he certainly was a man now, he hadn't been born that way. He was one of the Inan.

And there was even more evidence of what had been done to him all the way up his thighs. Layers of bruises, in addition to scratch marks on his hips. This couldn't all be the work of one man. It was brutal. 

"Gods..." Yeezumon whispered. "No wonder it's so terrified. If its own people did this, imagine what it must think is coming for it now."

Its shivering had badly worsened with its skin exposed to the air, and its unconscious sounds of distress were as sad as they were painful. Yeezumon spent a moment working down his own pants, then lay down and drew it closer against his chest. 

He was careful to keep it away from his own bandaged shoulder, but was able to position a sandbag between its thighs where the arteries ran beneath. Then he wrapped it up in all his remaining arms, a loose embrace that it sank into immediately. A few more tears raced down its cheek. But its breaths were already coming easier now that the pressure of the binding was gone. And soon what sounds it was making were ones of exhausted, boneless relief.

Ifyaa spent a while longer cleaning the worst of the sweat from its skin, then undressed and joined them. Half his arms braided themselves between his Husband's, while the other set about gently teasing the tangles back out of the boy's hair. 

"It's going to be so angry with us in the morning," he said.

Yeezumon chuckled. "Without even the faintest doubt." A moment of quiet. "I'm almost afraid to give it more eadh at all, come tomorrow. Is there anything in the infirmary we can use as an alternative?"

"Nothing with so few side effects. We'll just have to start in much smaller doses, and see how it tolerates it." 

"Mm."

He fit his hand into one of Yeezumon's, and gave a small squeeze. They'd been married for three centuries. He knew the sound of his husband's guilt. "He's going to be alright, Habibi. Don't spare your regret on something that hasn't happened yet."

Yeezumon sighed, but gave a small nod.

Softly, "I'll take first watch. Get some sleep."

Another nod. Then as was their way, "I love you always."

"I love you longer still."

They lapsed into silence. Ifyaa spent the time carding gently through the human's hair. He enjoyed the feeling of loose waves that were so different from the curls he was familiar with. And though his mind drifted, he continued to listen as the human's heart evened out and slowed. It was falling into deeper sleep at last. 

....but after a while, something caught at the edge of his senses. The rich smell of incense, edged with a coppery tang that made his head start to spin. Pheromones as familiar to him as the number of his hands. His mouth twitched up. 

He knew exactly what his husband was thinking about—because he'd been thinking it, too. "Don't get too tempted," he said, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. "I know full well how you get when you're around them."

Yeezumon didn't open his eyes, but his mouth twitched. "You're just as guilty as me."

A chuckle. Yes, that he was. “We're still selling him.”

“Wouldn't even dream otherwise.”

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[whumble-beeee]

The Man in the Sweater Vest

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 7

Content: attempted noncon, threatened mouth whump, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, scissors, tied up/handcuffs, noncon unshirtening, noncon touch, past captivity references, graphic threats, blood, crapton of whump. As a treat :)

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Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[Inevitably, there will be disagreements on how you should treat your captured hero. One villain might want to just hold the hero hostage long enough to finish their dastardly plans. Another will want to break the hero’s will entirely! Or anything else in between! 

But when working together with other villains, bounty hunters, henchmen, etc, it is crucial that everyone is on the same page about how your captured hero is to be treated, lest your hero end up with a few less limbs than you meant them too, or your months of breaking down the hero's fragile mind is undone by a single nice gesture.

Always communicate effectively, your hero will thank you for it (or curse the day you were born)!]

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Sweater-vest stumbled back, reeling from the punch and clutching his face before pulling his hands down and gawking at the blood staining his hands.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!!” Stan screamed. 

An intense elation washed through his chest despite the surprisingly sharp exploding pain that crackled up the very bones of his arm when he punched the man, and the now freshly ripped open scabs and bruises from where he’d forgotten to account for the handcuffs and yanked on them violently, streaming new ruby red over dried light brown that already carved down his arms; 

Because he'd got him. He'd got him! Punched him, made him back off! Stan did that! He'd finally managed to actually do something about the atrocities being committed against him and it was so, so sweet. 

Relatively short-lived, though. 

Vaughn, the sweater vest man, started to giggle to himself as he wiped the blood streaming from his nose onto his sleeve. Elation gave way to tentative confusion. Then a sinister seed started to take root in Stan's gut, the roots already reaching out and tightening around his body.

“You-...” Vaughn giggled some more. “You– you think–?...”

He started fully laughing, speech overtaken by an apparent hilarity that Stan must’ve just been too shocked by the sudden mood change to understand. He was cackling. Then practically shrieking, crazy, loud, heaving laughs.

He must be crazy. 

Insane. 

Well and truly insane, the way he was shriek laughing into his shining red-stained hands.

His gaze snapped up to Stan, and Stan could practically hear the horror movie crackling effect with how fast it snapped up, crazy maniacal shudders still overtaking his body, piercing gaze turned wide, animalistic.

“You think you can HURT ME?! HURT ME?! AHAHAHAHA!!”

Suddenly Stan slammed into the wall, cuffed wrists pinned above his head, chest to chest with the crazy man and staring up into his crazy bloodshot eyes.

“You can't hurt me,” he growled into Stan’s ear through gritted teeth. ”I don't feel pain. I carved that weakness out a long time ago, my brain doesn’t register it anymore! And I did it so I could deal with horrible little brats like you–” he slammed Stan's wrists into the wall, “--however I see fit! So I could do whatever I wanted to them. So that even if they fight back, they always, always, always lose.”

He pulled back and leaned into Stan's face, staring the captive directly in his glaringly defiant, wide and shining eyes. Hot shaking breaths misted surprisingly minty breath onto Stan’s cheeks, nearly overpowered by the metallic tang of blood that still poured down his face.

“Always submit. Just like you're going to.”

Stan pulled down hard against Vaughn's grasp, struggling and wiggling and tugging and screaming and kicking and doing every single little thing he could to, if not escape, at least make this as difficult as possible.

“Get away from me!" He cried. "GET AWAY FROM ME, get OFF of me, I’m not gonna let you do this you sadist, you can’t do this to me!! LET GO–!”

A punch to the gut. Stan tried to double over and wheezed as much as he could with his arms pinned up, which delivered him right into another punch to the face.

 Then something cool and sharp stabbed into the soft underside of his chin, straining his neck with how far his head pushed back into the wall.

“This is why I like to keep my victims gagged,” Vaughn gritted. “That bounty hunter of yours never does it, no matter how I tell him to. Always has to do stuff his own way, never listens. All he does is talk talk talk, always has a retort for everything. So defiant, and so is every single subject he brings in.”

A dull aching throb emanated from where Stan’s head pressed into the wall. Black spots dotted his vision. 

“You–... y-you can't–”

The scissors pulled back and dove toward Stan's mouth, eliciting a loud cut-off scream of revolt as he cowered and squeezed his eyes shut from some vain, animalistic instinct to protect himself. 

Then he pried open his eyes again, confused when no cutting metallic pain ripped through the fragile flesh of his face.

The handle of the scissors were fuzzy, too close for his eyes to focus.

They weren’t that far into his mouth.

Just enough that if Stan tried to close it, his teeth would clip on the tip of the metal blades instead. 

The scissors lifted slowly, tapping on his top teeth, tilting his head up until he stared into Vaughn’s metallic blue eyes once more.

“I could always prep your throat with these if you like,” he drawled softly, letting go of Stan’s cuff chain and instead lightly grasping his thumb and forefinger under Stan’s chin, forcing his mouth open further. A small sob crackled out from Stan’s throat. 

“It would be so easy… I could just–” 

The scissors lurched further into Stan’s mouth, and Stan let out another involuntary squeak and an open-mouthed, unintelligible pleading of “no, no, no, no…” as tears started to sting at his eyes.

But he let him do it. 

He even still held his arms up, because surely if he tried to fight back now, with the scissors in his mouth quite literally pinning him to the wall… He didn’t even want to think of the consequences.

“Careful, dropje. Wouldn’t want to cut yourself. Be quiet, be still, be good for me, right? You can be good for me? You can finally shut the hell up. No more fighting.”

He let go of Stan's chin and let his hands wander lower, caressing Stan’s sides, the curve of his waist, making his entire body tense and shudder. His breathing turning loud and shallow as he cringed away. 

Vaughn just giggled.

“See? Isn’t this better? You’re not getting hurt, you’re doing what I say…” His fingers slipped under the waistband of Stan’s pants again. Slower this time. More deliberate. 

It took all of Stan's willpower to not start hyperventilating at what he knew was about to happen. He knew. It was always this, wasn’t it?

Vaughn’s voice lowered as he leaned closer, pressing his body into Stan’s. He could feel the fibers of the stupid damn sweater vest against his stomach, deceptively soft, almost pleasant. The hard blade of the scissors tapped on the tip of his nose. “Because you physically have no other–”

BANG!!

Stan screamed. 

Vaughn screamed. 

The ghost of the gunshot echoed off the cinderblock walls. 

