#broken bones mentioned

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

ALRIGHT time to finish up the cocaptives arc!! This was so fun to set up!! Okay now I can post things with them kissing--

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five

TWs: hypothermia, fever, broken bones mentioned, hospital setting, needle mention, death, violence, captivity, blood, people being burned alive

“C-come h-here.” Dimitri’s voice was soft and hoarse as he cupped Mariano’s face. Mariano leaned into the touch, into Dimitri. He let himself be tucked up close, did his best to roll onto his side for more contact, whining from the effort. 

One of those broken arms painstakingly lifted, draping over Dimitri’s waist. Mariano’s fever had only progressed further as the days had gone on, but Dimitri couldn’t help but be a little grateful for it. His scalding forehead felt like heaven up against his own chest. 

Mariano whimpered as his shoulders tensed, another wave of pain dragging its teeth through him. Dimitri slid a thumb along his cheek, back and forth, giving him something nicer to focus on. "I kn-know…I know." 

Glazed over eyes looked up at him as Mariano relaxed again, barely aware but wanting touch and gentleness and mercy from someone. Anyone at all, it seemed, if he was so eager to receive it from Dimitri of all people. When Dimitri pulled Mariano fully into his arms again he shivered, a cracking moan drifting through their cell. 

They were running out of time. Mariano was barely hanging on, and Dimitri knew he didn’t have much more of himself to give. His own beating earlier had left the room spinning for hours, and he wasn’t sure if he could come back from a third trip to the freezer. These people didn’t seem like they had the best emergency care available, either.

If the others didn’t show up soon, they might just be bringing bodies back. 

Mariano buried his face into Dimitri’s neck. It seemed like he understood the stakes too, on a level. Dimitri took a deep breath, letting tension seep from his shoulders. 

There was no need to worry about it at that moment. There was nothing he could do. In the end, they’d either die here or they wouldn’t. 

Dimitri didn’t remember falling asleep. He woke with ice still in his bones and shudders snaking through his limbs. Mariano was radiating heat, bloody hands wound into Dimitri’s shirt. Footsteps entered Dimitri’s awareness next. Three people. 

He couldn’t open his eyes. Wouldn’t. He didn’t want those three guards to be the last people he ever saw.

He curled in close around Mariano. He didn’t care about training. He didn’t care about procedure. One hand wound into Mariano’s hair, holding him tight. 

“P-please–” Dimitri stuttered out as their cell door rattled open. “Please…” His voice cracked. He didn’t know what to ask for anymore. He couldn’t give anything else. “M-me.” It slipped out before he could think. “M-my t-turn…n-not done.”

“Shit–” That voice sounded like Laredo. “Can we even…”

“We have to.” That one sounded like Manuel. A hand came to rest on Dimitri’s forehead. It was smooth and calloused. Small. Whoever it was hissed. “God, yeah, he’s frozen and Mariano’s burning up. I don’t know if they can handle healing magic–not being this dehydrated, so...”  

Scaled hands slid up under Dimitri’s, unwinding his fingers. They were so, so warm. Warmer than Mariano was, even if it wasn’t by much. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay, it’s alright. Let go.” A soft, growling voice sounded nearby. “It’s us.” That didn’t sound like any of the guards. 

It sounded like Bastian.    

Dimitri hesitantly opened his eyes. He blinked hard, trying to will his vision to focus through the exhaustion and aches. Silver eyes with slit pupils looked back at him. Scales that glittered like diamonds grew along dark skin. Those teeth were pitch black and sharp as knives. “Wh…what…? Bas-stian?”

“Yeah, it’s me. The others are here too, Izan's in the van. Let go of Mariano so we can get you guys out. He’s too warm for me to carry him.” Bastian glanced at Mariano, then to the side. When Dimitri followed his gaze, he saw Laredo.

Laredo looked furious, heartbroken, and joyous all at once. Blood was splattered along his clothes, hands, and face. He’d taken point during this raid. “Yeah, let go of Marito. I’ve got him now.” His hands were at Mariano’s chest and forehead. One of his thumbs slid back and forth along Mariano’s sweat-soaked brow. “Bastian’s even warmer than me. Let him take care of you.” 

