#am i turning this whump into not whump whoops

[ferretrade]

it's a WIP Wednesday!

@smoosey kindly tagged me for a wip Wednesday and here I am a week later with a snippet from a whumptober prompt >:) (some calm before the whump)

"Darling, there's no need to impress me."

Cody huffs a laugh as he slices through an attack droid with Obi-Wan's lightsaber. He twirls it and disengages it before tossing the hilt to its owner. Obi-Wan lights it and demolishes another droid while Cody pulls out his blaster to shoot the last one circling them. (Force or no, he prefers the precision and distance you can get with a nice blaster.) 

"You dropped it, figured someone should get some use out of it," Cody snarks right back. The last attacker falls and the forest goes silent around them. 

Obi-Wan approaches him as he clips his lightsaber to his belt. "I didn't drop it," he insists haughtily. There's a streak of grease on his cheek and his hair's askew. "I left it for you."

"Whatever you have to tell yourself," Cody teases. His blaster goes back to his hip and he wipes the sweat from his forehead. It's still strange, not wearing his old bucket and kit, but a good strange. He's not a soldier anymore. 

"Perhaps if you got your own, I wouldn't have to share so often," Obi-Wan needles familiarly. He multitasks as he does, pulling up a map on his comm to scan for additional droids or life forms.

They hadn't expected much when they landed on this planet, if only because they'd gone through four others with no fuss. The Jedi Order had been sending them out to locate potential Sith strongholds, merely guessing at possibilities based on rumors and known temple ruins. It seems this time they've hit the jackpot—if there were droids, they were guarding something. 

"I'm not a Jedi." Cody's response is just as well worn and flippant. "I don't need a lightsaber."

[katyawriteswhump]

the power of love, part 14

Sorry about Sunday's empty post ☹️ I must've accidentally put a draft template in my queue because I am basically tired and rubbish and life isn’t the greatest right now. Anyhow.... Whoops and really sorry again!

Alternate ending S4: Steve has a habit of surviving near death experiences then getting sick for no reason. And Eddie and those fatal bat bites? After an impossible feat of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Steve, he’s mysteriously fixed. So, Eddie’s back to being banished, this time with Steve and Robin in tow. Eddie’s healing, but Steve isn’t… and life gets even more confusing, when Eddie develops feelings for Steve, which aren’t entirely unrequited.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 15

(also on AO3 here and as part of my steve whump fic series)

Eddie POV

When neither Steve nor Robin show up after ten minutes, Eddie begins to freak out. 

He, Hopper and El are still waiting for the car, out of sight among some ferns. Hopper’s getting antsy, muttering beneath his breath, while Eddie’s wriggling like he’s got ants in his pants. Which he genuinely might have, though that’s not what’s bugging him:

“Uuuuh, shall I see what’s taking them so long?”

“You do that,” says Hopper. “What’s going on with that guy? He could barely stand! How the hell could he…”

Eddie tunes out, retracing their journey into the trees, calling Robin’s name then Steve’s. Maybe Steve passed out, and Robin got lost searching? Somehow, he doesn’t buy it. A heaviness slows his feet, and his guts twist sourly. 

They wouldn’t just ditch him. Surely? Surely!?! 

Fifteen minutes later, he winds up where he started: “They’re not back?” 

“What do you reckon?” Hopper’s breathing hard and red in the face. Evidently, he’s been running in circles like Eddie has.

“This is for you.” El nudges Eddie and presses a scrap of paper into his hand. “I think Steve left it.”

“What? Where?” Eddie’s stomach clamps tight again. 

Her eyes stretch very wide. “Fell out of your pack.”

Turning the note over in his hands, his fingers stiffen, as if shrinking from the task, bracing for… something. In the event, he gets a literal slap around the face.

“You make me sick,” Steve wrote.

Eddie’s skin burns with the blow. Wow! This is why I never have and never freakin’ will write love songs.

“What does he say?” demands Hopper.

Eddie scans the note one more time, scrunches it in his fist. “I’d hazard a guess he’s gone back to Hawkins.”

“Goddammit! Robin’s gone with him?”

“I think that’s a safe bet.” A wobble in the back of Eddie’s throat finds its way into his voice. Because, boy, is he still processing.

You make me sick. 

What does that even mean? To be fair, Eddie did make Steve sick. More than once. But why the heck write… that. Would suck less to be dumped without a word. 

Thanks for the overkill, man.

“Don’t you even think about scooting off,” growls Hopper. “Your uncle would never forgive me.” 

Oh yeah. Wayne. The only person who ever actually cared about him.

Eddie plonks his butt down on the ground and waits for the car.

…

Steve POV

“C’mon, giddy up,” says Steve. He and Robin make their way along the muddy bank of the stream towards home.

“Is this some kind of race?” she asks. “While I’d forgotten your former life as a douchebag jock, you’re doing a stunning job of reminding me, and… Uuuuugh!” 

“Jesus Christ, what’s wrong this time?” He spirals about, plants his hands on his hips—he’d ditched the sling a while ago. 

She scrubs madly at her lips. “I swallowed a bug! Ugh, ugh, ugh, mega-gross. Eeeeurgh!”

“Maybe if you weren’t complaining, like, constantly, there’d be less opportunities for bugs to get in.” 

“You shut up, shit-bird! I could die of malaria.” She spits into the stream. “Ew! EEEEEEEW!” 

“Ssssh! Hop said the military will be crawling everywhere soon, or—”

“Eddie might hear?” His heart heaves a loaded thud. She looks back sharply, purses her lips. “You know, he could be lost in the wilderness, all alone. Being hunted by evil army thugs. Or bears! Did you think of that when you sauntered off?”

“I did, yeah. I left him a message saying not to follow.” He shades his face from the afternoon sunlight, which shafts between the trees. Also, he can’t look her straight on and say this: “It was kinda brutal, I guess. It was for his own good, right?”

“Oh. Riiiight.”

“You done spewing insects?” he snaps.

“Still heavily grossed-out here. Gimme a minute, ’kay?” She plonks herself on a rock, crumpling forward.

He mops his brow, strips his sweater, and takes the opportunity to check in on his bat bites. They’re still sore, the bandages a bit bloody. Nothing too fresh, though. For the billionth time, his thoughts fly back to Eddie. He hopes Eddie doesn’t get hurt and need healing while they’re apart, and… Holy shit, will he ever see him again? He ties his sweater around his hips, trying to make fumbling hands look casual.

“Steve? You okay?”

“Other than the fact I’m modelling a ‘shoot-me-now-why don’t-you?’ Hellfire Club t-shirt,”—and that I want to punch myself in the face about that moronic note—“I’m good, Robin.”

“You know what? I don’t doubt it.” She brushes her flyaway hair from suspicious eyes. “You’ve gone from death’s door to super-human speed in, oh, I don’t know—feels to me that we’ve been marching for a week. I think it’s been barely an hour.”

“Yeah? We got a long way to go then.” He starts off along the stream’s edge, forcibly slowing his pace. He senses her puffing, panting, then following on his heels.

“Look, Steve, this water goddess who’s pulling you back, whispering in your ear—”

“I can’t actually tell if they’re male or female. Does that matter?”

“Not in the slightest. So, your water… deity. Have they, by any chance, enlightened you as to some kind of divine plan? Or told you exactly where you’re heading?” 

“I got an idea where I’m going, yeah.” To the second place he died, swept away on that blood-red tide—even now, he sees it in his head, like a few frames of a horror VHS stuck on eternal repeat. “Where’s the best place for army generals with dodgy agendas to hang out in Hawkins? There’s never been an army base, apart from—”

“You’re kidding me?” She grabs his elbow, jerking him back. “The Soviet tunnels?” He nods, and her obvious dread has her dropping him like a stone. “No way! I don’t think I can go anywhere near without a major panic attack."

“I’m not gonna march straight in.” He’s already wandering on. Trouble is, now he’s said the idea out loud, it’s become real and terrible. And he’s gotta pretend like his blood’s not congealing to ice. “I don’t know how I’m gonna get in anyhow. I mean, the Starcourt lift is buried under a ton of rubble. I think Hop might’ve know other ways—”

“Oooh, I got a great idea. Let’s go back and ask him.”

“Yeah, real subtle.”

“Steve!” She seizes him again, twisting him around with a furious force. “I know you want to help El, but what can you ACTUALLY DO?” He shrugs before he can stop himself. “Rain? Lightning? How does that benefit us—especially in underground tunnels? Plus you’ve had literally zero time for practice. If we don’t slow down and come up with a decent plan, this is tantamount to suicide.”

“We? Seriously, Robin, I…” His teeth clamp his lower lip. Any moment now, he’ll tell her how terrified he is, how he really, really doesn’t want to get tortured again, let alone die; how the idea of anything bad happening to her is as frightening as any of it. “I don’t think I have much choice.”

“Steve,” she says, gentler now, though her grip gouges into his flesh. “It’s screamingly obvious you’re not thinking straight. You’ve been ill for days and now you’re in a funk, beating yourself up over Eddie.”

He yanks himself free, glares. “That doesn’t make any dif—"

“Bullshit! Trust me, however ‘mean boy’ your literary masterpiece got, Eddie won’t want you to do anything this dumb. Oh, and your resident gender-fluid angel saved your life. They’re not gonna want you to sacrifice it pointlessly.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it again. He laughs—not a particularly happy laugh, but not totally miserable either. “You win,” he says, kinda sagging with relief. “You got a plan, smarty-pants?”

She laughs with him, equally edgy. “I say we go to Lover’s Lake, wait till it’s dark. If that’s too dangerous, we find some hidden pool where you can practise whatever badass moves you think you got. Hopefully without the puking. It’ll be a bit like Band Camp. But for Magic. Magic Camp. Okay?”

“You really aren’t gonna be happy until I’m a bigger nerd that any of… Shit!” 

He’s been considering hugging her. Instead, he seizes her sleeve, dragging her down into a deep, wet gully. They land with a splash, crouching low, close. She doesn’t complain, because she’s heard what he has.

The distant sound of barking dogs. Likely, army search dogs.

“Dog barks travel for miles, huh?” he whispers.

“Possibly.” She sucks in a scared breath. “One thing for sure—those sniffy wet snouts can pick up a human scent from the next county.”

“We’re in a stream, Robin. They can’t pick up our scent here, right?”

She crinkles her nose, dubious. “Dogs’ sense of smell is pretty amazing.”

“Yeah? Let’s hope this bunch caught colds or something.” 

He’s now the one clutching her way too tight, and he half-wishes he’d ditched her with a bitchy note too. Though, not quite. She smart; he needs her, and she’s really has gotten him thinking clearer: 

“We head for Lover’s Lake. C’mon.”

…

Eddie POV

When the sound of the car engine finally reaches his hearing, Eddie feels almost nothing.

“Don’t move.” Hopper pitches Eddie a forbidding look and grabs El, keeping them low behind the ferns. 