Vaughn also nearly fell backward, pushing off of Stan just in time for Stan to fall to the floor in a duck-and-cover position and pray to whatever gods would listen that his last day on earth wouldn't have been spent dealing with two of the worst people he'd ever had the displeasure of being kidnapped by.

Wait, scratch that, his knee reminded him. He'd had worse.

His heart threatened to jump out of his chest completely, but he finally realized that in fact, he was still alive. So he opened his eyes to what he never thought to be one of the most beautiful sights in the world;

Deeby. 

Gun pointed to the sky and streaming a light grey smoke into a small puff of explosion that hadn't had time yet to dissipate. 

“What in the ever-loving SHIT are you doing?!” he shouted.

He was completely maskless, face now on full display, fiery eyes matching his equally fiery sneer. The sudden absence of the mask almost scared Stan more than the gunshot, the sight making his heart beat in his throat.

Then, for just a split second, Deeby's enraged eyes met Stan's stare. His eyes scanned down his body, looking him up and down, his face changing ever so slightly when his gaze caught in Stan’s chest. A slight crinkle of the eyebrows, a small tilt of the head. Then his eyes widened in some sort of realization, and Stan felt his heart turn to ice. 

Recognition.

No. 

He couldn't have realized who he was. 

Just because of the binder?!

Stan choked on his own throat as the collar suddenly constricted once more and he was dragged violently forward to his knees.

“Your fucking dog punched me in the face!” Vaughn shouted, jangling Stan around enough that he had to grab the collar just to gain back his breath.

“Just because–!” 

Vaughn jolted Stan's collar back hard and cut him off with a violent gag.

“I was disciplining him.” Vaughn narrowed his eyes at the mercenary. “Like we're supposed to.” 

Deeby’s jaw set. And still, he managed to find a slight smug smile within his fury. “That why your face is gushing blood, then? Disciplined him too hard?”

Stan didn't even realize when they started, but tears were practically streaming down his cheeks now, chest heaving in panic. “Deeby, Deeby, he was gonna–”

“Shut up!”

A kick this time, straight to the back of his spine, and Stan's throat strained hard into the collar before breaking free of Vaughn's grasp and nearly face-planting into cold concrete. He scrambled to get up, but the same foot planted on his back and slammed his chest right back to the floor, grinding the heel of its shoe into the captive’s spine. Stan clutched at the ground, screams barely bit back by force of sheer willpower.

“Christ, man! Stop it, get off!” Deeby yelled with uncharacteristic urgency.

The force pinning him down suddenly released, followed by the scattered footfalls of someone catching themself from nearly falling over. 

Stan just lay there limp. Heaving and shivering. He couldn't move. His limbs felt like heavyweights, the world tilted on it’s axis, and he was sure that if he lifted his head up, he would lose every last morsel of that protein bar he'd shoved down earlier.

But at least now no one was methodically turning him into a fine red mist anymore. 

Deeby stood between the two of them like an impenetrable stone wall, hand resting on the unlatched holster of his gun and pointedly ignoring Vaughn’s stuttering disbelief as he patted at the pockets of his jacket, pulling various probably very sharp things out and shoving them into his pants pockets.

Protecting him.

“You– You just–...” Vaughn finally composed himself. “You pushed me off! You're saving him? He needs to be taught a lesson!”

Stan tried to push up despite the dizziness. “Only–... D-Deeby, he was trying–”

“Shut up, Stan, I know, let me handle it! Here.” Deeby slid his jacket off and dropped it practically on top of his captive’s head, never once letting his gaze slip from Vaughn. Stan shakily pulled the brown leather of the jacket over his shoulders before he had time to think better of it, doing his best to just enjoy the show and not think about the implications of what was currently happening.

 “Because he wouldn't let you put your dick in him without a fight, right?” The bounty hunter said sarcastically. “Or– or– or because he wasn’t gonna let you mouth-gore him without complaint? Let you ‘teach him a lesson?’ Yeah, I am stopping you. Piece of shit.” The bounty hunter grabbed the scissors off the floor where they landed when Vaughn dropped them after the gunshot. Then he used them to point sharply at the door. 

“Get out.”

Vaughn scoffed and melodramatically rolled his eyes.

“You got the message from Lana then? Is that why you're acting like such a belligerent wittle babeee?” Vaughn posited in his most obnoxious baby voice.

Deeby bristled. Stan could've sworn for a moment he could see the man shaking. 

“Yes,” he said, slowly. “I talked to Lana. Your useless job is done. You can go back to being an even more useless sidepiece now.”

Vaughn’s shoulders tensed, and he laughed.

“Good! And I’ll make sure to tell Lana all about you taking the side of the disobedient dog of a test subject–”

“Yeah, go cry to your girlfriend about it, he's under my jurisdiction and I'm not gonna let you fuck that up because you feel the need to live out your perverse power fantasy with the helpless people you kidnap and torture. As if it isn’t torture enough to have to be in the same room with you at all.”

Vaughn clenched his fists at his side and forced on the worst imitation of a smile Stan had ever borne witness to.

“You better watch your tone, Deathberry,” he said, sickly sweet voice doing nothing to mask the hissing rage. “I could have you in the same spot as him in ten seconds. Don't ever–” he jabbed Deeby in the chest. “–forget that. You're only allowed to be out here roaming around with your fancy gun and your fancy cowboy boots because you're useful, otherwise you'd be locked up with the rest–”

Vaughn had just started to reach for the holster on Deeby's belt when, faster than Stan could perceive, a flurry of movement between the two men, a cry of surprised fear, the shuffling of feet and spinning of bodies and suddenly Vaughn was pinned back first to Deeby's chest, a wire that Deeby pulled from somewhere stretched taut between his fists and pressing a hard line directly under into the skin of Vaughn's throat.

Vaughn's hands quickly flew up to the wire to try and pull it off his throat, then just as quickly let go when he realized the wire would sooner cut through his hands before it would be pried off.

Stan couldn't help but stare.

“You're just about at the end of my rope, Verhulst,” Deeby growled, accent fully presiding now as he stepped backward and pulled Vaughn toward the door. “Don't you ever put your filthy hands on my gun.”

A slight rasp to Vaughn's voice was the only thing that denoted anything was amiss. “You sure this is about the gun, Deebs? Sure you're not taking your frustrations at Lana out on me?” 

“Trust me, if I was takin’ my frustrations at Lana out on you, bud, you'd be dead.”

Vaughn's eyes shot to Stan, and his smile broadened. 

“Ohhhh, I see. So what then, you are falling for the captive? I'm sure Lana would love to hear about how you're going soft, how you miss her, and how spectacularly you're failing at finding someone better so you have to–”

A small gurk finding its way from Vaughn's throat as he was pulled to a sudden stop.

“You know what, maybe I am. And maybe you should use your mouth to do something not completely useless for once.” He spun the both of them around to face Stan again. 

“Apologize to ‘im.”

What?

Vaughn stared at Stan, apparently more stunned by the notion of apologizing than the motion of having a garot wire to his throat. Stan… honestly had to agree.

“Come again?”

“Apologize to Stan. For tryin’ to rape him. It's the least you could do.”

“You want me to… apologize?? To the test subject? You really are losing it, Deathberry, let me go.”

The wire dug into his throat more. “Say sorry, doctor.”

Vaughn glared at Stan. Stan glared back as well as he could.

“I can't feel the pain of this, you know,” Vaughn's voice came, even raspier. “You're not doing anything.”

“You can still bleed out from a slit throat. Still drown to death in your own blood as it slowly fills your lungs,” Deeby dismissed lightly. “Still bleed out. Very quickly. I wonder what would happen if I hit your carotid–

“And I wonder how Lana would feel about you slitting her head scientist and boyfriend’s throat.”

“Probably call you a little bitch boy for invoking her name every time you need to defend yourself like a spoiled toddler ‘steada bein’ a man about it and defending yourself. Or maybe not. You’d never know, you’d be dead.”

“You wouldn't–”

Deeby twitched the wire across Vaughn's throat and a line of red bloomed across the light tan of his neck. Vaughn's face grew just a little bit paler. He brought his hands up to graze across the wire and felt the warm wetness smear across his fingertips.

“Apologize.” Deeby growled. “Now.”

Vaughn's eyes flitted back to Stan, fully appraising the wonderfully wide-eyed mess he'd had pinned against the wall only moments before. 

He narrowed his eyes. 

Took a deep breath. 

Stared daggers directly into Stan's soul.

“Sorry.”

Oh you bastard.

“Go jump off a cliff!” Stan yelled, erratically reaching into the jacket pocket he'd seen Deeby pull the protein bar out of earlier and luckily finding many more, one of which was immediately thrown directly at Vaughn. He couldn't even attempt to dodge it, and it hit him directly in the chest. 

The mercenary let out a singular loud laugh and spun Vaughn back around, letting the wire retract into what Stan now realized was a little housing box on his weird arm sleeve thing and shoving Vaughn at the door as hard as he could.

“Guess he doesn't forgive you. Better luck next time!” he laughed. Stan genuinely thought (and hoped) Sweater-vest would fall flat on his face, but he managed to grab the door and right himself before that happened. Shame.