Dimitri finally let go. He let Bastian and Laredo untangle them, the desperate, panicked whine that Mariano made as they were separated only tugging at Dimitri even more. “Shhh.” Dimitri heard Laredo whisper. “I know–I know. You’re okay, Rookie. Manuel’s gonna take care of you in the van...” He didn’t catch much else as his world tilted and smeared when they both stood. Bastian’s grip pressed in on bruises and lashes and breaks, and it wiped all thought from his mind. 

The dragon was warm, though. He was so warm, even through Dimitri’s damp, chilled clothes. His arms were even softer than Mariano’s–closer to Laredo’s. Manuel was chattering away, filling Laredo and Bastian in on what the next steps were, and Dimitri felt the sway of Bastian jogging. He tucked his face up against Bastian’s chest, basking in the heat rolling off of him. 

At some point, the air filled with the smell of burnt hair. Flashes lit up the world beyond Dimitri’s eyelids. There was shouting, Manuel shouting. Laredo joining in, barking for someone to drop their weapons or else they’d wind up like their friends. It was so familiar, so comforting. 

The desperate, cracking screaming of someone burning alive was the last thing Dimitri heard.

When he woke up next, the room was dim and dark. The bed wasn't the softest, but after the concrete floor it felt like heaven. A heavy blanket was draped over him, and he was warm. Someone was holding his hand.

Opening his eyes was the hardest thing Dimitri thought he'd ever done. Messy, short black hair, tense shoulders, and tired brown eyes greeted him. "Welcome back, Dimitri." Laredo said, one hand reaching up to rest on Dimitri’s forehead. "You scared us, stubborn old bastard."

Dimitri laughed quietly, and he realized he wasn't impossibly thirsty anymore. Glancing down, he saw that there was an IV in his hand giving him warmed fluids. "Takes more than that to kill me." He leaned into Laredo’s palm anyway.

"Not much more."

"But still more." Dimitri said with a sigh as Laredo moved to cup his cheek. He lifted one hand and brought it to rest over Laredo’s, relaxing further and letting his eyes drift shut again. “Is…is Marito okay?” 

Laredo’s thumb started to slide along Dimitri’s cheek. “He’s real fucked up, but he's alive. Bed's to your left. He’s just resting right now.” 

When Dimitri looked over, he saw Mariano lying in a similar hospital bed. He had an IV in, casts on his arms, and Bastian's jacket draped over his shoulders like an extra blanket. There was no blood flaking off his skin, and he was in a similar hospital gown. 

He didn’t look as close to being a corpse as before. 

Even with his broken glasses and the lingering pallor on his face, he seemed more alive. He seemed to feel Dimitri looking at him too, as dark, exhausted eyes drifted over to meet his own. It took a moment, since Mariano probably needed a second to process anything with that fever. But then he smiled. 

“Holding up alright, little lamb?” Dimitri asked.

“Mmmhm. Glad you're awake, banana bread.” Mariano slurred, smile not wavering.

Laredo snorted, choking back a louder laugh. “That’s going in my phone right now.” As promised, he pulled out his phone and opened up his contacts. 

Dimitri just sighed, not able to bring himself to feel angry or irritated. “Whatever…” He muttered, settling back in against his pillow. 

When the other war mages filed in with Bastian right behind them, happy gasps and worried chatter filled the air. Manuel and Izan gave him the same updates they'd given Mariano earlier as Bastian took his seat next to his mage. They'd gone through and exterminated everyone there. No one died quick death. 

They’d even gotten him some shitty coffee on their way back from getting lunch. It was burned. It was too bitter, and watered down horribly. It wasn’t even that warm. Laredo had to help him sit up to drink it, with a steady hand at his back.

It was exactly what Dimitri needed.

[lesiasmadness]

Consider: chaos emerald assisted necromancy

No context for this one, just having fun with an edgy idea

Here's some more:

Bonus:

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

afton'd reader sets a man up to be straight up point blank Murdered and honestly, good for them, wish i could do that when someone flirts with me when im working smh

(i say that like i've been flirted with more than maybe two times in four years of customer service type shit)

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 28: “We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now”

Read it on Ao3

- Time/Malon

- Summary: an injured Link shows up at Lon Lon Ranch

CW for blood and injury, mentions of death and broken bones

——————————

Malon’s hands never shake.