An owl hoots. Despite the hollowness in his chest, Eddie silently cracks up. Seriously? Top secret government goons can’t think of a better signal than me and Robin? 

Hopper’s grip slides to the firearm at his side. He rises slowly. “Over here.”

Peeping between the foliage, Eddie can make out a limo-style saloon with blacked-out windows. A severe-faced woman in lethal stilettos climbs out. “Chief Hopper, I presume? I apologise for the delay. O’Sullivan’s got men everywhere. We must leave right away.”

Hopper, nevertheless, remains stood well off the road with Eleven, not rushing for the car. And Eddie? 

You make me sick.

Steve’s made it simple for him. He should cut his losses and take this chance of escape. Wayne would want him to. Apart from… Eddie literally can’t. What was it that Steve said? Oh yeah. That he was being stretched in the wrong direction. Or something along those lines.

Yeah, I’m feelin’ it, Stevie. 

Nothing supernatural, nothing hinky. You kill me that bad, Babe—even after you turned meanie-King-Steve and dumped me. Oh, and went back to goddamn Mordor without me! 

Gonna trust you had your reasons, and I’m coming anyway.

He turns on his dirt-clotted heels and flees as fast as he can.

Part 15

...

tags: @estrellami-1 @kal-ology @finntheehumaneater (thank you, thank you, thank you!) If anybody else would like to be tagged on this fic or any of my writing, please let me know :) Reblogs, comments and likes also very much appreciated :) Thank you for reading so far :)

(also part of my steve whump fic series on AO3)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 15

[seasaltandcopper]

love bites

Summary: A little making out turns into a little biting. Whoops. That was totally an accident. Yep.

AU: vampire | Masterlist

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: dubcon, handjobs, intoxication/drugging (vampire venom), blood drinking, biting, mouth whump, gaslighting, just all around abusive relationship and power dynamics

—————————————————

“We really shouldn’t—” A gasp. Warm, heavy hands on Mal’s hip, sliding up to tangle in his hair as a wicked tongue did its best to force its way between Mal’s teeth. “Do this here.”

Jericho chuckled. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down.

He knew Mal wasn’t really upset, because Mal was never upset, never expected Jericho to actually pull back when Mal protested or told him to stop. There was an unspoken understanding between them, that Mal wanted this in a way that thrummed like a plucked string all the way down to his soul. He knew what Mal wanted, sometimes better than Mal did himself.

But one of these days Mr. Aydemir was going to show up after hours to check the books or return something, and catch them fornicatiating in the backseat of one of the vintage cars they were restoring, and Mal didn’t think he could talk his way out of that one. Mr. Aydemir trusted him, considered Mal a business partner of sorts, but he was traditional and strict about shit like this, and it’d only take one time to ruin the good thing Mal had going.

Leather creaked as Jericho pushed Mal down against the seat. Rolled his hips, grinding against Mal’s lap and pressing the hard outline of his dick against the equally prominent bulge showing at the front of Mal’s jeans. He tugged hard at Mal’s hair, forcing his head back. Well under the effects of the venom now, Mal groaned, pliant as long as it meant Jericho didn’t stop touching him.

“Just don’t—fuck—” Mal squirmed as lips pressed to his throat, kissing then sucking and nipping towards the spot just below Mal’s ear Jericho knew drove him crazy.

“‘Don’t fuck?’” Jericho teased. Fingers teased at the hem of Mal’s shirt, stroking just below his navel and ruffling the thin trail of auburn hair leading lower. “Well shit, kid, there go my plans for the evening.”

Mal swallowed a whine, managing to turn it into something closer to a growl. Judging by the amused chuckle and graze of teeth, Jericho wasn’t impressed.

“Just don’t get anything on the seats, asshole,” Mal grumbled. “Aydemir will have my head if he finds out, and the interior of this thing alone is worth more than I am.”

A hum. Jericho pressed his lips to the spot Mal knew he’d been working towards, and even Mal’s best intentions couldn’t stifle the moan it wrenched out of him. Jericho worked it over for a few seconds, until Mal was squirming and panting in earnest, and he’d left behind what would be a truly impressive hickey.

“Guess you’ll have to swallow then.”

Jericho turned his attention back to Mal’s lips, burying any chance at a retort. Eager fingers moved to pop the button on Mal’s jeans, and he let out a relieved sigh as some of the pressure eased. The steady influx of venom made Mal’s head feel floaty and numb, too much too fast. It burned hot in his bloodstream, and even moving as quickly as they were it wasn’t enough. The tightness in Mal’s pants was just one facet of the need he’d do damn near anything to sate once it reached this point.

Jericho worked open the front of Mal’s jeans, dipped his hand beneath the waistband of Mal’s briefs and pulled him free. Mal groaned into Jericho’s mouth, finally remembering to move too, and slid his hands up, under the heavy leather of Jericho’s jacket, to trace up over the thin t-shirt and well muscled back beneath.

Jericho palmed Mal’s cock. Twisted his hand, and teased lower, over his balls. Gave them a tug and squeeze, enough to skirt the border between pleasure and pain, and Mal made a sound, high in his throat. He would’ve pushed up, arched into or away from the pressure, but with Jericho planted firmly on his lap there was nowhere to move.

The venom always fast-tracked things at the start. If the number of rounds he could go hadn’t made up for it, Mal would’ve been embarrassed about his own lack of stamina.

After a couple more seconds toying with him, Jericho finally turned his attention back to the shaft. His hand was warm and a little rough. Without any kind of lubrication the friction was almost too intense, but the honeyed poison of the venom twisted that, too, sensation layered on sensation until Mal drowned in it. It echoed in on itself, cascading into something that left Mal’s whole body buzzing like a raw nerve.

Jericho growled, pumping his fist in purposeful strokes. It didn’t take much. Just a few well timed motions and Mal teetered on the brink. The hand still fisted in Mal’s hair tightened, and teeth grazed over Mal’s tongue, his lips. Little stinging pricks that didn’t quite break the skin.

Another twist of Jericho’s wrist—

Hot pain exploded across Mal’s lower lip, and the gush of blood filled his mouth. Mal choked on it. He bucked, hips snapping. Venom sang, white static stole his vision, and climax hit like a punch to the gut. Molten, liquid pleasure followed on its heels, like a shimmering veil that cloaked the parts of the pain that were just a little too much.

Or maybe just made Mal want it more.

Mal shuddered through the aftershocks of his orgasm, loose and dazed enough to let Jericho chase his blood high. His nerves tingled, and every time Jericho sucked at the holes he’d put through Mal’s lip little electric arcs of sensation flickered across his senses.

He thought he moaned. It felt—good? Mal was pretty sure it felt good. He couldn’t quite remember how to make his limbs move.

Jericho pumped his hand over Mal’s cock a few more times, mostly preoccupied with licking the rest of the blood from Mal’s mouth. He let go when Mal started to squirm and pushed him away.

With a wet sound, far more lewd than it had any right to be, Jericho broke the kiss. His lips were flushed, red with more than just blood flow, and shiny with spit. He leaned back, dark eyes studying Mal as he recovered from the—well, the everything.

Mal pulled in a shaky breath. His bottom lip throbbed, already settling into the kind of fat, hot pressure that came from a split lip. Despite the thorough cleaning, the inside of his mouth tasted strongly of copper.

Jesus.

“That was,” Mal said thickly, “Not a love bite. Shit. That hurt.”

Jericho snickered and licked lingering traces of red from his lips. Smug, in a way that always made Mal want to kiss him, or hit him. Or both. “Didn’t stop you from coming all over my hand.” He raised it, spreading sticky fingers, and arching an eyebrow at the lingering evidence. “Oh, c’mon sweetheart, you gonna tell me you weren’t into it at all? I know you better than that.” Taking Mal’s silence for admission, he laughed. “Yeah.”

Wincing, Mal tongued at the punctures. “Jesus fuck. I think you bit through my lip.” Raising a shaking hand, Mal gingerly brushed over his lip. “If this needs stitches I’m billing you, asshole.” Jericho snorted. Dark eyes glittered as he watched Mal’s hand, noting the crimson smearing his fingertips as Mal pulled away.

Gently, more so than he’d been up until now, Jericho reached out and grasped Mal’s wrist. “Here. Gimme that, before you make a bigger mess.” Pulled it towards him, and dutifully licked the blood from Mal’s fingertips. He popped the last one into his mouth and sucked, working his tongue skillfully over the digit without breaking eye contact.

After a thorough cleaning, Jericho let Mal have his hand back. “Like you said, wouldn’t wanna get anything on the seats."

[nade2308]

I was tagged by @kitthekazoo and @catholicnicky. Thank you both!

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Folders:

Abuse AU Magnum (Magnum PI 1980)

Crossover AU (Magnum PI 1980, MacGyver 2016, Hawaii Five 0 2010)

Hazing/college AU (The Gypsy Warriors modern day AU)

Library/coffeeshop AU (Blue Bloods and CSI)

Martine, Monte and Shorty AU fics (Monte Walsh 2003 modern day AU)

My aim is so true... (the Med AU, includes characters from The Gypsy Warriors, Black Sheep Squadron and Chicago Fire and PD, as well as original characters)

Shorty and Monte fics and ideas (Monte Walsh 2003)

The Merry Whump of May (only one active fic in this folder and it's about MPI 1980 3x01/3x02, an alternative ending)

Trial fic (Blue Bloods)

Turning the page - Bookstore AU (Monte Walsh 2003 modern day AU)

Google docs:

(Ideas, started fics, mostly written and/or almost finished). I am going to list only the more "active" ones because I have so many WIPs, whoops.

Alt ending to Med 1x18 (Chicago Med)

Alternative ending of Chicago Med 1x01 (Chicago Med)

Boys with a baby (Chicago Med)

Caged (Magnum PI 1980)

Car wash fic (The Gypsy Warriors modern day AU)

Chicago Med 1x12 filler (Chicago Med)

Chicago Med post 4x13 (Chicago Med)

Connor comes back story (Chicago Med)

Date night gone wrong (Blue Bloods and CSI)

Deal with the Devil (Blue Bloods and CSI)

First meeting and training (The Gypsy Warriors)

Hot basketball imps (Magnum PI 1980 modern day AU)

Hot imp idea (thanks Heather's brain!) (Magnum PI 1980)

I am the purest imp of all times apparently (Chicago Med)

Jack and Nick talk - college Nick/high school Jack - CSI and MacGyver 2016 high school/college AU

Jesse and Dix talk at the station (Jesse Stone movies)

Jesse and Jenn + friends (Jesse Stone movies)

Jesse and the undercover cop (Jesse Stone movies)

Muffled scream (Blue Bloods)

Murdoc evil (35 minutes) (MacGyver 2016)

Nick and evil (CSI)

Post 3x01 MacGyver - Still you on the inside (MacGyver 2016)

Pregnant omega Will (Chicago Med)

Restrained (Magnum PI 1980)

Robin and Thomas smut (Magnum PI 1980)

Side of the road (Jesse Stone movies)

Teddy and Shelly snippets (The Gypsy Warriors)

The nightmare one (I found him between a reality and a nigtmare) (Jesse Stone movies)

The one where Will is a sex worker and Connor falls for him (Chicago Med)

We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when (But I know we'll meet again some sunny day) Ruby Jean and Joe (the evil fic) (Ruby Jean and Joe)

Will and Connor together in WitSec (Will breaks up with Natalie after they return, she thinks he cheated on her) (Chicago Med)

Plus the NEWEST WIPs: Black Sheep Squadron 1x13 Hot imps and Evil childhood backstory for Greg (both are for Black Sheep Squadron)

Tagging: @thethistlegirl @99point9percentwhump @sebbys-mama @erinsworld @thesammykinz and whoever else wants to do it because I certainly don't have that many people to tag. I have a lot of WIPs (and this is only the more "active" ones, not the gazillion others that are sitting on my drive).