“Now get out.” Deeby said.

Vaughn glared with a literal snarl, jaw half a second away from cracking in two. Right before he took a slow, deep breath and reset his features to a forced neutral. Then an easy smile. “As you wish, my liege.” 

He bowed exaggeratedly low in a show of mock respect, retrieving his scissors from the ground in a surprisingly graceful sweeping motion as he went. Deeby just rolled his eyes.

“Oh, and Stanny?” He drawled, peeking back from the door as he left and pointing his scissors directly at Stan's face with a flourish. “I look forward to seeing you soon~.” 

“Get outta here!” Deeby yelled with a threatening stomp toward the door, at the same time Stan stuttered out a very surprised and agitated “In hell!”

The door slammed shut. 

Stan could swear he could still hear Vaughn's deranged laugh echoing through the room even as an eerie silence fell over them.

He was finally gone. Finally.

See you soon.

He didn't completely understand why his breath continued to quicken. He'd won that encounter, right? Or… well, Deeby had. But still.

I look forward to seeing you soon.

He felt dizzy. More than the concussion could have caused. This was different, made him feel like he was suffocating, even though Vaughn was no longer here to strain the collar against his throat. Yet he could still feel the knuckles digging into the back of his neck.

I look forward to seeing you soon. In hell.

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Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid | @painsandconfusion | @books-are-everything | @paperprinxe

[fulcrumwrites]

Speaking is a Privilege

Summary: A prince is taken captive by a rival kingdom. The enemy king attempts to make the prisoner of war his slave, but the prince refuses to break. Luckily, he has an arsenal of tools at his disposal. The prince will soon learn his place.

CW: Medieval torture, scold’s bridle, POW, dehumanization, slavery, humiliation, brief sexist idealism from the villain

He’s a pompous brat, seethed Cor as he glared up at his enemy.

He didn’t choose to be on his knees before that ridiculous throne on a raised pedestal and that pathetic excuse of a king draped upon it. The man didn’t even sit upright and regal, deserving of his title and honor. Instead, his knees dangled over the arm, swinging in the air, with his back braced against the other arm. A goblet of wine swirled in one hand while the other picked from a gold plate of treats; the very image of aloof laziness. It was a mockery to monarchy… Ha, mockery monarchy. Okay, his brain had definitely rotted in that cell.

He didn’t choose to be kneeling before the throne, filthy and weak in chains compared to the exaggerated wealth surrounding them. No, he’d much rather be relaxing in the cold, wet dungeon, which was what he was doing before he was so rudely dragged from his cell before the brat and had his knees kicked out beneath him.

And now he had to entertain his captor’s outlandish fantasies. It’s as if he had some delusion that just because Cor was his prisoner of war, he could make him do whatever he wanted. Good thing Cor was here to set him straight.

“No.”

King Darius leaned forward, cupping a hand around his ear. “Please speak up. I can’t hear you all the way down there.”

Cor licked his chapped lips, scowling. “I said no.”

King Darius balked and placed an offended hand on his chest, like they didn’t play this game a thousand times before. “I beg your pardon. Did you just tell your king no?”

“You heard me. And you’re not my king.”

“So long as you reside in my lands I am.”

Cor rolled his eyes. ‘Reside’, he says. As if he wasn’t a prisoner and could leave anytime he wished.

King Darius dropped his legs and sat up properly. Finally. He brushed the crumbs from his lavish clothes made from the finest textiles and with bright colors that clashed so badly it made Cor’s eyes ache.

He stood and marched down the steps, looking exactly like a proud peacock. He stopped so that Cor was at his feet, peering down at him over his squashed nose. Though Cor could not stand without the guards knocking him down again, he refused to be meek and returned his gaze with his own steely glare.

King Darius threw back his head and laughed. Anger boiled in Cor’s gut as he willed himself not to tackle his enemy. They danced to this song too. Many. Times. Darius would make some ridiculous demand, Cor would be defiant and, instead of lashing out in anger, Darius would laugh in his face and force him to do it anyway. It was exhausting to be so stubborn and yet so powerless. A captive prince was nothing more than a slave in the hands of his enemy.

Still chuckling, Darius fisted Cor’s dark hair at the roots and dragged him to his feet. The manacles around his wrists clinked as Cor instinctively clawed at the hand pulling his hair. A guard stepped forward, but was halted by Darius’ dismissive wave.

“You may be weary of this game, Cor, but I’m not.” The king’s breath was hot on his skin. He jerked him by his hair once, twice. Unbidden tears pooled in his eyes. Cor furiously blinked them away. “In fact, I find your obstinance amusing. No slave would dare treat his master this way, and yet you continue to do so even though you know I hold all the cards. It’s truly a marvel you can keep this up for as long as you have.”

Cor gritted his teeth. “I’m not your slave.”

Darius released his hair and gently patted the spot as if he were a child or a dog. “Believe it however long you’d like, Cor. It has no effect on reality.”

Darius walked off to the left. Cor watched him with suspicion. He stayed standing under his own power, the granite tiles cold beneath his bare feet. Darius approached a silent servant carrying a wooden box. His neutral expression betrayed nothing to Cor.

“You know how this ends, Cor,” the king continued as he opened the lid. “You defy me, and I get what I want anyway because I am king and you are my prisoner.”

He carefully lifted the contents out. It was a twisted shape made entirely out of metal, like a birdcage only the bottom was missing. A short chain dangled from it. Darius turned it in his hands, nodding approvingly.

“As we speak, the palace is scrambling to finish preparing for the feast I demanded. We all have a role to play, and yours is to be at my side: a symbol of my coming victory over your kingdom. I originally planned for you to be chained to my throne merely by your cuffs so you could sit or stand as you please. Now I realize I can’t have you ruining the pleasure of my guests.”

Cor swallowed, throat suddenly dry by more than just a lack of water. “What the hell is that?”

Darius tore his eyes away from the contraption, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise. “What, your country doesn’t use scold’s bridles? How very primitive. What do you do when women nag?” Darius shook his head. “It’s a device that locks over one’s head. This piece of metal right here slides inside the mouth, effectively silencing the wearer. This little chain is a handy thing to pull the wearer along or attach them to a wall for all to ogle. Makes a woman think twice about running her mouth.”

Darius laughed again. Cor didn’t see the humor in it. In his father’s kingdom, women were always treated with respect and dignity. Such a punishment was unheard of. As if his hatred for Darius and his kingdom couldn’t run deeper…

Cor was trembling with anger as the king approached him. If he could think through the white hot rage, he would’ve realized the danger. As two guards grabbed his arms, Cor realized what was happening.

“Wait. What are you–?” Darius raised the scold’s bridle over his head dramatically as if crowning him. Cor’s eyes followed it and he began to thrash against the guards’ grips. “Get that thing away from me. You’re crazy, Darius. Don’t you dare.”

His words did nothing as the metal cage slotted over his head. Yet it was the only defense Cor had, and he’ll use it till his last breath.

“You sick, pathetic excuse for a king! You’re a pompous, spoiled brat unfit to rule! We’ll win the war, and it’ll be you at our mer–”

“That’s quite enough now.”

The thick stub of metal was shoved between his lips and held down his tongue as Darius pushed together the sides. It tasted of rust. There was a click by his ear, followed by tugging as the king checked the strength of the padlock. A finger tilted his chin up to look Darius straight into his blue murky green eyes.

“Speaking is a privilege. By all means, be defiant. You know deep down your privileges are mine to give and take away.”

Heat crawled up Cor’s cheeks as he was forced to stand there silent, looking through metal bars as Darius examined him like an exotic animal in its enclosure.

The king nodded and smiled. “Yes, I think this will do.” He tugged the chain as if urging a dog to follow. “Come along, Cor. Let’s get you set up.”

The boy had no choice but to let himself be led by a leash up the stairs to the throne. A forceful yank on the chain threw him onto his knees as Darius attached it to the base of his throne.

“A shame you don’t understand the workings of a scold’s bridle,” Darius remarked as he fiddled with the chain. “Men in my kingdom consider this one of the upmost embarrassments should the bridle be used on them.”

Once he was done, Darius gripped the device, twisting it so Cor was forced to look up at him.

“My guests will be arriving in one hour. Your only task of the night is to be my trophy, a symbol of my power and victory. I would tell you to behave, but we both know you don’t have it in you. That’s why this–” he shook the bridle, causing Cor’s mouth and jaw to ache–“does all the work for you.”

With a triumphant smile, he released the bridle and turned his back, leaving Cor tethered to his throne. “Don’t go anywhere!” he couldn’t resist calling over his shoulder as he and his guards and servants swept out of the throne room.

Left unguarded, of course Cor couldn’t let the opportunity pass up. He raised his chained hands to his face and pulled at the metal encasing his head. It refused to budge. He wound his hands in the chain and pulled with what strength he had as if uprooting a stubborn weed. After a few minutes of struggling, Cor sagged against his heels, muscles burning, hands red, face sore.