She can’t afford for them to. Sure, there are times when they are a bit unsteady from exhaustion or stress. Sure, there are things that scare her enough to make them trembling a possibility. But in her world, when things get hairy there is only action and no time for anything else.

Now is no different. At least, that’s what she keeps telling herself. Her hands don’t tremble, even as blood oozes over them. Her thoughts don’t falter. No tears fall.

But they want to. Oh, they want to. Because this time feels so very different. She has dealt with wounded animals before and even wounded people (she will never forget the time Ingo got kicked in the leg by Epona; satisfying though it may have been after the man’s behavior, setting that bone wasn’t exactly what she would call enjoyable). Never before, however, has she held the broken body of someone she cares for quite so much.

“You’re an idiot, fairy boy,” she breathes as she presses another cloth to the gash running across her friend’s middle.

“‘m your idiot, though,” he mumbles back. Even now there is characteristic mischief peeking out from behind the exhaustion and pain straining his tone.

Malon rolls her eyes.

Link has been bleeding all over her nice, clean floors and furniture for at least five minutes now. And that’s after he rode in, slumped over Epona’s back, one hand pressed to his stomach, the other clutching the horse’s reins like a lifeline.

He had come because he had nowhere else to go, he had said when she had stepped out onto the porch, eyes wide and heart in her throat. Because he could think of nowhere else that would be safe. Where he would be accepted without hesitation.

And as she had helped him down from the saddle, as he had practically collapsed onto her arms, he had apologized. Assured her he would take care of the wound himself, if only she would provide him a place to stay. As though he were a stranger in her home and not her best friend.

“Oh, shush,” she had scolded, ushering him into the house and lowering him onto the nearest chair. “I’ll take care of everything. You just sit down.”

And meekly, he had obeyed.

Now, he watches her with a slightly dazed look, as she tries to save his life.

For that is what she is doing, really. If she doesn’t get this wound to stop bleeding soon, he’ll bleed out.

As it is, she’s afraid he won’t last the night.

She worries her bottom lip and reaches behind her for the bandages lying on the table.

“Care to tell me how this happened?” The sharp bite of fear is in her tone despite her attempts to restrain it.

And really, who cares at this point, anyway? Her fairy boy is hurt, badly. She’s allowed to be a little worried.

Link drags in an unsteady breath.

“Monster fight.”

“The usual, then.” She shakes her head, sighing. “What I wanna know is what kinda monster fight was it that got you this hurt? I don’t think you’ve ever come around looking like this before.”

Link blinks, long and slow. The blue of his eyes seems unnaturally bright. Maybe because of the light, maybe because of pain. Malon thinks it’s likely both. But it almost reminds her of that little fairy that used to follow him around.

“Did you go into a dungeon or somethin’?”

Her gaze is back on her work, now, as she ties the bandages as tightly as possible. But when he speaks she can hear something almost like guilt in his voice.

“I—” A sharp hiss, fingers fisting in the fabric of his tunic. Malon murmurs an apology, trying to ignore the way the sound is like a dagger to her heart. “I was looking for…for something.”

“Lookin’ for something huh?”

She ties off the gauzy strips of fabric now practically holding the man together and takes a moment to survey her work.

That should hold.

Now, to get that bleeding firmly under control before he passes out…or worse. She grasps the bottle of potion that she had snatched from the cupboard earlier. It’s always handy, she has found, for times when the healing power of Lon Lon milk isn’t quite up to par. Times like now.

“That had better have been one important treasure. Did you get it at least?”

A small smile lifts Link’s lips. Somehow, it doesn’t make him look any more alive. He’s too pale, too ashen. There’s too much blood, coating his tunic, coating his hands and dribbling down from his mouth and nose.

But at least he has the strength to smile. Malon is willing to appreciate small miracles.

“Yeah, I got it.”

Something in the way he says it makes her slightly suspicious. But she hardly has time to figure out why. She wipes her hands on a nearby cloth, quickly so as not to take in just how stark the crimson looks against the white. Then, she uncorks the potion bottle and gets to her feet.

Link moves trembling, crimson drenched fingers toward the bottle. But she shakes her head.

“Uh-uh. You’re weak. Let me.”