Tagging @gregorygerwitz because I know you did this awhile back and I mentioned how many WIPs I had and I just wanted you to see the [redacted] list 😉

And yes, pls, yeet me asks, I LOVE talking about my WIPs.

[whumping-in-the-wings]

I’m now mostly over the Head Cold From Hell, so I’m hoping to have another part of Traces done in the next day or so. But it turns out there are multiple ways to do the next part, and I’m having a ridiculously hard time choosing between them. I could stick with Adair’s POV, go back to Aubrey’s, or do something from the perspective of the eventual caretaker (who we haven’t actually met yet, whoops).

I’ve written bits and pieces of all three, I like them all and it’s impossible for me to decide, so if you’ve been following the story and one of those options sounds better than the others, I’d love to hear which one you’d like to see! I am a wee baby whump writer who overthinks everything, I cannot make these hard choices.

[spacedykez]

oh right i was gonna. send an ask in. crap okay- for the writer ask game; 15, 23, 33, 35, 55, 62, and 87 (random)

(writing ask game!)

15. where do you share your writing? sigh. im tired of linking things nixxxx i just made two long posts with tons of links today /lh but that does mean the links are easily available! here’s my ao3 and here’s #paciFics.

23. how do you deal with writers block? badly. ususally by simply Not Writing. very bad practice. lately (as in the last few months) my strategy has been scoll #whump prompts or @/prompts-in-a-barrel to get myself in the mood and then write a shorter thing inspired by that. unfortunately as you can see from my ao3 i have a tendency to lose interest in longfics and once i do i just. never get back to them. sigh. hyperfixations my beloved and beloathed

33. do you start with the characters or the plot when writing? i mean, that depends. sometimes i get fic ideas that are "this character does this" (cough branzypierce) and sometimes i get fic ideas that are just "oh, this would be a cool thing to write (magic by moonlight). branzypierce fics have been All character, but also quite a bit inspired by quotes actually. bleeding out in your arms tonight literally came to my mind when i read this:

35. tell us about a character who’s very different than you who you love a whole lot

oh gosh okay well i mean most of the characters i latch on to are because i see myself in them at least a little. double life pearl, i suppose. i feel the abandoned thing a bit because i do tend to feel very lonely especially since i wouldn't say i have very many friends irl, but really she's not like me at all. then again, i've never been in a death game! but for all i joke about violence i really would never hurt anyone. somebody'd stab me and i'd apologize.

55. do you have any abandoned WIP’s? What made you abandon them? well. a question i accidentally answered! okay so i have several longfics lying abandoned (but trust me they don't leave my mind i feel guilty constantly) including scott's eternal winter, which was e1!scott turns evil and instead of corruption covering the world, it's ice/snow. i have tried to write the next at least five times and i have the outline and chapter titles i just. Can't find the motivation.

alone was pure torture (no, literally. i mean. like. that was the fic) i left it because i never really watched the dsmp enough to have a good characterization of anyone and also it just felt. i don't know. too much. people say a lot of tommy fics are torture/trauma porn or something like that and i just felt like it was too angsty.

the legend of the stag siblings i feel bad about. i just think i rushed the plot and it wasn't as well-written as it could have been and also i just. Lost motivation. if i were to pick it back up again (which i do still love the concept) i would rewrite it quite a bit.

and then on this topic i have two like 3000 word oneshots i never published. one is an owl house fic that i could probably post and just say it's incomplete, it's completely readable, i just had more plot planned and then got sucked into mcyt again. and the other is an old basically ventfic (the closest i've ever written) with o!scott. the problem was that i used it as an outlet for my emotions and that worked too well so i never finished it because by the time i hit like 3k words i wasn't in that headspace anymore and i couldn't bring myself to try to get back into it to finish the story.

oh. long answer whoops. um well they haunt me okay. im terrified magic by moonlight will join them cause so many people like it and i don't want to let them down and- okay. shush paci.

62. what’s the weirdest reason you’ve ever shipped something? because i hate my streamer. one guess as to what this is referring to. yes it's ace race x sally. i am starting to be unironically here for the narrative of the wilbur soot ace race saga god help me.

87. does your writing style change depending on the genre you write?

well, i mean i don't know? i only really write fantasy/fanfiction but i would say probably yes? like i do enjoy experimenting with different styles sometimes. my favorites have been Journal, Yin And Yang, bleeding out, and Flicker just because i tried really out-there and obvious style choices and i do really like them. you haven't read journal, yin/yang, and flicker i'm sure.

but journal was an experiment in writing first-person pov, yin/yang was one of my first times writing this sort of opposites-symbolism thing i really like where it's sort of playing with antonyms (light/dark, order/chaos) and since then i've sort of improved on that to add more metaphor/description to my fics. and i'm still SUCH a sucker for good comparisons like this. bleeding out was fun because i added the parentheses to create this growing sense of dread and tension (i really think it worked). and flicker was all about description which was a fun excercise!

on this sort of topic, my writing style wasn't that different but antlers was SO fun to write and i can't tell you why without spoiling it but i LOVE it so mucchhhhhh

[gusenitsaa]

Look…. I was just trying to write killian whump.

How did Alice and Liam show up for a Hyperion heights naval rook bonding sesh- while I’m just supposed to be making life miserable for a certain pirate-

[yet-another-heathen]

[X]

Whump | Set in 1200 BCE, pre-Islamic fantasy, desert setting, jinn, pirates, captivity, sandships, defiant whumpee, blurred lines between whumper & caretaker

[whoopsididitdarker]

Hi. I'm Whoops. I'm joining Tumblr.

I probably won't be posting all too often, but i figured I'd join anyway.

I write a lot of fanfiction. Mostly whump and angst (sorry in advance - it does usually turn out OK tho! Christians are supposed to show light in darkness and all that)

The main fandom I'm currently into is Adventures in Odyssey. Not sure i can say a specific favorite character, bc i like a lot of them. Mostly the older ones, i don't think I've heard much past Novacom (that's all i have on cd, sorry). I have read fanfic though.

Also, fair warning i am a hardcore Jasonnie shipper. Like after a certain point i could just tell their other relationships weren't working. Plus fanfic got me extra invested so...

Might post about other fandoms when i get back to writing them.

I'm on AO3, and will make a new post at least anytime i make a new fic. But i am slow, so don't expect too much lol

[justsomewhump]

Surprise! You have just been visited by the mysterious Whumpster Bunny 🐇who has hidden some eggs in your inbox 🥚! Now it's your turn to put on the costume🐰& spread some joy! Choose 5 other whumpers of your choice & plant some eggs in their inbox along with a whump related question of your choice for some extra whumptasic fun! What kind of whump (character(s)/scenario) are you craving RIGHT NOW?

Hi whumpster bunny! Thank u for the eggs :3

Now, I'd take whump for my favourite whumpees (Killian Jones, Ethan Winters) anytime, but canon has shown all the whump they got for them T_T (unless any re8 DLC has Ethan get even more of his ass whooped... 👀👀)

But as for specific scenarios... I'm craving a bit of my whumpee being hurt and unable to get up and walk, and his s/o holding him, letting his head rest on their chest as they brush their fingers through his hair. The whumpee feeling both thankful his s/o is there but also hating himself that he dragged them into all this. Like again I'm not big for romance but I am big on comfort and comforting intimacy.

[portraitoftheoddity]

I am such a sucker for:

Time travel AUs

---> Particularly when a character travels back to before a crucial turn in their own arc

Time loop fics

Character keeps dying/can’t die/can’t stay dead

Hard canon-divergence (like, take a critical moment where something could go different and then GO OFF THE RAILS with it)

Parallel universe hopping

Amnesia fic

Ghost fic

AU where major character died -- OR DID THEY???

Honestly any kind of self-sacrifice trope

---> Bonus if the self-sacrificing idiot survives and is berated by their loved ones

Heavy worldbuilding

“Whoops I guess we accidentally adopted this idiot”

---> Character gets adopted by entire community/village of OCs

Nearly-plotless whump

[e-vasong]

Not sure if youre taking the whumptober asks but can I request #6 with five? 👀 Also sorry new to Tumblr so not sure if I'm doing this right lol love your writings btw!! ❤

Oh!! YES I LIKE THIS ONE.  It is not October, but I’m not so much “participating” in Whumptober as I am just using it to kick myself into gear with writing.  

I may kinda suck at filling prompts, even when I ask for them, but when I do...it takes a really long time because this was supposed to be 1000 words max and is actually like. almost 3000 words of shameless whump.  WHOOPS.  Most of this is under a cut, because it’s long and...well, whumpy.

TW: Torture, electrocution

No. 6: Please... “Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please.”

“Hm,” Agent Finch laid the bloody pliers back on the metal tray with a clatter.  “You’re as resilient as I remember, Number Five.”   He sneered the words, hands tightening into fists at his sides.

Five supposed that Finch meant for that to be a threat, but he just couldn’t bring himself to take it seriously.  

“Go ahead and hit me, Finch,” he gave the man an affable smile.  “If you really throw your back into it, it might even hurt.”

The provocation worked.  Finch did hit him, then.  Right across the face.  The force of the blow snapped Five’s head off to the side, slamming his skull into the metal back of the chair.  The steel reverberated, the noise echoing painfully in Five’s ears.  It did hurt, in a distant sort of way, but Five had found that being punched was always more jarring than it was painful.  Not to mention the fact that it was just bad technique.  After all, if you really rung someone’s bell...

Well, in an interrogation, where the goal was to disorient your target and trick them into giving you vital information, a concussion could be useful.  But it was a poor tool for torture because it made it easier to zone out, to forget about the pain.   And if Finch were any good at his job, he’d know that.

Five sighed.  “Ouch,” he said, voice droll.  He worked his jaw experimentally.  Everything seemed like it was still in its proper place, though the movement tugged painfully on the bruise that had already started to blossom across his left cheek.  