Instead of despair or fear as others may feel in his situation, hate burned through every emotion like a purifying blaze. He hated Darius. He hated the guest who would come in and ogle. He hated this kingdom.

He hated losing.

Darius was right. No matter how hard Cor fought, his enemy would win. He was the puppet-master holding his strings. The one who held every card in the palm of his hand. The one who could strip a prince of all his honor.

The one who always wins.

[leyswhumpdump]

Loud mouthy whumpees are so much fun, but I also love a defiant whumpee who is clever about it.

Clever defiant whumpees who know that talking back is dangerous, so they stay quiet. Whumpees who know they can’t fight their way out of the situation, and will only make their captor angry if they do.

So they play along.

They pretend to “give in” to the pet trainer’s attempts to condition them, knowing they’re less likely to lose their whole selves if the whumper is satisfied they’ve been brainwashed. They pretend to dote on a creepy whumper. They pretend to be broken.

But they aren’t passive. They quietly resist everything that happens to them. They mentally recite the things the pet trainer wants to condition out of them. They learn the creepy whumper’s buttons, their insecurities. They learn how to manipulate their situation, turn it to their advantage. All the while staying relatively unharmed and perhaps even growing to be trusted.

After all, once the whumper trusts them, sabotage becomes easier.

[heartinthehospital]

not that hot

hunting season masterlist

content: male whumpee, female whumper, big whumpee, small whumper, defiant whumpee, possessive whumper, kidnapping, violence

When Elijah wakes up, Lara is nowhere to be seen. 

Well, he can’t see much of anything. Elijah blinks a few more times to confirm, but he’s sure he’s blindfolded. And tied to a chair. His back muscles tense through his t-shirt as he measures how much movement his arms are allowed when they’re duct-taped behind him. It’s none. The same goes for the duct tape that secures Elijah’s ankles to the chair legs. Slowly, he tries to recollect the events of the last few hours.

There was the gas station. The couple of guys who mugged him. Elijah shifts his weight and winces when he can feel the bruises on his ribcage. There are other injuries, but this has to be the worst of them. Elijah knows what broken ribs felt like, and this isn’t that, but damn if it doesn’t hurt the same. 

There was Lara. The offer to clean him up back at her place. Elijah wonders if his car is still at the gas station and frowns. Everything he packed for the hunting trip was inside, and if getting mugged was any sign, that couldn’t be a safe place to be parked. 

Elijah told Lara about the hunting trip, when she asked why he looked like he was ready to tour Afghanistan. She laughed, and he began to question if it was the alcohol they were sharing or if she did really look that pretty when she smiled. He must’ve asked out loud, because the next thing he remembers, she was on top of—

Elijah hears footsteps. Thank God. 

With a swift tug of the cloth around his eyes, Lara is standing in front of him again. 

“Are you awake?”

Absent-mindedly, Elijah decides that she really is that pretty. There’s no alcohol in his system to convince him otherwise, but as soon as he realizes that, he wonders why he isn’t hungover. There’s no way he doesn’t have a throbbing headache if he blacked out hours ago.

“Eli?” That’s not important.

“My bad,” he clears his throat. “I’m awake.”

Lara steps back, still in the same clothes. Elijah can’t help but imagine how the two of them look. Him, dressed in what looks like military uniform. Her, barely clothed in a wife beater and daisy dukes. If either of them were to be tied up, he wouldn’t expect it to be him.

She’s searching in his face for something, but Elijah doesn’t know what. The look in her ice-blue eyes is unreadable. It's like she's waiting for something. Behind his back, he gently grazes his bloodied knuckles with his fingertips, expecting her to speak first. It doesn’t look like she’s going to.

“Do you want me to be scared?” Elijah offers. 

Suddenly, Lara’s expression turns into blatant confusion.  “What?” 

“I mean, do you want me to be scared?” That’s what he just said. Elijah clears his throat and tries to explain himself. “You know, what we’re doing here. I’m tied up. You’re not. Should I be scared?”

The expression on Lara’s face doesn’t change. Somehow, the conversation brings him back to high school, when everyone stared blankly at him whenever he spoke because his accent was too thick to understand. Elijah feels as stupid as he did then. What was Lara not understanding?

“Okay,” he tries again. “Last thing I remember, we were on your couch together, and I guess I blacked out when we— it’s not important. Now I’m in your basement. You didn’t ask if I was okay with this, which I don’t mind, because I am, but I don’t really do this. I don’t know if I’m supposed to ask if you want me to be scared, or if I should be scared as soon as you walk in. I don’t know how we’d even have sex if I’m tied up like this, honestly.”

Something like recognition clicks in Lara’s face, but she doesn’t say anything. Elijah begins to consider he might not watch enough porn. That’s not true, and he knows it, but no matter how he racks his brain to think of every video he’s watched, he can’t think of one that lets him know what he’s supposed to do. “If you didn’t want me to be this confused, you could’ve told me what you wanted. Maybe it would ruin your fantasy, but it would help. Like I said, I don’t do this.”

Finally, Lara steps back. She looks him up-and-down, her features softening.

“Oh my God, you’re stupid.” The sentence is said with such incredible tenderness, Elijah takes a few moments to register it as an insult. 

“Hey, what the fuck?” 

“You’re not scared?” Lara reaches out a hand to brush against Elijah’s bruised jaw, and he stiffens at the physical contact. “You’re tied to a chair in my basement, and you’re not scared?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.” Elijah shakes his head. “You know what? Nevermind. Thanks for helping me and everything, but I don’t think this is working. I wish it did—” his eyes rake over her body in the same way she did his “—but it’s not.” 

“You’re so stupid,” Lara repeats herself in that same voice, her fingertips still soft against his skin. Elijah might find it attractive if she wasn’t insulting him. She turns her head towards a blinking red light in the corner of the room that he hadn’t noticed. “None of them have ever done that. They always wake up asking me what happened, and he just explained it to himself."

Elijah looks at the camera. “Are you fucking recording this?” 

The dread finally begins to set in, and he struggles against his restraints. The duct tape didn’t feel this tight when he woke up. 

“I’m leaving,” he insists, glaring at Lara. In the back of his mind, he imagines himself telling this story to his friends when he arrives at their cabin. That’s all this is going to be. One of his stories. 

“Go ahead.”

“Fuck you.”

Lara smiles. “Do you always curse this much when you’re scared?”

“I’m not scared. I’m pissed that my fucking pit-stop is going to cost me hours and I’m not even getting laid. Which doesn’t matter because—” he continues to struggle without success “—you’re not that hot anyways.” 

When Lara turns around and walks away, he twists his neck to try and follow where she’s going. “I’m going to get out of this chair, and I swear to God, I’m going to kill you if you don’t help,” he raises his voice to make sure she can hear, his stomach twisting itself into knots. If he strains, he can hear her rummaging through something. “I mean, I’m going to fucking rip you apart. I’ll—”

When Lara returns, Elijah’s voice dies in his throat. He doesn’t know whether it’s the ten-inch hunting knife in her hands or the calmness in her expression that silences him, but either way, his blood runs cold. With every step she takes towards him, his arms twist against the duct tape with more urgency, but he can’t get free.

“What are you going to do to me?” Lara tilts her head innocently, weapon still in hand. 

Elijah stops moving. 

Even when she turns back towards the camera and goes, “I can’t believe that’s all it took to get him quiet,” he doesn’t ask who the fuck she’s talking to. He doesn’t make a sound. Not when Lara steps closer to him, not when she brings the tip of the blade to his Adam’s apple, and not when she smiles at the slow roll of his throat underneath the pressure. Not a goddamn sound.

She puts her mouth against his ear, and when she speaks, her warm breath grazes his skin. “Are you scared yet?” This time, her voice is barely above a murmur. This question’s for Elijah, not the camera. His mouth is suddenly and totally dry.

“Kill me quick.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop himself, but he doesn’t regret them. It’s a hunting knife. The images of what she could do with it flash in his mind one after the other. If all she does is kill him, here and now, it would be merciful. Maybe that makes Elijah a coward, but nobody’s going to know it. 

Twenty-three years. He could be satisfied with twenty-three years.

“That’s not what I asked.” Lara’s knife presses deeper to his throat, and a pinprick of blood drips down his neck. Elijah strains his peripheral vision trying to catch a glimpse of Lara’s expression. Nothing. 

“I’m fucking terrified,” he whispers. It doesn’t matter what his last words are. Nobody’s around to hear them.

When Lara pulls away, knife and all, Elijah doesn’t shut his eyes like he wants to. In a few minutes, he’ll be dead, and maybe he wants Lara to be the last thing he sees. He doesn’t know. Elijah’s about to die, and he doesn’t know anything. 

Lara slams the hunting knife right between his legs into the chair. 

“Good answer,” she hums, looking back over her shoulder to the camera. “I think this one is going to be fun.” Elijah’s entire body shudders involuntarily. 

“I’m serious,” his voice shakes. “Kill me. Quick.” Twenty-three years.

Lara looks back to the sweaty, trembling mess she’s made of him and wrenches the hunting knife out from the chair with little more than a glance in his direction.

