#Kinda whump story?

[aspergirl2022]

Whump Heartstopper ?

Don’t get it wrong I love Heartstopper and the couple Charlie and Nick form but if I look closer at the story it’s kinda whump, don't you think?

See: Whumpee Charlie was tormented by Whumper Ben and his fake love until protective/gentle/soft Caretaker Nick saved him and him genuine love. Doesn't it sound like a whump story? Or I’m just over-thinking?

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 141.1

prev next

[echoingalaxies]

Magical whumpee using their powers to help their team even though it hurts them >>

Maybe they won't even let the team know, until they can't hide it anymore and pass out.

Or maybe their team consists mostly of assholes who do know but just don't care, perhaps even force them.

[erdarielthewhumper]

Caretaker and whumpee pair where there's no love lost between them, but the caretaker still does what they can to help the whumpee is actually a really Good Trope. Like, maybe the characters are rivals, maybe there's something in their past, maybe they just generally dislike each other as people, but one way or another, they're kind of on bad terms.

But whether out of pragmatic necessity (like it's clear they'll have to work together to escape or else neither will, or because as long as the villains are hurting whumpee they're leaving the caretaker alone, or because the whumpee's continued survival just is in some way vital to the organization they work for, or whatever) or simply out of basic human decency, when the two are stuck together in a bad situation and whumpee's badly hurt, the caretaker does what they can to help

[automeris-io-moth]

More? More please? Pretty please? I'm loving One to go so so much

One to go pt. 3

Part one; Part two

Supervillian held them tight against them, arms gentle, but firm as they kept them pined. Civilian trashed and cursed in their hold, trying to get themselves off the grasp, to keep running and get far, further away from the criminal’s base.

Cold air blew in their face, burning as if the sun was shining, the mountains ominous before them as they laid half in the ground half in the other’s chest, breathing harshly for their lungs ached with the rush and freeze around them.

Tired of their struggles, Civilian ceased after a couple more pulls, and a last, lazy, try to dislodge themselves from the other’s grasp. They looked up, half seeing the starry sky above them, greatly clearer, to their short-lived amazement, than the one in the city; and half Supervillian’s face, sharp eyes looking right back at them, a smile, not quite mocking yet very much entertained, shining right under. 

Unbothered, seemingly, was the other for the chase, no catching their breath, no sweat, no scrapes and no worry in their eyes, they had been certain the whole time, of the outcome, and Civilian felt like a fool thinking, without skill or knowledge of where they were, that they could outrun Supervillian, much less outsmart them, not in strategy to the one who had made professional Hero’s look like idiots in national television not even a month prior. 

How very stupid of them. 

Civilian hit the criminal leg three times, as a surrender, or so they expected them to understand, and tried, with an elbow on the rocky ground, to stand or at least sit straighter, attempts cut short once more by an arm tightening around their middle, aiding them a little further up yet still close against their chest. 

“Catch your breath first, there’s no need to rush,” Supervillian said over exaggerating their own breathing so the other could follow, and, after a moment, Civilian did, sinking in tiredness over the criminal “It was respectable attempt, you actually did almost tricked me into believing you were not preceding until tomorrow.” 

“It was stupid, I made a fool of myself!” they yelled “there was no way, I had no chance, I couldn’t have gotten away.” 

“Of course you couldn't have, of course,” Supervillian affirmed nonchalantly “but I must acknowledge a proper try when made, little I’ve seen of that lately, to be truthful, as my people I must highlight your triumphs.” 

“I’m not your people,” Civilian answered, face burning, for the coldness or the praise, they couldn’t yet tell, they weren’t used to being praised. 

“Yet.” 

***

The water was warm in the shower of the room, bathroom spacious, more lavish that what they had ever seen outside of Hero’s compound, certainly not thought for a prisoner, yet they were not stupid, Supervillian wanted them to lure them into their side. They had to wait just a bit more, Civilian was certain, their friend was coming to get them back. 

Supervillian left them a change of clothing on the sink, grateful they were that it had no logos or colours like the ones the employees wore outside the small apartment-like room they were being held in. 

Steam left the room with them, entering the main room, with the bed they had woken up in, and the blinking lights they’d failed to notice before, scattered around the room. 

A warm meal awaited them over the desk. 

Just trying to get in your good graces, they want you to work with them. 

Civilian drowsily laid in bed shortly after dinner, warm, clean and well-eaten. Academic life, heroic friendships and bills to pay allowed such luxuries in very scarce occasions, and if they could indulge in such for just a bit, perhaps taking the chance wouldn’t be so bad. 

The bed was soft, and big and…

Warm. 

It was very warm, not comfortably anymore.

It was too warm.

Was the fire on? 

Their eyes kept being closed, they couldn’t quite open them. 

The food was drugged again, the chimney was lit. 