“You can’t fucking run, Five,” Finch said.  There was a new speck of blood on his chin, bright against his salt-and-pepper stubble.  “I know you.  I’d say we have a good half hour before you can jump again; probably longer, with you in pain like this--” Five couldn’t repress the laugh that bubbled up in his chest at that.  “Which is plenty of time for me to make you regret ever crossing--oh for fuck’s sake!  What are you laughing about?”

“Oh,” Five rolled his eyes. “Nothing.  Don’t worry about it.  You’re doing great.”

“What?” Finch’s hand returned to the metal tray, grabbing the pliers again.  “Not enough pain for you?  Fine.  Another fingernail, then.”

Boring, Five thought.  A sadistic appetite with no real vision or talent to follow it through, that was Finch’s problem.  He watched with disinterest as Finch pressed the pliers against his left ring finger, readying himself to breathe through the inevitable pulse of pain that was coming.

“No!” The shout came with a clatter of chains and cuffs as Diego jerked against his bonds.  Five jumped, and Finch did too, pliers slipping from his hand and hitting the ground with a clang.  Huh.  They’d both forgotten, somehow, that Diego was here too. 

“You sick son of a bitch,” Diego bit out, the dramatic fucker.  Five’s annoyance was practically a living creature inside of him.  Diego’s hero complex was both entirely predictable and deeply unwelcome, since Five had this very much under control, not that Diego much seemed to care.

“Shut up!” Five and Finch snapped at the same time, voices overlapping as they spoke.  

There was a brief lapse in conversation, the room falling silent as they both processed what had just happened.  Finch whipped around to glare at Five, and Five glared sullenly back.  He wasn’t about to be the one to break eye contact, but it was more annoying than he’d admit to accidentally end up on the same wavelength as his oldest and most incompetent acquaintance from the Commission.

“Why?” Diego said, responding only to Finch.  “Because you’re some twisted fuck that gets off on torturing children?”

Diego could be dangerously intelligent when he wanted to be, but he was a bad actor under pressure.  And this was a stupid, blatantly obvious attempt at provocation, even by Diego’s standards.

So of course Finch turned back towards Diego, a dangerous glint in his eyes.  

“Diego,” Five said, a warning in his voice.

“You know full well that your brother isn’t as young as he looks,” Finch said, talking over Five.  His voice was calm, but he was moving closer towards Diego as he spoke, successfully baited.

“Oh, sorry,” Diego said, yanking on his chains again defiantly.  They rattled against the ceiling pipe above Diego’s head and Diego winced.  The struggling was likely doing no favors for the discomfort of his position.  “I guess that makes torturing him alright, then.”

“Your brother,” Finch said, “was supposed to be my backup on a job once.  Instead, he shot me in the back and left me for dead.”

Diego, to his credit, looked utterly unfazed by Finch’s unfavorable and one-sided description of their former partnership, even though it was, essentially, accurate.  

“Your back?  Really?" He jerked his chin in Finch’s direction.  “Damn, I’d have guessed he hit you in the face.  Maybe he should have.  Can’t get any worse than this.”

Finch punched him, which seemed to be his default reaction to everything that upset him, the neanderthal.  His fist collided with a sickening crack, and Diego went limp.  Five stiffened in his chair.  For all that he’d critiqued Finch’s technique, the man was still a burly six feet, almost all of it muscle.  A poorly-gauged blow--and Five did not trust Finch to gauge anything well--could do more grievous damage than Finch may have intended.

“Diego?” Five called.  If Finch killed one of his siblngs, Five wouldn’t much care whether it was an accident or not.

There was a heart-stopping moment where Diego didn’t respond.  He just hung there, limp and unmoving.  Five’s breath caught in his throat. 

Then a shudder passed through him, and Diego’s head lifted slightly.  “”M fine,” he muttered, though he was clearly too disoriented to raise his head all the way.  His eyelashes were fluttering as he fought for consciousness, and a bit of bloody spittle dripped from his mouth to the ground.

“Five’s right,” Diego said.  He was slurring his words.  That was bad.  “That barely even hurt.”

But Finch didn’t respond to the jab this time, not the way that that he did when Five had resorted to the same taunt.  Instead, he stopped to look at Five.

“Did you...?” Finch tilted his head to the side, looking thoroughly bewildered.  And then his face split into a wide, almost hysterical grin.  “My, my,” Finch said, and Five went stiff.  

Finch’s smile was smug, like the cat that caught the canary, which was a disorienting turn of events.  Five was used to being the cat, not the songbird, and he rather liked it that way.

“What?” Five said, terse.

“You almost sounded...God, what’s the word?” Finch said.  “Oh, I know!  Concerned.”

“About him?” Five scoffed.  “In his wildest dreams.”

But it was too little, too late.  Finch’s lips twisted upwards in a vicious grin.  

“I can’t believe it,” he said.  “After all this time.  You know, we used to gossip about you in the break room.  Wonder if Five, the best assassin the Commission had ever seen and the Handler’s favorite little pet, had a weakness we could exploit.  We never did figure it out.  Who would have realized...” Finch turned back towards Diego and grabbed him by the jaw, tilting Diego’s head upwards as if to get a better look at him.  “That it was something so...sentimental.”

Finch laughed.  “I mean,” he continued, “we had some really crazy bets going. But this is just-it’s just--oh, don’t scowl at me, I’m trying to give you a compliment.  I guess I really didn’t see this coming from you of all people.  I didn’t even realize you had emotions.  Other than, you know, anger and irritation.  Those I knew about.”

Five opened his mouth.  Finch hushed him.  “Don’t lie to me, Five,” he said.  “You should have heard yourself just now.  That was the most scared you’ve been all night.  You have a soft spot!  All this time, I’ve been hitting the wrong target.  You should have said something earlier.”

Five grit his teeth furiously.  “Leave it, Finch.”

“No,” said Finch simply.  He walked back towards Five, and Five knew better than to think that Finch was coming back for him.  Instead, Finch gathered up a handful of cables, loose electrical wires sticking out of the rubber on one end, plugged into a large metal device on the other, and winked.

“Enough,” Five said, lowly.  “Finch.  Finch!”

“’S fine,” Diego spat.  “I can take it, Five.”

No.  Five struggled, but it was fruitless.  Finch palmed some sort of button on the device, and the air around them filled with an electric hum.  Finch strode idly back towards where Diego was strung up--the device was by Five’s side, presumably because Finch had meant to use it on him, but the cables ran long enough that Finch reached Diego without needing to pull them taut.

“Finch!” Five tugged sharply at the leather straps that kept his arms bound to the chair.  No luck.  

“Hm,” Finch was in front of Diego again.  “Let’s try it out.”  And then he reached out and pressed the exposed wires to a patch of exposed skin on Diego’s collarbone.

Diego tensed.  Five could see the muscles in his neck clenching as he grit his teeth.  He didn’t scream.  He likely couldn’t, paralyzed by agony, but the anguished groan he made in the back of his throat spoke volumes.  

Five twisted fruitlessly in his bonds.  He heard something in his right hand crack, the thumb popping out of place.  He wouldn’t be surprised, from the feel of it, if a few bones had broken too.  But even so, the leather was simply too tight.  

He couldn’t get free.

Finch held it for a moment, then pulled the cable away.  Diego sagged, panting heavily.  A few more tremors went through him, aftershocks as his body processed the pain.

“That all you got?” Diego slurred.

“No,” Finch said.  “It isn’t.”  But before he proceeded, he turned his attention back towards Five.  “You see?  All this over a couple dead civilians?” he asked.  “You realize that I’m going to kill your brother, right?  Was it really worth it?”

“Stop,” Five’s voice cracked.  He pulled at his bonds again, paying particular attention to his now-broken hand.  If he could just force it, he could get free.  In his old body, he might have been able to do it--sure, it hurt, but pain was nothing in the face of the panic coursing through him.  But in this body, he just wasn’t strong enough.  “Please. Finch!”

“Wow.” That did seem to give Finch pause.  He clicked his tongue, sizing Five up thoughtfully.  “You know, the begging is a nice touch.  It’s really making this whole experience a lot more enjoyable for me.”

Then he pressed the wires to Diego’s throat again.  Diego twisted in agony, and Five knew that Finch wasn’t going to let up this time.

Diego was going to die.  Five yanked against the leather straps again as he jerked forward, overtaken by instinct.  It couldn’t end like this.  He couldn’t let it.

And then he was free.  With a flash of blue light, he stumbled out of a jump right behind Finch.  Finch dropped the cable immediately, even before he turned around, likely recognizing the distinctive sound of Five’s warping.  The live wire sparked on the ground.

Five didn’t bother with grabbing a weapon.  Finch twisted around, and Five punched him in the face with his good hand.  Finch staggered, though he caught himself on a nearby pillar of concrete before he could fall.  But Five was behind him before he could regain his balance.  He got an arm around Finch’s neck, braced his mangled hand against Finch’s jaw, and twisted hard.

Five felt the bone break under his hands, just beneath the brainstem.  Even pained and concussed, his technique was perfect.  Finch collapsed to the ground, dead before he even hit the floor, and Five had just enough wherewithal left in him to angle the corpse so it fell on top of the live cable’s exposed wires.

“H-holy shit, Five,” Diego said.  Five’s heart twisted slightly at the sound.  Lapsing back into his stutter like he was, Diego sounded so like the young, childish version of himself that Five had left behind all those years ago.  

“One sec,” Five said slowly, lifting a finger to silence his brother.  It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying, which was...a bad sign.  The world had started swimming strangely around him, and adrenaline could only keep him upright for so long.  But he needed to get them out of there.

He stumbled his way over towards the machine that the cable was hooked up to, hitting the button so that it shut off.  Then he found the lever connected the chains that were keeping Diego strung up and pushed it down.  The mechanism released, and Diego stumbled to the floor, hitting his hands and knees with a pained groan.

“Motherfucker,” Diego said, rolling his shoulders.  He was still shuddering from the electric shock.

“I’ve got you,” Five said, trying to keep his voice steady.  He made his way back over to Diego.  The notion of collapsing beside him was tempting, but Five resisted the urge.  “Come on, we gotta...we gotta go.”

“How-how’d you j-jump?” Diego asked.  “I th-thought you were at your lim...your limit.”

“I was,” Five said.  “Adrenaline.  Hell of a drug.”

“What?” Diego arched an eyebrow.  “D-dude, you like one-one of those moms that lifts a car when they see their kid is trap--” Diego had to stop and close his eyes for a moment.  “Trapped?” he finished, more smoothly this time.

“No,” Five snapped.  “That’s stupid.  And it’s called hysterical strength.”

“Whatever,” Diego rolled his eyes, in a manner that clearly suggested that he didn’t believe Five but was too tired to push the matter any further.  “Just d-don’t collapse on me, al...alright?”

“I don’t plan on it,” Five said wryly.  And then his world listed off to the side.  “Oh.”

He doubled over and threw up a mouthful of blood and bile.

“Shit,” Diego said, scrambling forward to steady Five as he sank to his knees.

“Shit,” Five echoed, and passed out.