“Sorry, I missed.” With an alarming swiftness, she plunges the knife back into his thigh. The scream that rips out from Elijah’s throat drowns out her voice as she steps back to admire her work.

"Like I said. Fun."

[letitbehurt]

A Whumpee kept in isolation long enough to fear that they’ve been forgotten there.

[stars-and-blood-72]

Overworking whumpees:

After what whumper did to them they drown themselves in work to distract themselves from the trauma and end up overworking themselves

maybe caretaker had to literally drag the whumpee away from their work, maybe whumpee overworked to the point of not allowing themselves sleep or work worsening their already terrible condition

[galaxywhump]

Could you write an AU where Berkeley was never caught and he recaptured wren for revenge?

[SV-240 masterlist]

contents: recapture, defiant whumpee, tied to a table, death threats, torture, knives, carved mark, non-graphic fingore/amputation.

~~~

"Rise and shine, sweetheart."

Wren flinches, blinking slowly but not seeing much, still groggy after… whatever happened between him being out and about and waking up here, wherever here is.

A firm slap to the face sobers him up. He wishes it hadn’t.

He’s tied up again - or rather tied down, lying on his back on something, probably a table, his wrists and ankles held in place by coarse rope. He’s shirtless, vulnerable, and the air is cold against his skin. Pulling at the restraints achieves nothing, and he starts panicking, struggling to breathe, because this was supposed to be over, he was free, and now he’s been kidnapped again by-

“Daniel taught me how to tie a good knot, so don’t bother. I’m sure he’d send his regards if he could.”

Daniel. Sweetheart. Whoever this is knows, must have known his tormentor, and when Wren turns his head to face the source of the familiar voice, his breath catches in his throat, his eyes go wide and his blood runs cold.

Berkeley.

He looks different - his hair has been shoddily cut short and dyed brown, he’s wearing colored contacts to hide the blue of his irises, and his freckles are concealed, but Wren still recognizes him immediately. Just like the last time he saw him there’s fury in his eyes, but no more hysteria or fear; only something dark and resigned.

“My disguise is no good, is it?” he snorts. “Is it my voice? Or is my face just burned into your mind? Or is it because I’m the only other person who knows what Daniel used to call you?”

This can’t be happening.

“You know you won’t get away with this,” Wren says, trying to mask the trembling in his voice.

“Is that really the best you can do?” Berkeley rolls his eyes. “Fuck, you’re pathetic.”

“This isn’t like that.” Wren shakes his head, but his heart stutters for a moment when Berkeley swears, as if that, not the kidnapping, not the restraints, not the unnerving expression, was proof that something was wrong. “People know I’m not dead. They’ll find me and finally lock your cowardly ass up.”

“They haven’t found me yet, though, have they? So I’d say we have some time for ourselves.” Berkeley shrugs and approaches slowly, step by step - and once he’s right by the table again, in a blink of an eye he wraps his hands around Wren’s throat and presses down, making him gasp.

“I could kill you.” He tightens his grip, and Wren’s hands twitch as the restraints stop him from instinctively reaching up to grab his attacker. “That would be it, Daniel would be avenged, yada yada. But I don’t give a shit about Daniel.” The corners of his lips rise slightly, a half-hearted remnant of his usual smirk, as he takes in Wren’s panic, wide eyes, frantic gasps. “I told him buying you was insane, but he convinced me. Then I told him he was too lenient with you, letting you wander around like you were free just because he wanted to play house. Of course I was right, and now he’s dead, and I’d just call it karma if you hadn’t ruined my life too. Everyone I worked with has been locked up. I’m being hunted.” His voice wavers a little bit. “And it’s all thanks to you, Rackham.”

His grip gets even tighter, and Wren’s eyes glaze over with tears. He’s still struggling, but he doesn’t control it; it’s pure instinct trying to save him from something he can’t be saved from.

Berkeley lets go, takes a step back and watches as Wren starts coughing, turning his head to the side to avoid choking. He’s still panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly, when he glares at Berkeley and asks, in as defiant a tone as he can muster:

“So what do you want from me?”

Berkeley laughs - his laughter is different, not genuine like it used to be, not hysterical like during the call, but completely dry; the laughter of someone completely disillusioned, with nothing to lose.

“I want to make you suffer. I want to see you cry and beg, because that’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? And Daniel’s not here to stop me from hurting his precious little sweetheart too much.” He lays his hands on the edge of the table, close to Wren’s side, and leans over him. “I don’t know how long I want to draw it out yet. I feel like no matter how much you’ll scream and cry and beg it will never be enough to make up for what you’ve done, but when I feel like the time is right… that’s when I’ll finally kill you.” He can’t help but smile at that, and a shiver of excitement runs up his spine.

No. Wren has to press his lips together to stay quiet, avoid protesting out loud, but his heartbeat is painful and deafening. If the air in the room was cold before, now it’s downright freezing. No, no, no, not again, I was safe, I survived, I can’t die now, I can’t die like this.

“Hey, don’t worry, Rackham,” Wren flinches, still staring at Berkeley in horror, when he pats his cheek, smiling. “Like I said, I won’t kill you until I’m through with you, and I haven’t even started. So, what should we do first…?” He runs his finger down Wren’s chest, making him shiver, and cocks his head to the side, thinking. “I guess I should warn you that Daniel is- was,” he lets out a dry chuckle, “better at this than I am, so there’s a chance I’ll kill you by accident, or something. I want to start with something safe, though, so we can have more fun later.”

Wren is more than familiar with the meaning of the look in Berkeley’s eyes, together with his smirk - the gleam of an idea he’s not going to like at all.

“There’s this word you don’t like, right?” Berkeley walks over to a counter lined with various tools he’d found in the hideout. “Daniel told me to stop using it after my first visit.”

He picks up a knife and lifts it up to let his helpless captive take a good look at it; he inspects it with narrowed eyes, humming to himself before deciding that it’s the right tool for the job. He takes a rag and some antiseptic as well and turns around, delighted to see terror in Wren’s eyes, obvious despite his attempts to hide it behind a glare.

“I think it’s fitting, though.” Berkeley returns to the table and sets the knife aside for the time being. “After what you’ve done.”

“You’ve always liked the sound of your own voice,” Wren says, eyeing the knife anxiously, knowing exactly what Berkeley’s talking about but not wanting to accept it.

“Maybe.” Berkeley smiles; it's easier to smile now, when he can escape from his bleak reality back into the thrill of being fully in control. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear your voice, and by that I mean your screams. Feel free to do that as much as you like. No one’s gonna hear you here.”

The good news is that Wren is fairly sure he won't give Berkeley the satisfaction of hearing him scream; Daniel - whom Wren hasn't thought about this much in weeks, but he has more pressing matters to worry about right now - had cut him so many times that it had become part of the routine, such mundane torture. He’d be terrified if Berkeley plunged the knife into his abdomen with full intention of finishing what Daniel had started, but apparently the plan is to keep him alive.

For now.

The bad news, of course, is that he’s been kidnapped, brought somewhere no one can hear him scream, and he’s going to be tortured all over again.

I’m on Earth this time. Everyone knows I’m alive. They’re going to save me.

He closes his eyes.

Before it’s too late.

He flinches when Berkeley wipes down his chest with the rag, which he must have dipped in the antiseptic. When he notices his captive’s frown, he shrugs.

“Just to be safe. I can’t exactly take you to a hospital if something goes wrong, can I?”

"Why not? I'm sure everyone would be happy to see both of us," Wren says, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. "You could still do a good deed and not be charged with murder on top of everything else."

“So you think this is going to be my first murder,” Berkeley snorts, and Wren’s eyes snap to him in shock.

“You-”

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.” He shrugs, amused. “It’s just funny you assumed that. Anyway, Rackham,” he says as he grabs the knife and grins, “let’s get started.”

It doesn’t matter how much Wren had gone through with Daniel. It doesn’t matter that this shouldn’t affect him. He starts shivering, and he decides to blame it on the cold. He doesn’t want to close his eyes and show his torturer how scared he is, so he goes back to staring at the ceiling; the downside of that is that he can see Berkeley lowering the knife in his peripheral vision.

The sensation of the knife cutting into him is familiar, but so much time has passed that it still comes as a shock. It’s just a short line, the knife is dragged downwards and then raised, all but confirming Wren’s suspicions.

I.

It’s just a word. A stupid word. Soon to be carved into him, sure, but he is going to be found soon, and surely the cuts will be healable then, they will be gone without trace and that will be it. 

He still has to blink away tears when the knife returns. A line, a semicircle, then another, separate line.

D. I.

“So,” he says through gritted teeth, “now it’s your turn to leave your signature on me, huh?”

Berkeley rolls his eyes, but can’t hide a smile.

“Very funny, Rackham.”

“Thanks.”

O, cut out agonizingly slowly - and yet Wren doesn’t scream, barely even whimpers. It’s his tiny victory, not giving Berkeley the satisfaction he was hoping for. No matter what he does, it won’t be worse than what Daniel used to do. 

“How about I make a pun? I’m disappointed you’re not delivering.” He grits his teeth when the knife pierces his skin once more to carve the final letter, and he has to stifle a groan. “Alright, I got it: Your lack of appreciation for my jokes cuts me deep?”

Berkeley snorts at that and shakes his head. “Alright. I do appreciate them, for the record, cause I know what you’re hiding behind your idiotic humor.”

Wren frowns, but it’s not like he can argue with that. As the last line is added, he has to blink away new tears.

T.

Idiot.

Berkeley takes a step back to take a critical look at his work - even bloody letters on Wren’s chest, where he’ll have no choice but to see them, impossible to ignore unlike the brand on his back.

“Smile for the camera, idiot!” He snaps a few pictures, making sure to capture Wren’s expression, so desperately blank, but tense with pain and emotion, until he’s happy with the result. “Perfect. I can add these to all the damn photos Daniel had sent me. Maybe I’ll show you someday, take a trip down memory lane, hm?”

“I’ll pass,” Wren spits, glaring at Berkeley as he leans against the side of the table.

“You should still see this one, though,” he says, holding up his communicator - found in the hideout too, modified to be impossible to track down - with one of the photos displayed.

Just like when his mouth was stitched shut for the second time, it’s seeing the effects of the torture in a picture that finally hits. It’s not a picture of a survivor - it’s a picture of a hopeless, powerless captive at his captor’s mercy. 

It was supposed to be over. I was supposed to be free. I won, and it doesn’t mean shit.

“This is what your body will look like when they find it,” Berkeley says in the tone of casual small talk. “I mean, I’ll probably make a couple more modifications, but this” -he runs his finger around the carved letters, careful not to touch them- “is the first thing they’re going to see. A completely normal word for them. They’ll probably wonder why I’d choose something so mundane and… tame, but it doesn’t matter, does it? We know why, and that’s enough.”

Trying not to dwell on the promise of more modifications, Wren follows Berkeley with his eyes as he pushes himself upright and starts pacing to and fro: three steps, heel turn, three steps, lost in thought.

“You know, you disappointed me, Rackham,” he sighs.

“I’m so sorry,” Wren says, trying to sound unbothered, yet his heartbeat picks up the pace. It was supposed to be over. What else does he want?

“I wanted to hear you scream, remember? And you didn’t deliver at all.”

Wren swallows when Berkeley stops to pick up the knife and twirl it in his fingers.

“I should've expected that, honestly. It’s not your first time, and Daniel had cut you more times than you can count, hm?”

“It’s kinda what you signed up for when you sold me to a sadist.”

“Guess so,” Berkeley laughs, looking at Wren with narrowed eyes. “In that case I think I should try to come up with something Daniel never did to you, to really keep you on your toes.”

Then he smirks, and Wren knows he’s doomed.

His thoughts are racing when he follows Berkeley with his gaze as he circles the table, gently tapping the tip of the knife with his finger. Something he’s never experienced - or at least Berkeley thinks so, because he can’t know about everything Wren went through on SV-240. Even though the last thing he wants is to recall Daniel’s voice, Wren desperately tries to remember any torture methods Daniel had told him about, lamenting not having the means to try them out, but his mind draws a blank. He doesn’t have much time to try and predict what’s going to happen to him anyway; when Berkeley finally stops by Wren’s side, his movements are so fast that Wren barely has a chance to process what’s happening.

Berkeley takes his right hand.

Cut my hand?

Straightens out his fingers.

But it’s nothing new.

Grabs his pinky.

Wait-

Holds the knife right above the joint connecting the finger to the palm.

No, no, he can’t-

“You were complaining about the lack of puns.” Berkeley smiles down at Wren, who stares back at him with wide eyes. “So here’s one: keep your fingers crossed that the cut is clean.”

“No-”

It takes a second or two for Wren to get past the initial shock of having his pinky cut clean off, and when he does, the pain catches up to him, new and nauseating.

This time, much to his captor's delight, he does scream.