What a stupid thing to think, they were trying to get in their good side, Supervillian wouldn’t, it made no sense. 

But then why were they short of breath, why was it so difficult to open their eyes and why were they so hot inside the room. 

Civilian cleared their throat a couple times, half their face pressed against the pillow, light on and over the covers.

“Supervillian,” they called barely above a whisper “Supervillain!” then screamed. 

 And after what felt like hours, the door opened. 

Someone said something, and the mattress dipped beside them. 

They could distinguish little of what the other person in the room said, but they could feel their hands gently handling them up. 

“Supervillian,” they called again. 

“Civilian, it’s me, I’m here,” the other voice in the room called, holding with callous hands their face with care “open your eyes, open them please, you’re panicking.” 

“Turn off the fire, please, turn it off,” Civilian muttered, breath quick and short, words scrambling without sense or structure “I won’t try it again, just turn it off.” 

“There’s no fire here,” they answered, slowly, understanding “but I can open the window if that would ease your worries.” 

A nod, multiple, harsh, bordering erratic. 

Supervillian didn't move, but the window did open, they could feel it in the cold air of the night. 

“If you let go for a little bit I can get us more comfortable.” 

Oh.

Civilian let go of the criminal, shaking still. 

Supervillian did as they told, laying across the bed with the other on top, this time, getting themselves comfortable close by, with their knuckles still turning white with their grip, and their head still spinning, yet, seemingly, more responsive than minutes prior. 

They drew circles on the other’s  back, slowly, aiming to ground them, to calm them just a bit before asking, even if the reason was clear and before them, even when they wished not to acknowledge it. 

Minutes ticked on the clock, and Civilian became heavier on them with every passing one. 

A light snore broke the silence. 

Or maybe, they could ask in the morning, Supervillian chuckled. 

The criminal slid their unwilling guest to the bed, brushing their hair away from their face and covering them up with the thick duvet, leaving the window open but closing the door behind them. 

Back in their office they fixed the camera’s of the room at the very front of the screen, for if anything else was needed through the night, they’d have loved to stay, but the heroes had already put an alert on Civilian, a hostage situation, for the moment, and they had still quite some things to do.

Part 4

_

Masterlist

:))))))

<3

[we-were-so-beautiful]

4. shower

wow look it's another chapter!!! like... not that long after the last one, even! honestly I had the first 3 sections of this basically entirely written not long after finishing the last one, but eventually I decided I should probably do literally anything else for a while (hyperfocus is a real dick lol), and so I'm just now getting back to it. I thought this was gonna be on the shorter side, but it's about the same as the last one, around 1.3k! there's a pretty important reveal in this one...

Content warnings for this chapter: box boy universe, pet whump, dehumanization, conditioning, infected wounds, (severe) illness. As always, please let me know if there's anything else I need to tag.

[masterlist] [chapter three]

Vanessa’s never been particularly sensitive to scents—it’s a saving grace, in a mind where too much light or sound or texture can make her feel like she’s dying. But by the time the guy lying shaking on the seats behind her practically falls out of the taxi in front of her stoop, even she’s having a hard time with the smell coming off of him. Given how the driver peels away with all his windows down the second she pulls the last scrap of soiled newspaper from his backseat, it probably isn’t just her.

She turns back to the guy, for the first time finally alone with him. She’s too short to be used to talking down to people, but he’s hunched himself into that weird curled-up position again, so when she speaks it's aimed vaguely toward the top of his head. “Okay. First things first, we’re getting your ass in the shower,” she tells him. “And then we can deal with the effects of my questionable life decisions.” She pauses for a moment, considers. “Well. This one, anyway.”

There’s no way she’s getting him in through the front like this. Too many stairs, and too much dirt. The garden door will have to cut it. She motions for him to follow her down the alley, and he unfurls himself just enough to shuffle after her.

As soon as the shadows close in around them, she looks back over her shoulder. When she’s satisfied that no one can see them, she unclasps the collar from around his neck and tosses it, leash and all, into the garbage.

—

Vanessa can’t say she’s ever been grateful for the fact that her parents are insane enough to have a swimming pool in the basement of their New York fucking brownstone. Quite frankly, she still isn’t; they got the fucker installed when she was a kid and she screamed for so many days they finally packed her off to a hotel with her nanny of the week just to shut her up. Which they probably should have done in the first place, given that she was nine and there was a jackhammer in her fucking basement.

What she is grateful for now, though, is that the part of this floor that isn’t taken up by the pool—or the hot tub, or the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub—is a shower stall the size of her literal bedroom. Complete with benches, and removable showerheads, and, she’s hoping, everything else she could possibly need right now.