                                                           ***

He woke up in a hospital bed, a monitor of some sort beeping monotonously in the background.  

Five sat bolt upright the moment his location registered.  What the hell?

He wasn’t hooked up to much.  There was just the IV sticking out of the back of his left hand, which was an unusual change of pace.  Five turned and reached over to rip the IV out, only to see that his right hand was bandaged.  Heavily.  

Shit.  He’d use his teeth then.

Five had just lifted his hand to his mouth when a bleary voice murmured: “Five...?”

He recognized that voice.  Five blinked and looked up.

“Diego?” he asked.  The burning panic in his chest extinguished, leaving only embarrassment in its wake.  

This was clearly just...a normal hospital.  Diego looked exhaustedly back at him from where he sat half-slumped in an uncomfortable-looking chair that had obviously been requisitioned from elsewhere and dragged over to Five’s bedside.  He had an expression on his face like he wasn’t quite sure whether Five was losing his mind or not.

“What are you doing?” Diego said slowly.

Five hesitated a moment longer, then lowered his hand back down to his side.  “What happened?” he countered, pretending like Diego hadn’t spoken.

Diego narrowed his eyes, but thankfully let Five’s evasiveness pass without comment.  “Some Commission asshole kidnapped us.  Spent some time making mincemeat out of us--mostly you--and then you warped so hard that you tore your stomach lining.”

Five did remember that, now that Diego mentioned it.  Well, not the stomach lining bit, but that was presumably the explanation for the bloody vomit.  

“Huh,” Five said.  “Didn’t know I could do that.”

“Don’t fucking do it again,” Diego commanded, with all the presumptuousness of a child who thought they could get away with bossing around their elders.

“How long has it been?” Five turned narrowed eyes to Diego.  “You should be in bed.  You need to be monitored for cardiac arrhythmia.”

“It’s not--don’t worry about--”

“I fucking knew you were here,” hissed Ben from the doorway.  Diego jumped.  

“Ben,” Five said, relieved.  Finally, someone with common sense.  “Get this idiot out of here.”

Ben froze like a deer in the headlights, startled.  His head jerked up to look at Five, and the irritation and concern clouding his expression evaporated as he broke into a relieved grin.  

“You’re awake,” he said, soft and pleased.  He stepped fully into the room.

“You can’t be serious,” Five said as Ben plopped down on the foot of the bed, gently pulling Five into a quick, tight embrace.  “Both of you are ridiculous.”

“Oh,” Diego mocked.  “How dare we be concerned.”

Five rolled his eyes and spread his hands slightly, gesturing to the hospital room around them.  “As you can see, I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” Diego said.  “You look fantastic.  Really, uh, in the peak of health right now, huh?  Gonna go get up and run a marathon?”

Ben let out a little snort of amusement, and Five glared at them both, utterly betrayed.  

“I can take care of myself, you know,” Five couldn’t ever remember being as relentlessly young and foolish as his brothers--or ever needing this much minding, for that matter.  At the skeptical noise Diego made in the back of his throat, Five tilted his head to the side and said, archly, “Which one of us is still in bed and which one snuck away from medical attention, Diego?”

“Ah, fair point,” Ben turned to Diego, still smiling.

“Oh yeah?” Diego said, sensing that the tide was turning against him and crossing his arms over his chest defensively.  “And what were you doing when you were trying to rip your IV out with your teeth, again?”

Five straightened his back.  “Diego,” he hissed, but it was too late.

Ben frowned, an expression full of worry and brotherly disappointment.  “Five!” he said, clearly dismayed.  Five wilted slightly.  Was this how Klaus felt all the time?  “Why would you do that?”

Five cast a sidelong glance at Diego.  “I was just disoriented,” he said.  “That’s all.  And I’m better now, so it’s hardly worth getting riled up over.”  It probably wouldn’t have taken him long to realize that he was just in a regular hospital once he made it out to the hallway.  

Once he had...he probably would have gone stumbling off to look for Diego, Five could admit that much to himself.  But he certainly didn’t need to tell his brothers that.  No one could prove that he was lying.

“Just,” Five waved them both off.  “Take Diego back to bed.”

“For fuck’s sake, Five,” Diego said.  “I’m just worried.”  Then, as if sensing that Five was not his best bet, he turned mournful eyes towards Ben.  “Just a little longer, Ben.  Then you can rat me out to the damn nurses.”

Ben’s lips twisted thoughtfully as he glanced between them.  “A couple minutes,” he finally conceded with a sigh.  “It’s not like you won’t just break out again anyways.”

“Ha!” Diego said, too loudly.  Five winced, the noise aggravating the pulsing headache that Five hadn’t even realized he had.  “...Whoops.”

Five glared.

“Sorry,” Diego’s voice was closer to a whisper now.  He reached out, lacing a hand with Five’s and squeezing it apologetically.

“It’s fine,” Five said, ignoring the feeling of warmth that bloomed in his chest.  “I’m not made of glass.”

“I’ll leave if you really want,” Diego offered.  “We can let you get some rest.”

If he wanted.  Ha.  Five couldn’t pretend that getting some peace and quiet didn’t have an appeal, but...in it’s own sort of way, it was comforting to have family in the room.  Irrefutable evidence that they were still living and breathing, so real that even all his years of knowing they were dead couldn’t override it.  But Diego did need to go back to his hospital room; Five wouldn’t be the one to pull him from the care he needed.  He refused.  But for now...

Five sighed.  “Fine,” he said, and squeezed Diego’s hand back.  “Just for a few minutes.”

[circlingravens]

"Everything changed, when the fire nation attacked."

I cannot believe you actually sent this, anon. I both laugh and cry, because how am I supposed to turn this into something whump related? Like this, apparently. And... whoops. Turned out to be more than five sentences. 

"Everything changed when the fire nation attacked." 

Maeve didn’t recognize the line, but the sound still made her pause. She remained still until she identified the source of the sound was a person-- her target was supposed to be alone, after all. She listened for another moment before pulling herself up, the windowsill her gloved hands were locked on providing more than enough of a hold to do so. For the briefest moment, she was silhouetted against the city’s lights, then she slipt silently into the apartment. Pressing herself against the wall, she slowly drew a long knife, and edged a half step sideways, just enough to see around the corner into the next room. 

She froze.

This was a child, glued in front of the television. Her target was supposed to be here, alone-- it couldn’t be the kid, could it? She silently ran through the details in her head.

Blonde hair. A young woman, short in stature, thin. Green eyes. Fourteenth floor, will be alone for several hours tonight. 

This wasn’t a woman, this was a girl! There had to be some mistake-- she wouldn’t kill a child. She wasn’t supposed to kill children anyway, her own morals or not.

Maeve left.

“You failed.” The voice was pitched low, but remained perfectly calm. It did nothing to soothe Maeve, no, not at all. She stood, hands clasped behind her back, ramrod straight in front of a desk. A man sat behind it, thumbing through files, as though the current discussion wasn’t important enough to warrant his full attention.

Despite the hammering of her heart in her chest, Maeve allowed her lip to curl.

“She was a kid.”

“It was your target,” the man shot back, something dangerous glittering behind his eyes. 

“What happened to ‘no children!’” She growled back, glowering for a moment.

“Circumstance, Three” “Maeve. I’ve told you before-- don’t call me some fucking number.”

A cold look was cast in her direction, but the point was conceded. 

“You are here to follow orders. Not make your own. You’re given a target, you take them out. Don’t question. Don’t fail,” now the voice was cold, and Maeve was barely able to fight back a cringe. Perhaps she shouldn’t have-

“I do hope you didn’t have plans.” The sudden shift in tone made her blink; his voice was now soft, smooth, even warm, but dread pooled in her stomach anyway. 

“One wants to see you.”

One-- one of the few assassins in the agency with a supernatural power. A power that seemed to be engineered just to give the rest of them hell whenever the boss ordered it. A power that, somehow, was able to keep Maeve’s own at bay. Her memories of the previous time she’d been ordered to ‘visit’ them were blurry, but she did remember the pain. It didn’t fade for days, but left no physical mark. Perfect for punishing someone you didn’t want to cripple, she supposed. Though, One had left at least a couple assassins practically mindless.

Maeve somehow kept her expression in the scornful mask she wanted long enough to get out of the room, kept herself still long enough to get away from the boss. Then her hands were shaking.

This wasn’t good. Not at all.

[wishing4nuclearwinter]

Writing whump or emotional shit I am like “yes, words are coming to me and this is turning out exactly the way I’d hoped”

But writing fluff feels like I’m a toddler with one of those wooden boards that you have to put the shape in the right hole except uh-oh the shape is incomprehensible, somewhat biblical angel reminiscent, and. Whoops this is a chess board

[willowistic22]

Please... (Redfinch)

Albert has been thrown to the refuge before. It was an ugly story but at least it prepared him from what was coming when he got thrown in again. But Finch? This was his first time learning on his own how relentless Snyder is...

Word count: 3302

Part : [1 this] - (if ppl like this i’ll make more parts)

Warnings: Blood, abuse, torture, knife cuts, restraints, mentions of death, beatings, cussing (no surprise there lol), in short this is a whump fic. I probably missed some warnings and if I did please let me know!

A/N: Hello, yes, I am well aware that I’ve vanished from my fanfic writing spree. It’s gonna be more common now because school is more hectic online than irl. Anyways, i came up with this idea when I was in the middle of having writers block from writing another wip and ended up finishing this one whoops. I also like ignored the remainder of requests from my inbox not bcs i don’t want to do them but i haven’t gotten the time. Especially since this is October and my school always have special plans on October so I’m sorry. But, hey I got a fic out! ENJOY! (might make this a three part thing if you guys want idk) 

[ @jaelynn-is-slightly-confused i did it.......................... ]

The first time he got sent to this hellspace was years ago, and fortunately for Albert it only lasted for four days before he was able to bust out. Odd how he thought something would be different. He expected the treatment would stay the same, no surprise there. The bounded limbs, the painful souvenirs smeared all over his body, being left to fend for your own life, none of this was new. And yet, Al thought maybe something physical about this awful settlement would be different. Maybe painting the walls a different color? Cleaning the little drops of blood on the floor?

A funny idea to be thinking about in this kind of situation. But he needed something to calm him down. Something to distract him from the pain all over his body. The bruises from punches, the strangling feeling made by a strong pair of hands ghosting his neck, the cuts from a knife marking his skin, the pain in his wrists while they’re tightly bound to each other with a rope, basically everything that’s been given to him the minute he arrived here. 

An itch in his throat triggered him to go on a coughing fit. It made him feel every inch of pain all over his torso as he reached for that itch. He ends up opening his eyes after spending a long time closing them. 

His senses are now hyper focused on everything around him. Albert can feel the coarse cement wall through the back of his shirt. It’s the only thing making him sit up properly while he spreads his legs out on the dirty floor, just as equally coarse as the wall. He can see streaks of lights coming from the tiny windows on the wall he’s leaning onto. The only light source provided for this basement. 