~~~

taglist: @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername @procrastinatingsab @funky-little-glitter-bomb @goneuntil @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @sophierose002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpvp @wibbly-wobbly-whump @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words @pumpkin-spice-whump @onlyhappywhenitpains @suspicious-whumping-egg @morning-star-whump @burtlederp @there-will-always-be-blood

[whumble-beeee]

Into the Woods and Out of the Woods

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 9

Content: mentioned past capture, angst, mentioned (potential) character death, child in distress (only for a second there tho)

* * * * * * * *

“In this life, you need to do everything in your power to survive and thrive. Supers aren’t allowed to thrive in this world. We're forced to hide, we're forced to serve, we're taken advantage of. If we don't comply, then we're dangerous, we’re feared, then we're subjugated, imprisoned, or killed. Just look at what they did to me because of my power, weak as it is [...] [They] made an example out of me, knowing I couldn't fight back, and time and time again it has been shown that I am not the only one. The current system needs to be dismantled and started anew. And if– when– ‘The Man’ says no? Then he must be taken down too.”

– Supervillain Aurelias “Elias” Byrne, codename “Anonym”

**Note: Danger Level Five: Any sightings of this individual should be reported to the police immediately. DO NOT INTERACT.

* * * * * * * *

[~Not long before Stan McKellen’s recapture (the events of Ch. 1)~]

"My legs hurt!" a high voice groaned from just behind Stan. He sighed deeply and simply continued walking, arms and legs burning for rest from the nonstop exertion.

"Yeah I know, mine too. But we're almost there. And you're not the one with a bad knee, you can make it."

"But you have a magic cane to help you! I just have my stupid normal legs!" Chloe stomped on the ground with each syllable to illustrate her point.

"I'm not using my magic right now, so the cane is just a cane and my leg still hurts just as much as usual,” Stan countered. “More actually. Not to mention my wrist is killing me because I didn't have time to grab my crutch. So that's just gone now, I guess."

"You should use your power to make it easier, like you do when you’re fighting. And use it on me too! Just make my legs walk for me!"

"Not happening, I don’t wanna pass out and die from exhaustion on this hill using my powers because your legs got tired."

"But I'm about to pass out and die on this hill from exhaustion because my legs got tired. You should teach me how to use my powers, then I could just do it myself.”

“Squeaks, I don't know if you noticed, but we're basically being hunted for sport because of those exact powers.”

"Chloe, you wanna ride on my back?" Marcus chimed in, exhausted from listening to his beloved fiancé and said fiancé's equally as beloved younger sister bicker back and forth. Nonstop. For the entire trip.

"Marcus, don't encourage her. We're literally almost there," Stan groaned. He actually had no idea how far they were from the 'campsite'. But Chloe didn't need to know that.

“It's fine Stan, she's tired, she's a kid, we've been walking a long time. I get it.”

“Nuh-uh!” Chloe said in an obnoxiously nasally voice.

“Nuh-uh?” Marcus questioned, at the same time Stan reflexively cracked out a “Yuh-huh!” without even knowing what the hell he was “yuh-huh"-ing.

“Nuh-uh, I'm not a kid!”

“You're thirteen actually, so you're a kid,” Marcus laughed.

“Nuh-uh, nope! Thirteen. ThirTEEN! Teen! Teenager! I'm a teenager! Not a kid!”

“You're not a teenager until you're sixteen, actually,” Stan stated, amused smile pulling lightly at the corners of his mouth.

“Sixteen is basically an adult already, you can't be basically an adult and also barely a teenager, Stan,” Chloe said matter-of-factly.

But at least she wasn't complaining about being tired anymore.

“And I am a teenager, or else why would it be thirTEEN!?”

“Well, only kids get to ride on my back,” Marcus retorted with ridiculously heightened haughtiness, nose raised and all. “So no riding on my back for you then, big teenager.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes at Marcus. “Fine, I didn't want to ride on your back anyw–!”

“AND we're here!” Stan announced cheerfully, cutting them off with a mighty huff.

And all fell silent.

Wind whistled through the branches overhead, swishing through leaves with a gentle rustle as the crunching of dirt underfoot came to a grinding halt. The chirps of birds in the distance became audible in their tentative silence, whistles and cheeps and squawks filling the air with a cheerfully chaotic melody. The smell of wet dirt and decaying leaves wafted through the cool air. 

Chloe, of course, was the first to point out the obvious. “Uh. What do you mean?… There's nothing here…”

“Except for the beautiful sounds and sights of nature!” Marcus proclaimed, spreading his arms out and spinning around as if surrounded by the beautiful rolling hills of Austria instead of… Well, the same trees they’d been passing by unheeded for the last hour.

Stan pointed at a dinky circle of rocks on the ground, a slight char to the earth scorching the center of the ring. “Fire pit. This is it.”

“Oh okay, my bad, I guess,” Chloe sarcastically raised her arms in surrender. “Didn't know that a pile of rocks passes for a campsite now.”

“Well, it's what we've got.” Stan plopped his full-to-bursting backpack into the barely-packed dirt. “Hard to be picky when you're on the run from a buncha psycho government crazies trying to torture us or whatever.”

Chloe raised her brow and tilted her head at her brother, arms crossed in that know-it-all sort of way. “Stan. Just because you got a shattered knee doesn’t mean you need to break my back by making me sleep on the best choice owl bones and sharp rocks.”