“In here,” she motions, and he drags himself onto the tiles. “I’d offer you the weirdly redundant multi-person bathtub, but you’ve barely been able to keep your head up all day and the last thing I need is to fucking drown a guy in my basement. Also no offense but you’re literally so dirty right now I’d have to drain the fucker the second you got in. After this you can have a bath whenever you want, if you’re into that sorta thing, but for right now you’re getting a damn rinse.”

—

Once he’s more or less situated on the built-in shower bench, propped up in the corner in hopes it’ll keep him from falling ass over, Vanessa gets to work, still fully clothed down to her chucks on the marble tile. She unhooks a showerhead and aims it at the drain while it warms up. “Is this okay?” she asks, pointing it at his feet, and he flinches sluggishly but doesn’t respond either way.

“I don’t know what that means, guy.” She tests the water again with her hand. “It can’t be that bad, can it?” she muses out loud. “It’s the same temperature I’d use for me, and fuck knows I’m… y’know, picky. So if you want it different you gotta tell me, okay.”

He doesn’t tell her shit. But he doesn’t flinch too much harder when she moves the stream of water up toward his knees, either, and she figures that’s the best she’s gonna get.

She leans over him and focuses the showerhead on his hair. It’s matted stiff as tree bark, the water barely able to permeate through the layers of filth. “Shit, I dunno man, your hair’s got so much crap in it. Not to mention it wouldn’t surprise me if that shelter gave you goddamn lice.” She shudders. “Might be better off just cutting it short.”

There’s a noise she barely registers as a gasp before his ice-pale eyes fly open and he clutches her arm, quicker than she’s seen him move by fucking light years. She jerks automatically out of his grip, dropping the showerhead in her alarm, but he fixes her with a lidless, panicky stare and the eye contact is so startling she’s frozen to the spot. “Please…” he wheezes, “don’t.”

“You fuckin’ what, dude?”

“Don’t… cut… my hair.”

She blinks, astonished. “That’s the first thing you’ve said all fucking day, isn’t it?” He doesn’t offer another. “Christ. Typical fuckin’ me not to notice.” She huffs quietly. “Well shit, dude, I guess if you give enough of a fuck to speak up about it it can stay. But so help me if I find a single fucking nit in there.”

He whimpers quietly, squeezing his eyes shut, but he doesn’t say another word.

—

Vanessa gingerly retrieves the showerhead from where it’s spattering up at the ceiling, along with an oversized lace bath pouf and a mostly-full bottle of body wash she’s pretty sure is fucking designer. If you could see me now, Mom, she thinks, squirting the gel at his left shoulder, the one closest to her. You… well, you probably still wouldn’t give a shit. 

She touches the pouf to his sullied skin as gently as she can, and she knows she’s not well-coordinated at the best of times but she really doesn’t feel like she deserves the choked-off sound he makes or the way he shrinks away from her when she makes contact. “Oh cmon, guy, look I know but you gotta let me get this shit off you, there’s no way it’s not fucking your shit up worse than it already is,” she cajoles, and whatever she’s said it makes something in his posture go slack and he rolls back toward her, opening himself to her touch. “Thanks, uh, I think,” she hedges, and begins to lather him up with slow, concentrative strokes. She flicks the shower back on, sluicing suds and dirt from his skin in equal measure.

"Ohhh, fucking yiiiiikes," Vanessa says softly.

With the first layer of filth washed away, Vanessa can see the far grimmer reality that’s been hidden underneath. Rows of jagged, infected gashes streak their way across his shoulder to his chest. The skin around them burns an angry red, the wounds themselves all but smothered in sickly whitish-yellow. What narrow swathes of skin remain intact are mottled purple, and now that she’s touching him, she can tell he’s just… way too much hotter than any person should ever be.

She lowers the temperature of the water and keeps washing him, afraid to look but needing to see. Each stroke only reveals more of the same. His chest and left shoulder seem to have gotten most of the worst of it, but there are stripes across his arm, his back, his stomach, deep gouges in his legs. She hasn’t tried to touch his face yet, but now that she knows what to look for she thinks she can even see a scratch or several across his cheek, trailing up into his hairline. Jesus fuck.

It all makes a sinister sort of sense now, she thinks: the shallow breathing, the shivers, the near-total lack of response. And here she thought he just had regular rescuee trauma.

“Fuck,” she breathes out quietly, as the realization creeps over her like ice.

There’s something really, really wrong with this guy.

-

taglist: @maracujatangerine @pigeonwhumps @tragedyinblue @marchtothefuckingsea @octopus-reactivated @briars7

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

whumptober 2023 - day 13 ↳ decoy (alt prompt)

The Continental 1x01

[whumpacabra]

Two Truths and a Lie

I was tagged by @i-can-even-burn-salad! Thanks :D

No pressure tags: @i-eat-worlds, @whumpy-bi @ash-and-bone-whump, @ anyone else who wants to participate!

Rules: set a 24 hour poll for two truths and one lie about an OC.