There isn’t anything in here. Most of the kids held in the refuge would stay up stairs. Rooms provided with rickety bunks where at least six kids slept all at once. Big scary men put on guard on every corner with batons, ready to strike when a kid acted up. You only get sent down to the basement, or what most kids would say the ‘torture chamber’, when the ungoldy amount of scars already given to you haven’t made you obey anything they say. And Albert has been a huge pain in the ass. 

The sound of the heavy metal door opening bounces on the walls, pulling Albert’s consciousness away from the distraction forming in his head as he was about to close his eyes for another rest. Slow footsteps climbing down the wooden stairs echoes throughout the room. A weak light slowly gets stronger as the footsteps get louder in Al’s ears. 

The sound of the footsteps against the wooden stairs turn into strong assertive steps on the concrete floor. Al weakly darts his eyes up at the big man, bringing a candle in one hand and a lit cigarette hanging loosely in his mouth. 

“Good to see you again, Al!” Snyder exclaimed after huffing out a cloud of smoke, a devilish grin painting his face. 

“Wish I could say the same to you” Albert voiced as best as he could, hoarse but Snyder could hear the hatred behind it. 

The beaten up redhead proceeds to spit at his captor’s shoes with a glare. In return, Snyder chuckles out whilst shaking his head. 

“You think that’s funny?” Snyder challenged. 

“Actually, I do!”

In the matter of seconds, Snyder gets closer and viciously grabs Albert by the neck with a tight grip. He holds him up with one hand on the neck, high with his back up against the wall. 

Despite his throat being seconds away from being totally crushed, he was able to hold up his glare. The pain is unimaginable, but his smile remains. Albert is not giving in to obeying this man in any way. Not even the fear he’s trying to assert on him. 

“Fearless. I admire that” Snyder notes, curiously tilting his head as he examines the details of his face. 

“Thanks. My parents are pretty proud of that too” Albert needed some effort to get the words out, but thought it was definitely worth the pain to see the displeased look in Snyder. 

“And very stubborn...” 

They lock their eyes in a glare, none of them showing any sign of turning away. 

“I’ll have to fix that attitude…” Snyder exclaimed. He turns towards the stairs leading upstairs and shouts, “Bring ‘em in” 

The door opened, followed by a sound of two men viciously telling someone to obey their orders. Not a moment later, a tumbling noise reveals a weak body being pushed down the stairs and onto the concrete floor with a loud thud. Their back was facing Al, so he didn’t know who that was. 

But Al noticed the newsboy cap, lying on the floor not far from the figure. It was thrown away from their head when they fell down the stairs. The cap looks eerily familiar. God, did Albert hope it wasn’t who he thinks it is…

The two men from earlier came down. One uses his feet to flip over the person they’ve just thrown down here, along with the bound wrists with the same rope as Al dropping in front of their chest. With the minimal light provided by the little windows and now the presence of Snyder’s candle, Albert can tell who they’ve just thrown in. 

His smirk slowly drops at the sight of the weak boy. His hazel eyes no longer glaring at his captor, but staring helplessly at the body lying on the floor. Blond hair no longer electrified as it used to. Al’s favorite face to cradle no longer looks the same as before. Eyes still clenched shut. Snyder smirks, seeing his tactic has shown some progress. And he barely did anything yet. 

“Not so funny now, huh?” Snyder taunted under his breath, only Albert was able to hear it, “Should’ve brought the boy into the mix sooner…” 

Snyder loosens his grip around Al’s neck, but he’s soon held up once again by two of Snyder’s henchmen. One holds down his shoulders, pinning him up against the wall, and another by the chest and stomach. 

Snyder makes his way to the boy on the ground with lazy steps. Albert can see him reaching for something under his jacket. It was soon revealed to be a knife once he playfully glides it in the air while kneeling down to the boy. He throws away his burnt out cigarette and places the candle on the floor, not far from the helpless body. He grabs the boy’s chin to make him look up with his free hand, smiling like the devil when he hears the boy whimpering from his touch. 

“I’m not one to like guys… but this one’s clearly a looker, don’t you think?” Snyder examines the face in his hand. 

Albert’s temper was acting up, but his struggles to break free from the strong grip was instantly met with punches to the stomach. The bruises from earlier makes the pain hurt even more. With a silent raise of two fingers, Snyder made the two henchmen stop the punching. It gives Albert some time to settle in with the pain. 

Another signal from Snyder, and the henchmen drops Al on the floor and leaves the basement to the three. Albert’s head was up against the concrete floor, taking in the cold and dusty texture. 

He’s on the same eye level as the boy. A desperate gaze towards the innocent face now full of blood, water, dust, and dirt all smudged together on his skin. Al could see more details, maybe bruises or cuts covered up by the smudges. 

“Come on now, Finch! You’re invited to the party!” Snyder said to the boy, bringing his face right to his own. It forces him to slightly sit up, whimpering along as his body is getting forced under all that pain, “The least you could do is appreciate the invitation” 

It was the order to open his eyes. God knows what Snyder would do if he didn’t. The action reveals a pair of Albert’s favorite blue eyes, but fear clouds it along with the redness caused from what he assumes to be a lot of crying. 

Finch never loses his composure. He’s that cool and mysterious guy everyone is intrigued by. Either have a cool smirk or a neutral quiet face at all times. He doesn’t express his feelings freely, so it keeps people guessing. But those tear streaks, shaky limbs, pressed down sobs in his throat, that wasn’t usual. Albert may have seen him vulnerable, but this wasn’t the romantic and soft side of him that he’s used to. This was genuine fear. 

“I know you’re not one to follow orders from me…” Snyder started, guiding Finch to sit up properly. His unbalanced head moves along with the dazing motion in his mind. In a split second, the sound of a slap echoes through the room. Finch falling helplessly the moment his huge hand connects to his cheek. With a little yelp from the pain, he’s back on the ground, desperately holding back his sobs and scrunching his eyes shut. 

“... But I’m sure we could… make some changes to that” Snyder continued, turning his head around to face Albert. 

By now, Al found the little strength to prop himself up to sit up against the wall again. He snarls, pushing Snyder to smile to his own amusement.

“I see progress being made!” He exclaimed with an unsettling grin after noting his silence. He turns back to face Finch, “Let’s see how much of that we can get for today’s session…” 

Snyder drags Finch by the ropes that ties his arms together up till it can reach the rusty old hook attached to the ceiling. He gasps at the pain in his wrists carrying his entire weight up on the hook, all the pain being stretched out. The tip of his toes grazed the floor and his head hung low.

The same knife from earlier makes its way to press on Finch’s chest. Albert had only realized his shirt was unbuttoned just now and takes in all the horrifying scars. It ranges from faint purples and blues and very clear red and pink lines, all of which are smeared across his body. The cold blade hasn’t cut through his skin, but it made Finch’s senses hyper focused. Lungs working at full force, loud breathing and rapid chest movements. He thought he was just playing tricks, making him think he’s seconds away from cutting some skin. 

When he least expected it, the blade drew another line just below his collar bone. It causes the boy to let out a half suppressed yelp. Snyder dragged the knife so slow, Finch could feel every bit of the pain. 

“Wait! Stop!” Albert could only yell from a distance. 

“Thought we’ve managed to get you to shut up...” Snyder turns his head a little to see Albert behind his shoulder. He digs the blade an inch deeper into Finch’s skin, causing a little cry to finally escape his lips but soon was suppressed once again. 

“He has nothin’ to do with this!” 

Albert shifts a bit loudly. It instantly alerts Snyder, causing him to fully turn his head towards him with a glare.

“Try getting any closer, and I’ll slit his throat open right now!” Snyder growled, firmly holding the blade against the weak throat. It made Finch pull his head up to avoid getting cut, inevitably forcing his eyes to open to stay cautious around it. 

Albert locks his eyes in Finch’s desperate gaze back at him. A silent cry for help, which only made Al furious because he can’t do anything. He wants to wipe his tears away, clean his face, and just hold him tight against his chest. Get the two back to the lodge where their friends are waiting. Everything in his power to get Finch away from any more torture. 

Snyder smiled at Albert’s compliance, forcibly settling his body back on the wall. 

“Atta, boy,” He said, turning his head back to face Finch. He grabs a fistful of blonde curls and whispers, “See? Told’ja he’d listen to you” 

Snyder pulls the knife out of his flesh. Finch gasps at the pain, red blood dripping down his body. His breath becomes fast and uncontrollable once again. And he didn’t stop there. Punches being thrown, more knife cuts, and a hand gripping firmly around his neck while he growls words that shapes nightmares. The chest starts to add in more color to it. Streaks of blood dripped down his slightly toned body. Each of those marks burns deeply into him. With every swing from the fist, Finch uses all his energy to suppress his voice despite the unimaginable pain it emits.

Finch has been in a fight before. He knows what it feels like getting punched over and over again. But this? This is something new. He’s in a position where he can’t do anything. And god is he scared for his life. Albert won’t blame him. After a few dozen punches, his lover fell limp. Hanging helplessly on the hook and taking all the new cuts and bruises like he deserves it. His heart skipped a beat, thinking that he actually might’ve given up. 

“Can’t you tell he’s had enough of it?” Albert shouted, helplessly watching his lover get tortured to near death. 

Snyder continues to use Finch as a punching bag, ignoring his near silent cries and Albert’s pleas to stop. 

“What does it have to do with ‘im?!” 

A hook to the chin this time.

“You fucking bastard! You’ll kill him!” 

Finch couldn’t hold his crying anymore, despite being told to before he got thrown in the basement. Snyder draws out the knife again upon hearing all the sobs escape his cut lips. 

“Snyder, please!” Albert’s voice shakes.

He stops his arm and turns to face Albert, dropping his hand with the knife to his side. Albert can be seen on the verge of tears, and he won’t deny it to anyone. Snyder’s lips fell open with wonderment. 

“I get the point already. You don’t have to keep hurting him...” Albert explained even further, desperation lacing his words. Eyes slowly welling up with water, “Please…”

Snyder scoffs, twisting his lips into the devil's satisfied smile, “Say that again” 

He just wants to see Albert complying to him. Hear him beg to stop the injustice torture. Maybe as far as to hear him cry. 

“Please… Let him go...” breathlessly, Albert begged. He could feel a drop of water from one of his eyes threatening to fall down his cheek. 

Snyder approaches Albert, kneeling down in front of him. He uses the knife from earlier, still full of Finch’s blood dripping off the blade, to tilt Albert’s chin upwards. He glares at Snyder once their eyes meet, but it only makes the man smirk with delight.

“I see you’ve come to your senses” 

Hopefully that meant he’d stop and let Finch back upstairs. But this is Snyder, he’s not going to let one of his detained kids off for free. 

“But I don’t think you’re... ‘docile’ enough,” Snyder added.