“Chloe!” Marcus' voice nearly cracked with how high it went, appalled.

“No, no, it’s fine Marcus, she didn't mean it like that,” Stan said. She was just frustrated. “Look, it’s what we got for now. I’ll try to figure out something better for tomorrow. And hey, at least it's not under a bridge or something.”

“Or some mad scientist's lab,” Marcus pointed out.

Chloe shrugged. “I'm just saying, generally it's good to find a place where you don't have to wonder if someone might’ve been burned at the stake.”

Stan had to admit, he felt that same hopeless pit in his stomach that his sister must've been feeling. This was not how he had been hoping to spend his day. Or week, month, year. In fact, he had been hoping he would never have to flee again. Sadly, sometimes it's just not written in the stars that certain people get their way. Ever, apparently.

“... hey Chlo?” Stan called. “How you holding up?” 

She pelted a rock she'd found somewhere into the endless void of the forest. “I'm fine. Wish we had like…” she gestured around, arms wide before throwing them back down to her sides.  “Walls. Or like a roof, or something.”

Ditto.

“Stan?” Marcus called from behind him. Stan quickly made his way over to his fiancé so they could talk in private, as private as you could talk in the woods when the person you're talking about is a 3-second jog away.

“What is it? What's wrong?” Stan whispered quickly.

Marcus grinned conspiratorially at him, eyes flicking around the clearing as if searching for ninjas eavesdropping to learn of his dastardly plans.

“I think it's time–” he whispered dramatically, “for Plan 'Brother-sister-bonding-by-teaching-her-how-to-use-her-powers-and-get-her-out-of-the-mood-she’s-in’.”

Stan scoffed, failing to not let an amused shine crack through features at Marcus’ ridiculousness even as a very real worry took root in his chest. “I guess it probably is time she learned. It’s just hard for her, you know how complicated her feelings are about the powers. But I suppose if no one's around out here to see it, plenty of space…”

“And hopefully it'll help her out of that funk. I can't even begin to think what must be going through her head right now…”

“I can.”

Will I ever see my friends again?

What important things did I leave behind?

Where are we gonna sleep tonight?

When is the next time I'll get the chance to eat?

What if my brother is caught?

What if we're both caught?

Will I finally get to see what mom and dad and Stan had to go through?

I thought we were finally safe.

“It's… it's bad.”

Marcus just nodded sympathetically. The silence was excruciating. 

“... but she's a tough kid, she'll make it through.” Stan finally managed to choke out. “We all will.” 

Marcus pursed his lips, thinking for a moment. “How about this: you both go train, and while you're gone, I'll go back to that convenience store we saw a couple miles back and get some supplies. Y’know, the essentials, marshmallows, some chocolate, graham crackers…”

Stan lit up like the northern lights, eyes full of stars. “S'mores night!”

“Yeah! We can use that crappy little firepit you found!”

“Oh, she would love that!” Stan whisper-shouted, nearly jumping up and down, vibrating with excitement.

Marcus’ eyes glinted. His teasing smile nearly made Stan blush. 

“She's not the only one, huh?”  He poked Stan in the stomach, and Stan nearly squealed as he jumped back out of the way, even almost managing to avenge himself by thrusting the tip of his cane into Marcus’ chest. But Marcus grabbed the cane and yanked it forward, pulling a screech from Stan before he felt Marcus’ strong body pin his arms to his sides in a tight embrace before he fell flat on his face.

“Caught you,” he teased in a sing-songy voice. “Whatcha gonna do now?”

“Oh get off it Silva!” Stan yelled as he halfheartedly shoved to try and get away, secretly wishing he could stay here forever.

Marcus let Stan go, instead grabbing his fiancé's hands in his own and squeezing them tight, looking lovingly into each other's eyes.

"We'll have a nice night tonight,” he reassured. “I know things are horrible right now… but things always get worse before they get better. And hell, they could always be worse.”

Slight flashbacks so kindly reminded Stan of the horrors. Every day away from that hellscape was another better day. 

“Things could definitely be worse.” Stan tossed his arms over Marcus’ shoulders with a cheeky grin. “ Like for example… I could be anywhere else in the world, and then I wouldn’t be with you.”

He pulled Marcus down into a soft kiss, one hand on the back of his head to gently guide him and feeling the warmth of skin against skin, Marcus’ body against his own, supporting him wholly. And in that moment, where the world was just the two of them, he let himself imagine that everything truly was okay. That they weren't being hunted down, that they hadn't just had to flee from their home again, that he wasn't alone in this world. Because he had Chloe, and he had Marcus, and he would always have them forever.

He pulled away just as he heard Chloe shout out an over-exaggerated “Ewwwww! Get a room!” From behind them. Stan rolled his eyes and pushed off of his fiancé, who was now practically giggling.

“You better get going if you want to get back before dark. Meet up in, say, three hours?” 

Marcus gave a goofy grin and started on his way back up the trail with a big thumbs up. “Will do! Be back with yummy treats soon!”

“I'll see you in a bit! I love you!”

“Love you more!”

“Are you done eating each other's faces?” Chloe yelled. “Where's he going? What's happening, what are you planning?”

Then Marcus was gone. That small pang in his heart that came around when he couldn't see those who he loved most returned again. He'd gotten used to it, but it never stung any less.

Stan ignored the questioning as he made his way over to his little sister, who was now balancing with her arms out swinging wildly, stepping around and around from rock to rock of the small ‘fire pit’.

“Hey, Chloe?”

Her gaze shot up to his, sea-foam blue eyes peering into turquoise-green. His breath caught in his throat. The words died on his tongue for a moment as he remembered all that he had done for her. To keep her safe. To try and keep her happy. The times he clutched her in his hold, held her hand, shoved her behind him, shielded her from anything that could harm her in favor of harming himself instead.

And he would keep doing that, every single time. But that didn’t mean he would always succeed, and they needed to prepare for that.

It was finally time, huh?

Chloe tilted her head at him. “Uh… Stan? Why are you looking at me like a serial killer?”

Stan startled. “Ah, right! Sorry. I just wanted to ask if you wanted to go train your powers some.”

Chloe’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “Really!?” 

She jumped up as high as she could off the rocks and scrambled over to Stan. “I thought you said I couldn’t learn them because they’re dangerous!”

“I never said that!” Stan protested. “We just haven't had the chance to do it because other people want to hurt us over them. That’s why they’re dangerous. Not the power itself. Well, the power itself also can be dangerous... But you need to know it. To defend yourself. In case.”

“...in case?” Her eyebrows creased slightly.

“Uh… well, yeah, in case–”

“Boring! Let's go! I wanna learn!” Chloe interrupted a bit too quickly, grabbing Stan by the wrist and damn near tripping him flat on his face when she started to drag him toward… she didn’t even know, really. To learning powers!

“Augh! Chloe! Stop, I’m gonna trip and die and it'll be your fault!” Stan’s heart jumped into his throat and he struggled to keep his balance.

“Use your magic to fly or something,” she said giddily, though she did let up slightly on the pulling. “It's like a warm-up so you can teach me better! I bet I'll be even better at it than you!”

“Ha! In your dreams you'll be better than me!”

* * * * * * * *

Chloe was unusually quiet on their trek to find a spot to practice. Stan would say something, and then she'd brighten up for a moment, bantering and hollering as usual. But then her jaw would clench, her brows knit together. Staring into the middle distance as they walked, looking at nothing in particular. Thinking. She even ignored various cool-looking rocks and tree formations, never once trying to climb the haphazard structures.

She might be worse off than he originally thought. 

They came upon a clearing in the brush.  Flat ground, no trees or rocks in the way. 

Perfect.

“Alright, Chloe,” Stan started, startling Chloe out of her walk as he took a ready position, feet apart and grounded for a steady base, cane at the ready. No going back now. “Now I've seen you trying to use your powers without permission before and honestly, you did pretty good.”

“Nuh-uh!” She interrupted obnoxiously. 

“Yuh-huh! I've seen it!” Stan bit back without missing a beat. 

“Nuh-uh!!”

“Yuh-HUH!”

“NUH-UH!” she shouted, and Stan barely managed to block when she jumped up and tried to bap him on the top of the head.

“What are you even ‘nuh uh’-ing here?” Stan cried, accompanied by a small screech as he ducked away.

“I thought you were about to say I shouldn't have done that. But then you said something else,” Chloe shrugged.

“So you doubled down?”

A pause.

“Yesssss...”

Stan rolled his eyes. 

“You really shouldn't have used your powers, to be fair…” he considered, tapping his finger on his cane. “Especially since you know what would happen if the wrong people found out. You remember. The– the uh…”

The running.

The raids.

The people in the armored vests.

The guns.

The murder.

Our magic killing just as easily as it lifts a mug into the air.

My disappearance, the experiments I won’t talk about.

Our parents.

Stan cleared his throat. That was all in the past now. 

Chloe’s eyes were downcast, holding her arms close in a self-hug. 

Yeah. 

She remembered. 