I’ll be using Harrison from my Freelancers series, specifically The Wolf and the Hare AU.

[whump-n-comfort]

when you read a fic that gives you a hyper-specific whump scenario that you know would either A.) take forever to find in another story or B.) hasn't been written at all so the obvious conclusion is that you have to write it yourself

[whumpinthepot]

@figuwhump 6, 7, 8 and 10!!

None of those imps are Clarence btw

[ghouljams]

Whatever you have for fae soap is making me nervous but I’m so excited

Bro you're nervous, I'm nervous, we're all nervous

[lovelywhumpwriting]

A sick!whump twoshot (ft. my OCs) Enjoy!!

Part 1: Misery.

Liam coughed and shook. The cold of the apartment and the heat from the fever felt worse than any flashback. From outside the room, he could hear Fray and Cassian talking, probably about the Demon Emperor and how to stop him.

But their voices were but a muffled noise. He desperately didn’t want to bother them, but everything ached. His head spun and his gem eye was particularly painful today. He could hear through his haze of anguish Lernon’s evil chuckle.

“Well, my dear Liam, you certainly look unpleasant,” the spirit mocked. Liam wanted to strangle him.

“Fuck…off,” he mumbled, trying to turn over on his aching bones and muscles.

His thin body trembled. God, when was the last time he ate? It had to be at least a week because he couldn’t hold anything in his stomach. He wanted…

As pathetic as it was gonna sound, he wanted Cassian. He wanted him to hold him, take the pain away, take Lernon’s voice away. Liam allowed a few tears to roll down his face, drying slightly on his face as his body burned with fever.

Cassian…Cassian…Cassian…

Liam still wondered why the other boy was the only person he could remember from his former life. Why he was he so important to him? Why did he only remember the good times? Why, why, why. There were so many questions he thought he’d never get the answer to.

Suddenly, Liam felt bile rising in his throat, and he tried to get up, but dizziness hit him full force. He stumbled, falling to his knees and vomited onto the floor, body shaking. Tears slipped down his cheeks, and he eventually collapsed on the floor, full on sobbing beginning.

Liam covered his mouth to stop Fray or Cassian from hearing him, his throat burning from the pure pain that enveloped it with each heaving sob. It felt like utter hell to him. Completely and utter hell.

His consciousness began to fade in and out as he laid on the floor, Lernon’s taunting tone still going at him. Liam curled into a ball, sobbing and coughing. He hated this. He hated Lernon. He hated the Demon Emperor.

He hated himself.

Cassian…Cassian…Cassian…

Cassian…

Liam wasn’t aware that he’d said the last one out loud, that his voice had been a begging tone, one pleading for the other boy. He just had his eyes shut, hands over his ears as he tried to stay consciousness and block out Lernon’s voice.

_

PT 2 TMRW??? HELL YEAH!!! WHUMPTOBER IS HERE AND I AM HERE FOR IT!!! 31 DAYS OF WHUMP THAT GETS PROGRESSIVELY WORSE!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!

SEE YA LOVELIES!!

Also an important note for future reference: Liam and Cassian are both 19. The reason they are referred to as boys is because they are technically still teenagers.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Wesgoesbrr: The Game

previous //// next

(image and poll under the cut for gore)

You decide to start with a classic: exposing the ribcage. You don a fresh pair of gloves and select the scalpel you'll use; once you hit record, you'll be broadcasting across all the comm channels the Riot Kings are suspected of using. A live feed can be a little dangerous, but you work fast. You'll be finished and gone long before a rescue mission is launched.

Once you're prepped, you start the feed and stroll over to your prisoner. He's not cursing you anymore, instead seeming to have focused his entire being on not breaking down right then and there. A tiny whimper escapes him as you place your blade parallel with his sternum and begin to apply pressure.

Any resolve your prisoner had to play stoic and silent for the camera is out the window the moment you make the first cut; strangled screams turning into open-mouthed howls as your scalpel slices through flesh again and again, until you can finally peel back skin and muscle and stare at bone.

You dispose of your now-bloodied gloves and grab the camera, making sure it gets a long look at the bloodied ribs and the panicked, pain-stricken face of their owner.

(tag list:

@whumpsday , @turn-the-tables-on-them , @onlywhump , @whumpyauthortm , @whump-in-the-closet , @kira-the-whump-enthusiast , @whumpterful-beeeeee , @apokolyps , @whumpedydump , @isntthisblank , @sodacreampuff , @what-if-i-just-did , @whimpity-whumpity , @ladyjaye13 , @shywhumpauthor , @grizzlie70 , @whumpinthepot , @aarika-merrill , @randomlifeunit , @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are )

[whumperofworlds]

Whumpee is bleeding in the car. As Caretaker arrived at the hospital, they realized how much blood there was.

Their response?