He puts away the knife, letting Albert breathe for a moment. But that breath was stolen from him as Snyder proceeds to slap his cheek, so hard the noise echoes throughout the room. He falls to the ground, adding more to the pain he’s feeling. If his hands weren’t tied up, he would’ve already punched the crap out of that monster. 

“You sound adorable when you beg, y’know?” Snyder said standing up to walk back to Finch. 

Albert huffs out breaths full of anger, watching him approach his bloody human punching bag. He blows a strain of red locks away from his eyes to carefully watch what he’s going to do. 

Snyder grabs Finch’s cheeks, forcing him to look up, “You’re definitely a keeper. Isn’t that right, Al?” 

He turns to face Albert, watching as the redhead struggles to sit upright once again. He didn’t break his glare at the man while doing so, showing his own daggers through hazel eyes. 

Snyder scoffs it off, focusing back to Finch. He unhooks the rope off of the ceiling, the limp body giving in to gravity and hitting the floor instantly. His breathing is slowing down, but hitched with a sob ever so often. 

“So, why don’tcha have a little alone time—“ He grabs Finch by the hair. He yelped in pain before being tossed towards where Albert is sitting, his feet somehow complying to the push despite the ache he feels, “—and think about what you did” 

He was lucky, Albert was able to catch him into his chest and lap. If he didn’t, Finch would’ve hit the floor and added another bruise on his face. Finch quickly scrambles himself into his embrace as best as he can with tied hands in front of him. Shaking with suppressed sobs into Al’s tattered clothes. 

“You don’t wanna make him suffer for something he didn’t do, right?” Snyder taunted. 

It fuels Albert’s anger to the brim. He tries his best to wrap his arms around the boy while maintaining his glare at Snyder as he makes his way up the stairs. The heavy door quickly opens and shuts not long after a dozen or so drawn out steps up the stairs. The basement is once again left with minimal lighting since the candle from previously was brought up along with him. 

The moment he hears the door close, Finch lets out his sobs. Loud, fueled with ache and fear. Albert suspects he was told to stay quiet while they were doing… whatever it is they did to him to make him look like this. He had a few guesses about what it was, but Al couldn’t bear to put the image in his head. 

“Oh, Finch, what did they do to you?” Albert whispered, carefully holding Finch’s cheek up to see the damage. 

Finch stays silent as they view each other’s faces. Albert wipes Finch’s tears with his thumb delicately to be careful as to not harm him. He cries at the touch of his soft hand, the gentleness he’s been longing for the moment he got into this shithole of a place. 

He crashes his face into the crook of Albert’s neck, sobbing a little softer than before. Al places his chin on his curls gently. He rubs Finch’s back and shushes in his hair. Albert knows it won’t calm him down, but there’s nothing wrong with trying. 

“Albert… please… I wanna go home…” Finch said shakily, so soft Al nearly couldn’t hear him. About the only thing he has said since the moment the couple has reunited. 

Albert hushed the boy, rubbing his cheeks against Finch’s curls, “I know. I know. Just hold on for me” 

He continues to sob, a puddle slowly forming on Albert’s shirt. The dam for Albert himself finally broke, letting a drop of water fall down his cheek and a nose slowly getting stuffed. He holds him in his tight arms, as if he’d disappear the moment he lets go. 

“We’re gettin’ outta here. I promise” Albert promised, a big promise to uphold too. 

It would seem difficult with the position they’re in. He believes their friends are out there coming up with an escape plan or will visit them frequently to check up on them till a plan forms. Till then, he promises to do everything he can to get Finch off of Snyder’s evil hands. Anything to see his Finchy smile again. Even if it ends up being the last thing he does. 

[haro-whumps]

Group Whumpees: 1. Start

Inspired by this post by @whumping-every-day​ and @justtorturewhump​ about a group of whumpees. I’ve been thinking about it on and off ever since I saw it but I finally got the giddyup to actually write for it

CW: Modern slavery, implied + referenced abuse, death of a minor character, multiple whumpees, transphobia (brief), aftermath of torture/conditioning

--

Galo settled himself into the hospital chair, perfectly comfortable and positioned at a thoughtful angle to the side, opposite the door so physicians could easily enter. He’d intended for this to be a quick visit, but clearly his aunt had other ideas, so he might as well take a seat.

“Here I am on my deathbed!” Auntie Bethany raved, flinging her arm about wildly, and Galo internally winced each time she got too close to jerking on the IV, “Only ONE person comes to visit me! In my whole family!”

To be fair, your whole family is made up of jackasses, Galo thought privately, raising his hands in placation. “Auntie Bethany, please, you were just admitted today. I’m sure plenty of people will show up tomorrow.”

“None of them want to visit me, even when I’m going to die!” she persisted. To be fair, Galo didn’t really want to visit her either. He just… well, she was family. And she was in the hospital. And even though his family was estranged and largely filled with self-centered, arrogant individuals that made any kind of holiday event a stomach ache and a half, he tried not to be. So here he was. 

“You’re not going to die, Auntie Bethany,” Galo said patiently. “You’ve had this surgery before, remember? And you made it through just fine. I bet the same surgeon still works here, even!” Galo tried for a positive tone, cheerful. 

“Ah, you’re such a good niece for your dear old aunt, sweetheart.”

“I’m your nephew, auntie, we’ve been over this,” Galo said through grit teeth, smile significantly more forced now. This is why no one likes you, Galo thought.

“That’s why I’m leaving you all of my estate, darling,” Auntie Bethanie continued like she hadn’t heard him. Galo blinked twice.

“I’m sorry, what?” Galo asked nicely, sticking his pinkie finger in his right ear as though to clear it out. “You’re…”

“I have my lawyer coming to the hospital,” Auntie Bethany said, “Go get me a pair of socks. They keep it so damn freezing in here.”

Galo rose and went to the cabinet, pulling out the soft yellow cloth and helping the socks onto her feet.

“I had planned to split my estate between everyone who showed up, but you’re the only one! So you get the jackpot, you’re welcome!” she said, well, nearly-shouted, as Galo tugged the socks on over the socks she was already wearing, struggling with the tightness. He was strong; daily visits to the gym had his arms thickly muscled, his chest broad, but he wasn’t exactly trying to break his elderly aunt’s foot here, so he couldn’t just shove.

“Thank you, Auntie Bethany,” he said, trying to sound actually grateful and not just tiredly patient. So this was her newest passive-aggressive ploy. After Galo told the rest of the family there was money involved, the others would show up with their plastic smiles and loud voices and then she would get to gripe at how they were only in it for the money, but change the will up anyway to keep them visiting. She liked to play “games” like that. Galo tried very, very hard not to sigh. 

It’d probably keep up after the hospital stay, too, Galo mused as he sat back down in the chair. People showing up to her home with flowers and wine and “earnest” attempts to make sure she was recovering just fine. Honestly, who knew how long she could drag this out? Her poor lawyer. He hoped she was at least paying them well.

The lawyer did, in fact, arrive, and Galo quietly apologized each time his aunt criticized or scolded the poor man.

“You’re uh, gonna need to use my legal name,” Galo said, handing him his driver’s license. “Not the uh, childhood nickname she keeps calling me.”

The lawyer gave him a sympathetic pat, and it was hours after Galo had planned that he finally managed to get out from under his aunt’s endless conversation and go home already. He sighed, dropping his coat on the floor of his small apartment’s entryway. For all that he was competent, intelligent, and good with organizational skills and the like; Galo had not been particularly successful in his life. He was good with people and good with life skills, he just. 

Bluh!

Bluh bluh bluh! Now was not the time for a pity party, or else he’d turn into his aunt. He played an hour of his most recent video game, an open-world with a semi-voluntary plot, before turning in for the night. He should think about investing in a rabbit or something. He could eek out the money, and his apartment got awfully lonely, with just him, a computer, and a potted plant.

In the morning, he knew he should email his family and let them know Auntie Bethany wanted visitors, and she was messing around with her will. He should. A good son, nephew, brother, and cousin would. But then his dad would call him, asking for specifics (it never mattered how many specifics Galo put in the email. His dad would always call and ask for more), and that would mean talking to his dad and he really, really wasn’t ready for that, at the moment. Or at all. He could do it later. It wasn’t like Auntie Bethany was actually dying, after all, she was just up to her hysterics again. And god, if Galo’s sister or brother decided they wanted more than just an email… if they decided to “pop in” after visiting their aunt and gloat to Galo about how now it was their names on the will…

Oh and don’t even get Galo started on what Uncle Mike would do. He was a bigger attention whore than Auntie Bethany.

So he just… didn’t write. Didn’t call. Nothing that big was happening, they could afford to wait a few days before feeding into Auntie Bethany’s weird games. She could probably use a little disappointment for the first time in her spoiled, nasty life anyway.

Galo took a deep breath and covered his face with his broad palm. He shouldn’t think like that. That was uncalled for. Auntie Bethany was a fine person, she was just rude, and loud, and inconsiderate. But she was family. He should be polite. But, still, it would be fine if she had to wait a little while for everyone to get in on her weird ploys.

So imagine Galo’s surprise when the hospital called him after work, letting him know his aunt had, unfortunately, not made it through her surgery.

--

Her mansion (and that’s really the only word that could describe it, though “castle” was more fitting, in Galo’s opinion (it had an estate garden, who has an ‘estate garden’?!?!)) was huge. Galo had made that observation before, of course, every time he’d spent the weekend as a kid and the couple of times he’d visited during a family gathering. He couldn’t really believe it was his. The castle, the pool, the garden, all of her badass furniture he’d been warned to keep off of as a kid, her hella entertainment system that he honestly couldn’t wait to hook his game consoles up to. Didn’t she also own slaves? He wasn’t certain; he tended to get as drunk as possible as fast as possible at family gatherings, in order to survive said family gatherings, but he was pretty sure she’d mentioned putting away her servants for the evenings since they were “eyesores” or some shit. And he definitely remembered her having one when he was a kid, a glass-eyed guy only about a decade older than Galo himself.

Whatever. He unlocked the front door with her keys, attached to his keychain now, and took in the familiar foyer. He should go upstairs and check if her turquoise guest room was the same as when he was younger. It had an en suite bathroom with a bath the size of a hot tub, and it could definitely serve as his new master bedroom. Auntie Bethany’s had been the size of a ballroom, and he really didn’t need all that space (or to sleep in the same bed his dead aunt had slept in, guh).

“Mistress, w--” a thin woman with pale hair and over-wide eyes entered swiftly, then flinched back, grinding to a halt when she saw Galo.

“S-Sir, I’m sorry sir, but our mistress is out at the moment. You will have to visit her at a later time.”

“Oh, uh, I’m, not a home invader,” Galo assured, setting his little potted plant down near the antique vase his aunt had boasted about so frequently. The poor lady was trembling visibly, though he had to give her credit for not screaming and calling the police upon seeing a stranger enter her home. He probably should’ve called out and introduced himself when he let himself in; he’d just been thinking about how Auntie Bethany had kept slaves. “My aunt had a relapse, recently, and was admitted to the hospital yesterday. Uh, her surgery didn’t go so well,” Galo said, rubbing at the back of his neck. He needed to shave down his undercut, he thought rather inanely. “She didn’t make it. I uh, I’m sorta the sole inheritor of her estate? For the time being; at the funeral I’m sure we’ll get into plenty of arguments,” he said with a forced chuckle. 