“But uh– But I did the same when I was your age, so I can't judge. You did pretty good from… from what I saw. So I want you to show me what you've got so far.” 

Stan lifted himself off the ground in a light float, the bottom of his good leg and his hands glowing a harsh bright blue as they lifted him away from the earth. “Then I can show you how it's really done.”

Chloe’s eyes raised, a tired smile forcing its way to her lips. “Show off.”

“Well, maybe once you learn, you can also get a big head about it.”

Chloe gave a small huff in acknowledgment, her smile slowly falling from her face as she stared blankly at the ground.

Stan carefully lowered to the ground. This wasn't something they could just ignore and hope would go away, was it? 

He crept up to Chloe, the wind rustling the trees overhead creating an almost deafening cacophony in the silent spell that had befallen them like a thick blanket.

“Chlo?...” 

She wouldn't meet his eyes. 

“Talk to me, Squeaks, you’ve been off all day. What’s wrong?”

She took a sharp breath in, face scrunching up, eyes edged red.

“What do you think?” she whispered, hissed, practically. “I hate our powers. This is stupid, they’re stupid, I wish we never had magic. I don't wanna learn, I wanna– I just wa-anna be normal.”

Ah. Yeah.

Stan knew the feeling all too well.

He tried to find something encouraging to say to help lift her back up to normal, to tell her that everything would be okay and that she was perfect the way she was, powers and all. But he found that he really didn't have any words to say to make this better. Nothing that was true anyway. She wasn't wrong.

“... Chloe,” he finally started. “I need you to learn this for me, kid. I need you to be able to… to-to defend yourself in case… In case I can’t.”

Chloe’s body lurched with a held-back sob. “I don’t want to learn! I hate our magic! It’s not fair! I wish we never had powers, then I could still have a normal family. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about you not being able to protect me! I wouldn’t have to protect myself, I wouldn’t have to be strong, I don’t want to be strong! I wish Mom and Dad were still here! I just want my mo-mommy and daddy-y-y!”

She cried freely now, breathing shallow and fast as she tried to catch her breath over the shuddering and the tears, muscles clenched as she hugged herself in some small attempt at security, face scrunched and small and pained as she finally let out all that she’d been holding in the entire trip. For who even knew how long.

He gazed at her with glassy eyes; his sister weeping before him. She’d been through so much. His wonderful, amazing, annoying sister who he’d been through hell to protect. 

She didn't deserve this.

They both didn't deserve this.

He pursed his lips. Tears burned at his eyes now too, threatening to wet his cheeks just as they were doing to Chloe.

He pulled her in close to his chest, heartbeat thrumming against her as he held her tight. A hug she didn’t reciprocate, didn’t need to.

“I know. Me too,” he whispered.

It was unfair. It was incredibly, heart-wrenchingly unfair. Just knowing everyone and everything they ever loved could be so easily ripped away from their desperate grasp as easily as wind blows leaves across the ground. 

“But…”

Stan had screamed and cried about it for many a night and day, mourning the loss of the person he could have been if anything else was different.

“That’s not the hand we’ve been dealt,” Stan murmured into his sister's nappy hair, clutching her even closer as she trembled. “It's unfair, it's so, so unfair. But that's just…”

Screaming.

Crying.

Begging.

Running.

Wishing for something different.

“That's just how it is.”

And that’s why I need you to learn.

She let out a sob into his shoulder. They sat like that for a long while; Listening to the sounds of nature which never ceased around them. The whistle of the wind through trees, the birds chirping all around them. The continuously quieter weeping as the girl in the center of it all tired herself out.

“Those ho-orrible people, Chloe?” he breathed. “They want to capture you. They want to capture me. They did capture me. Tortured me. It’s a… It’s a miracle I escaped, honestly. They captured Mom, Da-ad. And–... and they would do it to you too, if-if given the chance.”

Teary wetness started to soak through the shoulder of Stan’s shirt.

He squeezed her shoulders, breath shaking. “I need you to… I need to know you can defend yourself, okay? A-and as much of a curse as our powers are, they’re strong. So strong, just like you. You can learn how to use them to defend yourself, right? In case I can’t anymore, in case–”

“DON’T SAY THAT!!” Chloe cried out, angry, desperate azure eyes flashing angrily up at her brother as she pushed away from him. “Say that you’ll always be here for me! Always! You can’t get caught again! I need you! Marcus needs you! You’re gonna stay with me and we’re gonna find Mom and Dad and you’re never going anywhere ever again, and neither am I! And neither is Marcus, or Mom, or Dad, and if anyone tries to hurt them again then I'll kill them and then we can all stay together! An’-- an’ I'll get the guys who tortured you too and I'll make them pay.”

Stan felt a melancholy smile overtake his face through the running tears. Maybe not the exact right motivations, wanting to kill anyone who ever tried to hurt them. 

But it was a start. 

He knew he couldn’t promise that he would always be here to protect her. His parents had promised the same thing. And yet…

“Don't worry, Squeaks, I’m–... I’m not going anywhere. Nev-never plan to,” He sniffled. “Also, uh… maybe don't kill them… that wouldn't make you much uh, much better than them, would it?” He winked. “Maybe just maim them a bit.

Chloe nodded slightly, jaw set as she took a deep, shaking breath and a similar smile Stan's started invading her features as well. “Yeah… Jus’-just broken bones. Thr-throw them into the ceiling like you do a little. Pay them back for your knee...”

Stan snickered. “I would love to pay back the person who crapped up my knee…” and he couldn't help the welling pride in his chest as he raised his gaze to look his sister in the eye once more. It almost caused the tears to start pouring all over again.

“And if you were the one to get them, Squeaks? Maybe you let me get in on the action too? God, I would let you lord that over me forever.”

Chloe burst into a little laugh, still marked with the haunting ghosts of sobs. “I would never let you forget it.”

“So… you're on board then?” he asked tentatively. “Gonna learn your powers and defeat the bad guys for me? Marcus is bringing some treats back to camp for when we’re done too, though you’ll get them either way, we all need a bit of a pick me up.”

“Treats?” She looked up at him like an astounded little puppy dog. Stan couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yeah! So you wanna work the magic a bit? Or you just wanna head back and be lazy?

“I…” She was still shaking. “I… I think… magic. But uh, but… You-you can fight your own bad guys. I’ll be too busy floating around you to help you not get your ass kicked.” 

Her eyes widened slightly when Stan raised his eyebrow at her.

“I mean… Butt.”

Stan scoffed. “Yeah, okay potty mouth–”

“Potty mouth? Are you five years old?”

“Am I five years old? You’re the one who can't say ‘ass’.” 

“That's because you're my brother!”

“Well,” Stan theatrically cracked his knuckles and drew some power up through his cane as he grinned at her smugly. “You know any five-year-olds that can do this?”

He swiped with a grand flourish at the nearest tree across the clearing, a full sweep through air in front of him with all the force he could muster up, bathing the now sunset orange-red ring of trees in a blast of eerie aqua blue. A deafening crackle-pop came from deep within the trunk, as if the wood itself was screaming out in protest, in agony, as cracks started to explode outward, shining through with bright blue light bursts. The side of the tree exploded with a thunderous roaring creak, gnarled and deep and sharp and twisting as it showered bark and wood pulp down on the two siblings as the both screamed in what was terrified joy and dove to duck and cover.

Stan immediately realized his error with a playful screech, jumping in front of Chloe and pulling her in close to shield her from the flying wooden shrapnel machine that the tree had so unwittingly become.

Then once again, the clearing was safe, wooden rain finishing its downpour, a few stray splinters tip tapping into the ground. The only sound to be heard now was the breathless laughter of two siblings as they took in the full breadth of what just happened.

Stan had just exploded a tree.

It looked like a cannonball had been shot through it! But surprisingly, it was still standing. Tilting, sure. But standing.

Stan cleared his throat, blinking against the wood dust. Chloe now stared openmouthed and wide-eyed at the mighty tree, a deep eternal gash scarring to the very heart of the wood.

“I uh–...” Stan coughed with a curt laugh. He had to pant to get enough air into his system “I didn’t expect it to explode that much.”

Chloe’s gaze shifted back to her brother, open mouth and all.

“That. Was. AWESOME!!” She cried, jumping up and down like a child on a trampoline. “I mean, you basically killed that tree… but that was so cool! I didn’t know we could explode things!!”

“Well I mean, I didn’t really explode it, I just kinda hit it hard enough that it exploded. Kinda surprised it's still standing.”

“Show me!” Chloe exclaimed, bouncing over to the tree to examine the damage more closely. “Show me show me show me! Show me how to do that, I wanna hit that hard!”

“Careful, you’ll get splinters!” 

“Shoulda thought of that before you exploded a tree!”

Stan hurried after her as fast as he could go without winding himself even more. He leaned extra hard on his cane as he walked, movements just a bit more sluggish. That had taken so much more energy than he had thought it would, even with the cane helping him along and aiding the power. But hey, at least Chloe was excited again. Happy. For now.

That’s all Stan could ever ask for.

* * * * * * * *

Next (when posted)

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