"Dude, I just cleaned the car."

They never saw that punch coming. Now the doctors have two patients.

[whumpflash]

Never: X Marks the Spot

cw: torture, graphic descriptions, talk of death

previous part

James was bound again, arms and legs wrapped in thick vines, curled up in the middle of Peter's camp. Not tied to anything, not yet. He didn't need to be. Peter had too many eyes on him to have to worry about that.

The camp was in a mossy clearing, the trees that stood around the open area taller than any he'd ever seen, vines decorating their many branches like lace. And in the center of it all, there was a little pool. Its water was clear, swirling like a lazy river, as if being filled by something unseen, though it didn't spill over.

Peter's fountain.

A reminder of the undeath he'd witnessed on the Merry. A reminder of the impossible situation he was now trapped in.

His tormenter hadn't made a move yet, hadn't held the knife to his flesh, hadn't even touched him after the initial flight here.

Peter liked him weak, he'd figured that out by now. Give it a few days with no food, let the feeling of dread build with each passing minute. Wait until he was desperate, hungry, nearly mad with fear. Then he'd act.

When one of the sailors—a man known only as Green—brought him water on the first night, James tried to refuse it. He was past caring about survival now, all he wanted to do was escape, even if the only escape was dying of thirst. But he couldn't quite fight away when they forced his head back, pried his jaw open, poured it in.

With that option taken from him, he started taunting the other sailors, calling them turncoats, cowards, anything that might goad one of them into an attack. It wasn't long before someone tore off his sleeve and gagged him with it.

For days, all he could do was lay miserable on the ground and watch the goings-on of Peter's camp, the strength he'd worked so hard to recover sapping away slowly.

There only ever seemed to be a few men around at any given time, the others coming and going constantly. Peter himself was hardly seen at all.

With nothing else to do, James spent a lot of time thinking. He hoped against hope that Jeddy and the two others were still alive, unharmed. Maybe even sailing away, back to familiarity. Manning a ship such as the Merry would be a challenge with only three, but he was sure they could manage it.

He'd made peace with his own death by now. It was either that or sink into despair completely. After all, what could he do? Even if he were to escape now, Peter couldn't die anymore. He could never rest. All he had left was the hope that it would be something swift in the end, though he knew that was too much to ask of Peter.

But at least it would end.

As the hours passed, he found himself daydreaming of ways to kill his captor. Cut off his head, stab through the heart, cleave him in two. As morbid as it was, it did something to curb the fear that ate at him every waking moment.

If he were to cut Peter apart and scatter the pieces, could he still reform? James wished he could find out, but it was too late now.

He hoped Jeddy and Fiver and Scrap were safe, a small crew, but a crew nonetheless.

He hoped Peter never left the island to inflict his games on anyone else.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eventually, the time came. The camp was nearly empty, with everyone off exploring, or gathering food, or whatever it was they did during the day. Everyone except Peter.

He had an easy time tying James down—the latter hardly had the strength to move, let alone fight—and the new position left him almost completely immobilized. James willed himself to breathe steady.

This was inevitable. It would end, it was only a matter of when. It would hurt, but it would end. Still, he couldn't calm his racing heart, couldn't quell the rising fear.

Let it happen, he told himself. Scream and weep if you must. It will end.

Peter reached up to untie the gag, the fabric dry in James' mouth, pulling at his tongue.

He couldn't hold back a whimper as Peter unsheathed the little knife.

Inevitable.

He tried to imagine breaking free, sinking the blade into its master's throat, but all he could picture was the way the flesh would bind itself back together, the way Peter would smile. He clenched his jaw as the other man sliced his shirt open, tracing the scars on his chest with the blade that had formed them.

"You thought it was all just a myth," he murmured. "But look where we are now. Did you ever dream it could be real?"

James didn't dignify that with an answer, but Peter didn't seem to care. 

"X marks the spot," he said, knifepoint resting over James' heart. "Do you wish you could've joined me? I suppose it was never really a choice, but do you wish it were different?"

Did he? If Peter had entered the brig all those weeks ago with a proposition instead of a knife, would he have listened?

To chase a fantasy and live forever aside a traitor didn't sound like him, and even the fear of what was to come wouldn't change that.

"No," he said, and winced as Peter applied just a bit of pressure to the knife, just enough to break skin.

"Even if I offered it now?" he asked.

Only for the chance to rip out Peter's throat.

"Never," James spat. "I'd never follow someone so…" Cruel. "Dull," he finished, and the word had the intended effect of Peter.

"Dull?" An incredulous expression quickly took the place of Peter's smile. "Dull?"

So it was possible to get the upper hand while bound after all.

"You won't even finish our game," James continued. "And I hate to admit it, but I find myself getting rather bored—" Peter's hand closed around his throat, cutting off his words and his air.