“My name’s Galo,” he greeted, extending his hand to the woman.

He was a little taken aback when she genuflected and kissed his palm, dropping fluidly and with unexpected grace. “Oh, uh, okay,” he said, cupping her face and stroking a thumb over her cheekbone. Except, whoops, that was the wrong thing to do, he realized, since her face contorted and her whole body locked up.

“Shit, sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you,” Galo said, pulling his hand away immediately. She went down on both knees and pressed her forehead to the floor, further confusing Galo, her movements still fluid as silk.

“I apologize, Master. I reacted poorly.”

“No, no,” Galo rushed to reassure, his words making her flinch. “You’re good, you’re fine, it’s alright,” he tried, and that went over a little better. 

“I apologize if I have angered you, Master.”

“You--didn’t. I’m just, surprised is all.” He bent down and touched his fingers very lightly against the back of her hand, and he noted that she flinched again. Okay. Probably a trauma response. His aunt had likely picked her up from somewhere bad, but that was alright. He had significantly more emotional intelligence than Auntie Bethany; he was better suited to help this kind of person than she was. Would have been.

“Will you tell me your name?” Galo asked, voice intentionally calm and reassuring.

“...” He watched her swallow, his brows furrowing. Did she… not know her own name? “Whatever pleases Master best,” she eventually answered.

“Oh,” Galo said, voice soft and pitying. “No, that’s alright. You can tell me what you’d like to be called.”

“I--wouldn’t, be presumptuous, Master, and put words in your mouth.” Man, she was shaking like a leaf. He would definitely be stuttering, if he was that scared.

But a direct approach clearly wasn’t going to work, here, he couldn’t just do it over and over again and expect different results. He’d come at this from a different angle.

“You’re so obedient,” he praised, stroking a finger down her fingers and along the back of her hand, light as a feather. “You’re very good, you were trained to answer just like that, weren’t you?”

“Yes Master,” she said, sounding relieved. Good. 

“But right now, what I’m asking for is your name. If you don’t like the one Auntie Bethany called you, that’s fine, you can pick something else, but I’m not going to think of one for you, okay? I need you to do that, now,” Galo said patiently, feeling a little silly for talking to a grown adult in the same tone he might take with a crying child, but, well. Trauma response.

“Nyla, Master.”

“Good girl, Nyla.” He heard her breath of relief, and tapped the backs of his knuckles against her hand. “Stand up for me?” he asked, slipping his hands underneath her palms. He rose, and she stood with him, again with that eerie grace, pretty much none of her weight against his hands, although he had intended to help her up. 

“So, is there anyone else here I should meet?” Galo asked, smiling patiently at Nyla who did not meet his eyes at all. “That other guy. Gr… G-something.”

“Greyson, if it pleases you Master.”

“That’s it! He still around?”

“Yes Master. I can fetch the others for you, Master, and bring them to wherever you’d prefer to inspect us.”

“Uh,” Galo blinked twice. Okay. Nyla was clearly going to require a lot of delicacy, and while he was definitely equipped to do that, he wasn’t fast. “Sure, how about you get the others in the--” No, not the living room, the furniture in there was all tiny and mostly just for her weird 60’s aesthetic, “--den.”

He mentally added “den” onto his brand new list of things that made Nyla lock up. He should probably turn it into a physical list, at some point, since he was going to live with her now, and it was important to make note of things like this.

But the damage was done, and maybe this would be a good way to show her his aunt’s den wasn’t like… whatever it was, that she’d experienced before here.

His den. It wasn’t his aunt’s anymore. Auntie Bethany was dead.

It was a weird feeling, he thought to himself as he grabbed his potted plant and went upstairs to the guest bedroom that was, in fact, still just as cool as he remembered it. He set it on the windowsill of his house. It was a weird feeling, a really weird feeling, that someone he’d known all his life was suddenly… gone.

He didn’t miss her. He didn’t like her, and they certainly hadn’t been close. He wasn’t mourning her. But. Hm. His grandparents had all died before he could remember them, so he hadn’t really had a death in the family before. It was strange and almost-melancholy, thinking that his aunt would never again walk through this place. Would never hassle him about his hair at family gatherings ever again, or complain about the TV being too quiet, or eat cantelope with her mouth open.

He shook himself. He had other people to say hello to and introduce himself to. He gave his cheeks two smart pats and left the room, mentally plotting where he would put his own personal effects. And ugh, he had to get rid of that weird hall painting. Actually, why not just do that now; he was there and it was large, but if he gripped under the frame on top he could sorta-shoulder-carry it down the stairs. The weight wasn’t much of an issue. He was a particularly buff stud, after all.

“Oh, there’s more of you than I expected,” he mentioned offhand, reaching the den. Five slaves stood at strict attention, ignoring the human-sized furniture he’d intended them all to sit on, including a girl who couldn’t possibly be older than twenty. He stared at her, a muted horror not quite breaking past the shock. She was absolutely covered in bruises. Some were purple, some yellowing, some bright red and fresh, hardly older than two or possibly three days.

“Oh god,” he breathed, very, very deliberately reminding himself to move slowly as he approached her. Poor thing! Had she fallen? The bruises differed in age too much for that. He reached out a hand to her, slowly, well within her field of vision, but she still flinched.

“Master!” Nyla interrupted before he could touch. “That one is Lilah, she’s the gardener for the estate.”

A little thing like her? The whole estate? Using the machinery needed to keep up with a yard this big, no wonder she was covered in injuries! She was way too small to be handling stuff that could hurt her like this!

“Nice to meet you, Lilah,” Galo said gently, extending his hand again, just as slow and careful as the first time. Lilah sank to one knee, almost as fluid as Nyla, and kissed his palm, which. Alright! Cool! Sure! Maybe Auntie Bethany had gotten Nyla and Lilah together? 

Galo gave her a single, quick pat on her head, not wanting a repeat of whatever distress he’d caused Nyla in the foyer. Lilah was tan and freckled, with sunbleached brown hair, and wow, yikes, she was so small. Galo swallowed and turned to the next person in the lineup.

“Greyson,” Galo greeted with a smile. He looked a lot like he had when Galo was younger, just sorta gaunt now. Reddish-brown hair that was only just starting to sprout a handful of gray hairs, tall and skinny with knobby hands. “Remember me?”

“I do, Master Galo,” Greyson said with a bow, hand raised to his chest, and Galo chuckled.

“Good to see you again, dude. It’s been years,” Galo said, leaving his hands in his pockets. He’d already met this guy, however long ago that it might have been.

“It has, Master, I am delighted to see you again,” Greyson said, monotone and still bowing, but Galo was inclined to believe him. Greyson had always been like this, as near as he remembered.

“Look a little different than last time, huh?” Galo asked with a proud grin. Greyson lifted his head and quirked a very, very small smile of his own.

“I believe you’ve put some weight on, Master.”

Galo made note of how everyone else in the room tensed up at Greyson’s words, but he also laughed. “You bet I have,” Galo bragged, flexing an impressive bicep, before taking a mental red sharpie and writing DON’T DO THAT around the action in big letters. Lilah looked like she might cry.

He’d have to catch up with Greyson later. Or, well, get to know the guy? He hadn’t had much interest in the man when he was a kid, more preoccupied with the pool and old movie collection. He turned to the next person, a man closer to his own age.

“What’s your name?” Galo asked, calm, friendly smile that he used during work on his face.

“Evan, if it please you.” Evan had fluffy dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and strong, handsome features. 

God, everyone here was really formal. Greyson, he got. Again, the man had always been like that, but man. They sounded like they all came out of those weird books Auntie Bethany was always reading.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Evan,” Galo said, doing a little wordplay, and Evan lowered his eyes deferentially. Galo lifted his hand to maybe clap him on the shoulder or rub at his own hair or something, but Evan knelt mid-motion and kissed Galo’s hand and okay! Maybe his aunt had been the one with the hand-kissing-thing after all. That was weird as hell to think about, and Galo was gonna try not to.

“This is Sasha, Master,” Nyla stated when Galo turned to the last person in the room, a woman with thick, curly, dark hair and wide blue eyes. She was pale as a ghost. “If you will allow it, she does not speak very well, and I am capable of speaking for her, Master.”

“Okay, sure,” Galo said, not going to push too hard for information on that. And he wasn’t, like, gonna tell them no, either. If this was what made them comfortable, then alright, he could deal with that. “Nice to meet you, Sasha, you don’t need to kiss my hand.”

Sasha nodded tensely, and ugh, maybe he should have let her? Now she was the odd one out. Well, Greyson hadn’t either, so…

Nope, don’t overthink it. Galo could tell there was going to be plenty for him to overthink, moving forward, and he needed to get into the habit of cutting that in the bud right now.

“Alright, so, nice to meet you all,” he already said that. “I’m new, and I’m gonna be honest, the fanciest thing I’ve ever owned is my computer rig, so I’m probably gonna make a couple mistakes in the whole… running an estate, thing, at first. You’re all allowed and encouraged to make suggestions or tell me if I’m doing something stupid on accident, okay?”

It didn’t look like that was okay at all, but Nyla nodded with a “Yes Master” anyway so eh, Galo would take it.

What should he say now? Telling them they were dismissed would make him feel like a hoity toity jackass, but it also felt kind of lame to just… leave it at that. “I’m also a little slow,” he warned, “so please be patient with me. Sometimes I need an extra couple of seconds to think things through.”

“Understood, Master,” Nyla answered again, Evan swallowing nervously at Galo’s words. Yeah, he was definitely going to have to make physical lists of weird observations. Everyone here looked like they had trauma they were processing. Yikes. His aunt was hardly a philanthropist; why would she take in this many skittish people?

His stomach ended up saving him from further floundering, gurgling loudly. Lunch had been so long ago...

“Master, may we prepare dinner for you?” Nyla asked, swaning down to her knees and bowing her head low. 

“Yeah, actually, that’d be great. I’m allergic to mushrooms so nothing with those, please.”

“Yes, Master. Is there anything you’d prefer tonight?”

Hm. They seemed to like direction, and giving them a solid lead would probably be kinder than forcing them to think for themselves and worry about what he did or didn’t like. But at the same time, he had no idea what his aunt kept stocked.

“How about pasta with white sauce?” he suggested. Open ended, basic ingredients that they were pretty much guaranteed to have, and easy to make. And relatively quick; he was hungry.

“As you wish, Master.”

“Cool. I’m gonna start going through my aunt’s stuff. Lemme know when it’s ready.”

Galo left the den with a “Yes Master” chasing his heels, and rubbed at the back of his neck. Goddamn, these people were not having a great time. But that was okay. Galo was confident he could help.

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