"I'll finish our game when I want to finish our game," he said, leaning in close. James' head spun with the pressure, his mouth open, fruitlessly trying to draw in a breath. The terror at not being able to do so was instinctive, but with it came a sort of relief. Would this be it?

No. Peter released him just as his vision began to darken, and he lay there gasping.

"You want me to finish it?" Peter was saying, his words dulled by the pounding in James' skull. "Fine." The little knife was in his hand. "But first, I have one more question." He seized James' chin, forced him to look him in the eye.

James resolved not to plead for any mercies, though he knew he was lying to himself. Only terrible things were to come when Peter was smiling like that.

"Can I cut out your heart?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

James didn't delude himself with the hope it would be anything but slow.

Sharp lines were drawn into his chest one-by-one, scarlet ribbons etched over each rib, the scarred map recarved in red.

He had hoped that at least the shock of the wounds would put him under, but he knew Peter was determined to make it last as long as he could.

A scream was dragged from James as the other man began to peel away the strips of skin, one at a time, like picking the petals off some grotesque flower. And when that was done, when the pain from the individual wounds had blurred into a continuous fire, the knifepoint dug into a rib, sending waves of agony through him as Peter began to saw through the bone.

James writhed against his bonds, his body shaking uncontrollably as he screamed and screamed and screamed.

To hell with trying to beg, he couldn't even think, much less form words. He could no longer feel his limbs, couldn't see, couldn't hear— There was nothing left but the torturous white heat of the knife, steadily burrowing deeper and deeper into his chest.

But then…

But then it stopped.

Did it?

Or was he just too far gone to tell what was happening?

He couldn't even tell if he was still screaming or not.

Maybe this was it.

Maybe it was finally over.

He hoped to God it was finally over.

Dying as nothing more than a sick source of amusement wasn't the kind of end he'd wanted, not in a million years, but it was an end, and it was better than suffering under Peter any longer.

He only wished he could've dragged the son of a bitch down with him.

He was vaguely aware of a voice, of someone kneeling at his side… Jeddy.

Was he dead then? Were they both dead? 

The despair that washed over him was almost enough to rival the pain, the agony that grew with every ragged breath.

He'd hoped it had at least been for something. That she'd be okay, back on the Merry where she belonged.

"James," she said, from somewhere far away.

"I'm sorry," he tried to reply, but his voice wasn't working. What good was it to be dead if everything still hurt so much?

Something bitterly cold splashed across his exposed ribcage, and he was almost certain he screamed again at the contact.

 "James," Jeddy said again, and her voice was clearer this time. "James, please…"

"We need to go." Another voice, somewhere further back, low and urgent. "He won't stay dead forever."

Stay dead?

Jeddy's face was coming more into focus, and behind her, near the edge of the clearing, stood Scrap and Fiver. And behind them…

"What..?" he croaked out, found he could breathe again, that the pain was steadily ebbing away. He knew what he would see before he looked down. The fibers of bone reforming, the ruined flesh repairing itself, everything settling back into place on his bloodied chest.

Jeddy cut him free, then tucked an arm under his back, easing him up. Even the dizziness and hunger pangs were fading. He stood with Jeddy's help, looking toward the others.

Peter lay on the ground by the treeline, body spasming, hands uselessly clawing at the wooden spear that went right through his throat and into the earth, pinning him there.

"Can you walk?"

He tore his gaze away from his downed enemy. "I… I think…" his fingers grazed his stomach, the scars there still present, but fully healed. "What did you do?"

Jeddy's eyes went to the ground. "I–I took some water from the fountain. I tried askin', but you were too bad off to answer. I didn't know what else to do, I—" she looked up at him. "I'm sorry–"

"No. No, I'm not angry," James said quickly. "I just…" he swallowed. "You came after me. I didn't think…"

"You're the captain," she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Can't sail off without the captain."

"Jeddy…" He wasn't sure which of them it was that initiated the embrace, but suddenly their arms were around each other, holding on like it was the only thing anchoring them to the earth.

"Y'promised you'd come back aboard and I'll hold you to it," she said, voice muffled by his shoulder.

"That I did," he replied, unable to keep the waver out of his voice. "But I couldn't have kept that promise without the best first mate I could ask for."

It felt as if a great deal of strength had been returned to him as they pulled back from each other and made for the treeline. He couldn't tell if it was an effect of the healing water, or if it was something more.

"We'd best hurry," Fiver said, taking the lead. "Peter's boys could be back at any minute."

"Onwards then," James replied. "The Merry's waiting for us."

Tag list: (<3)

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next part

@hold-back-on-the-comfort , @i-can-even-burn-salad , @whumpsday , @starlit-hopes-and-dreams , @rabbitdrabbles , @cyberneticwhump , @dream-whump , @whumpyzombie , @kixngiggles , @suspicious-whumping-egg , @chibichibivale , @itsdappleagain , @lelly-belly , @whumpy-catfish , @enteredin2eternity ,

[whump-captain]

- Day 21 -

Prompt: “Please”

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@crash-bump-bring-the-whump​ i believe u said u wanted to see Ethan begging? here he is begging (◡‿◡)

this is probably longer than it needs to be but i had lots of fun writing the dialogue for once lol

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CN: restraints, broken bone (pre-established), interrogation, strangling, torture, cutting, scalpels, hair grabbing, tape gag, bag over head

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Ethan gasped when the bag was ripped off of his head. The light, though dim, was enough to make him wince after what felt like hours in the dark. He blinked quickly, trying to force the world back into focus.

The first thing he felt clearly was a grip of rope around his arms. His stomach sank. He lurched forward and the chair scraped on the bare floor. Pain shot through his arm, dispelling the haze completely. On instinct, he raised his right hand to shield himself and froze in surprise when he succeeded.

He was only tied to the back of the chair, not the armrests. The rope went around one of his biceps, then behind his back, and then around the other. It wrenched his shoulders back uncomfortably but still, a wave of nauseating relief washed over him. They didn’t tie down his broken arm.

A shadow fell on him and drew his gaze up. Ethan shuddered when Linde gave him a tight-lipped, professional smile.

“Good morning, Ethan,” Linde said. His voice was smooth and amiable but in his eyes was a glint of something cold and dangerous, like frostbite creeping through dying tissue. Circling the chair, he nodded his head towards Ethan’s arm. “I’ve done you a favour, as you can see. I’m hoping we can have a constructive conversation.”

Anger lit up in Ethan’s chest and made his face flush. How dare this man say that to him? After barely letting him speak the last time, after causing him so much pain?

“Me, too,” he hissed.

“Constructive and honest,” Linde added. “Lying only wastes both of our time.”

“Yeah.” Ethan’s voice shook like the rest of him. But behind the cracked lenses of his glasses, his gaze was hard. “But you’re the one who’s lying.”

Linde stopped his pacing. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t really believe I’m a spy. If you did, you’d turn me over to someone, or you’d- you’d kill me.” Ethan barely managed to get those words out. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Linde regarded him, his face unreadable. Ethan fought to keep his breathing even, hating how clear it was that he was afraid. He set his jaw tight and met the other man’s eye defiantly.

Finally, Linde turned. He tapped his fingers together behind his back, falling back into his slow prowl. 

“You’re perceptive,” he said. His small smile almost looked satisfied. “No, I don’t believe you’re a threat. If I did, you’re right, I would eliminate you.” He took a step forward and Ethan flinched. “But I see through you. You think that you’re above the consequences of what you do. You’re arrogant.”

“What?”

“You really thought you could infiltrate one of the most secure places in North America. You thought you could just… Walk in. And lie your way out of it.” Linde sounded almost offended. He lifted his chin slightly. “It’s about the principle of things. If I allowed something this brazen to go unaddressed, what kind of officer would that make me? Hm? If I didn’t find out the truth before turning you in?”

He leaned in close and all air seemed to leave the room. His shadow on Ethan’s face blacked out reality and pulled Ethan back through time, into the memory of agony.

“You’re wrong,” he managed through gritted teeth. “I didn’t infiltrate anything, you brought me here!” His voice rose and then cracked as his throat constricted. “You’re the one who’s arrogant because you refuse to listen to anything I say! I told you the truth, you’re just too stubborn to realise it.”

“Brazen,” Linde repeated. He seemed to savour the word. “I told you, I can see right through you. No matter how well you lie.”

He drifted to the other side of the room, where shadows outlined the shape of a table. Even though the distance between them grew, Ethan’s heart beat even faster now.

“Why do you need me to say anything, then?” he asked. He dug his fingers into the armrest to hide their trembling. “You made up your mind, you’re happy with your story, just turn me in, then. Let me talk to someone above you.”

“Like I said.” Linde ran his hand along the table’s surface and something clinked. “Principle. I don’t just want the truth. I want it from you.” 

The sudden force of his stare made Ethan recoil. Something cold crystallised in the air between them. He recognized the cold in Linde’s eyes and it made a hollow pit open in his stomach.

“Let’s start simple,” the captain said, taking a leisurely step forward. His hands were behind his back again. “How did you get to this island, Ethan?”

“On a boat.” Even the short sentence made Ethan’s breath come heavy. “It’s on the eastern shore, you can check.”

“Good. Now, how did you know where to find this island?”

“I- I followed a radar.” No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep his breathing even. “There was an anomaly registered by a weather station on the mainland and- I followed that. It didn’t lead to the island but the- the area around it. I- I didn’t know it was here. I almost crashed.”

Linde lowered his head and gave a quiet sigh. ”Weather station,” he repeated, almost amused.

“Yes! You can call them, they’ll tell you what time I left, which boat I took out, it’s all on the record.”

“You’re very thorough.”

“And you’re not!” The chair scraped forward with the force of Ethan’s shout. “Because you refuse to do the bare minimum to verify your claims and find-”

Linde seized his throat. The impact strangled Ethan’s words and pushed his head backwards.

“I was honest with you,” Linde said quietly. “Civil. And in return, you don’t just lie to me, you start insulting me.” His grip tightened. “I thought you were a smart man, Ethan, don’t make me change my mind.” 

Ethan couldn’t struggle. The rope held him fast, Linde’s fingers dug into his skin. With every torturous second, his lungs compressed, fighting, until it felt like they were on fire. His mouth moved soundlessly around smothered cries. Burning white danced in his vision, blurring everything into a cacophony of melting colours. A horrible buzz filled his ears - his own rushing blood. He barely heard Linde’s words:

“Let’s move on.”

Ethan strained pointlessly, he couldn’t reach the hand choking him. His fingers clawed at the air. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t run, he couldn’t breathe. 

Linde spoke loud and his voice ripped through the static in Ethan’s head: “You think I’m wasting time, let’s cut straight to the chase. Who sent you here? And choose your answer very carefully because, believe me.” He leaned in closer and squeezed Ethan’s throat, fingers like iron bars. “My patience is running thin.”

Then he released him. Ethan choked on a gasp and immediately convulsed in a coughing fit. Air forced itself back into his body and every breath made his chest feel like it would burst. He couldn’t stop his voice escaping, he wheezed and groaned with every involuntary, fitful exhale. Linde stood motionless, watching him. Waiting. 

“I wasn’t- sent here,” Ethan choked out finally. His throat burned, the pain of the forming bruises enclosed his windpipe and made every word hurt. “I’m not here for- whatever this place is. It’s the truth.” It wasn’t a shout anymore, but a plea. He fought for breath, fought to stay afloat in his own battered body. 

Footsteps made him look up. Linde’s silhouette doubled and swayed before him, turning back towards the table. When he came into focus, he was holding a scalpel.

 “Wait.” Ethan’s voice cracked. “You- you don’t have to-” he stammered. “Please, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Linde grabbed a fistful of his hair and wrenched his head sideways. “I thought it was simple.” He brought the scalpel close to Ethan’s neck. “I want you to tell me who sent you.”

“I was- I’m- I-” The metal reflected in Ethan’s wide eyes. He was shaking so much his glasses slipped down his nose. “The- Th- The CIA! Fine? The CIA sent me, you don’t have to- Please, don’t do this, I’m-”

“Now you’re just making things up,” Linde said.

He sliced down, across Ethan’s clavicle. The blade parted fabric, skin, and muscle like paper. Ethan screamed, his body twisting with tension. Linde pulled his head back by the hair and cut open his shirt, exposing the deep wound. 

“That’s the first,” he said. He sank the scalpel into Ethan’s shoulder and dragged it slowly down. Metal scraped against bone. Pain burned through Ethan’s mind, forced a ragged, stuttering howl out of him. His breathless groans almost drowned out Linde’s ice cold voice when he finished:

“And that’s the second lie you’ve told me.” He tilted the scalpel and more blood poured out of the widened cut. “Are you still with me?” He brought his face close to Ethan’s. “Is this a waste of time?”

“Stop,” Ethan gasped. “Please. This is all- a mistake.” His breath hitched, words fragmented into high-pitched, desperate noises of pain. Linde’s eyes shone like a snowstorm.

“I’m losing my patience.”

The next cut was diagonal, crossing over the already damaged skin. Ethan’s scream rose and then faltered, he convulsed in the restraints. The blade tilted again and ran slowly just under the skin, slicing it away from muscle - one side, then the next. Lines of living fire spilled through Ethan’s body, one after the other, emerging with each new stream of thick blood pouring out. He could only sob now, his throat raw and lungs empty. He had no time to breathe between the cuts.

“Tell me.” Linde’s voice was no more than a hiss. “Anything.”

Ethan could barely see. The pain blurred everything into a red haze.

“Please,” he whispered.

The grip on his hair tightened. The added tension made him groan as the scored skin shifted. Then it disappeared and his head lolled forward. The room spun. Footsteps mixed with the pounding of Ethan’s heart in his ears.

Something made a loud scraping noise and then Linde said: “I’ll let you think about it.”

He pressed a strip of tape over Ethan’s mouth. Ethan wheezed desperately, his breath hitching against the barrier. Another cry died in his throat and only made it out as a muffled whimper. 

Then Linde put the bag over his head again. He said: “This can come off when you’re ready for a constructive conversation.”

When the next incision came, Ethan couldn’t even brace for it.