With one careful hand, she tips his chin up and holds the bottle to his lips with the other. He swallows its contents obediently.

“That should help,” she says, once he’s finished. She turns away, setting the bottle back on the table. “At the very least you won’t be bleeding everywhere anymore.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs. He sounds a bit stronger already, she thinks. But maybe she’s just fooling herself to distract from the worry currently chewing a hole in her gut.

“Anytime, fairy boy.”

Malon inspects the wound one more time, reassuring herself that it’s no longer in danger of bleeding through the bandages. Thankfully, the potion already seems to be doing its job. The bandages remain a clean, cottony white.

“Looks like you’re out of the danger zone,” she says with a sigh of relief. “But you’re gonna need some rest and a new set of clothes.”

She looks over him once more, frowning. He raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I’m gonna have to tend to those other wounds of yours too. I swear, you look like you let the horses trample you.”

There is a distinct twinkle in his eye now. Already, he is beginning to look a little more like himself.

“Ah, it’s a…a good look then. A seasoned adventurer kind of look.”

Her lips quirk up even as she glares at him.

“No. It’s not a good look. I thought that much was implied. And it’s the kind that gives me a heart attack.”

He grins. But it quickly turns into a grimace as she sets about cleaning a cut along his neck. Gently, she tilts her head to get a better look at it.

“Stay still, now, and let me work.”

He mumbles a tired-sounding reply. His eyes are beginning to drift closed, despite his efforts to keep them open. And as she tackles each injury, he grows closer and closer toward losing his grip on consciousness completely. But the time he is cleaned up and she has managed to help him fumble into one of Talon’s spare tunics he is practically asleep.

“There,” she murmurs, setting aside the bowl of water and multiple cloths that she had used. They tinge the water pink. “Feelin a little better now?”

She knows that she is. The terror of earlier has abated somewhat, every steady breath, every beat of his heart convincing her that the danger is gone. At least, for now.

For now, her fairy boy is safe. For now, her hands don’t shake.

He hums, sleepily. His gaze is trained on the fireplace now, seemingly mesmerized by the flames dancing there. But when she drapes a blanket over him he drags his gaze up to meet hers.

“Hey, Mal.”

“Yeah?”

“I…I think I’m in love with you.” He frowns, thought obviously a difficult task at the moment. “No…know I am.”

Malon stops short, edges of the blanket still clutched in her suddenly shaky hands. A short bark of laughter escapes, a bit louder than she means it to be.

“I think you’ve lost a little bit too much blood.”

“‘m fine,” he retorts, scowling. “Malon ‘m serious. I love you.”

Shaking her head, she tucks the blanket up around his chin and presses a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Alright, fairy boy. It’s time for you to get some sleep. We can pick up this conversation in the morning.”

His scowl becomes decidedly pouty, though he has little choice but to comply. His eyes slip closed, breath beginning to even out.

By the time, Malon has cleaned up the gory mess (she never wants to see this much blood again, especially not from him), and put away her tools, he is long gone. She allows herself a moment to gaze at him, slumbering peacefully, face illuminated by the flickering flames. He is less pale now and with the blood gone he looks more human. Younger, more like himself.

Reaching out, she rubs her thumb on his cheek, a smile playing on her lips.

“I love you too, Link.”

[star-trek-fandom-confessions]

#863

I personally do not understand human x Klingon or Vulcan x human pairings. Too many shattered pelvises and crushed genitals on the humans end.

[bonefall]

Are you going to keep Goosefeather's curse? If so are you going to change anything about it? From my memory the book was... depressing.

It will probably get rolled into Pinestar's Crusade, building it up into an SE rather than just a novella. There's actually a lot going on in that specific moment, and it makes sense to go over it all at once.

So to answer your question, yes, most of Goosefeather's Curse is staying. Most of the Crusade Generation have depressing stories to tell. If the Thistle Period is defined by the fact that Thistle Law metastasized and went terminal, and if the Campaign Era was when it was newly born, then the Crusade Era was when it was first conceived.

I've been thinking about Pinestar's Crusade idly and mentioned it a few times, but here's my fragments so far;

PINESTAR'S CRUSADE (Fuses Pinestar's Choice and Goosefeather's Curse)

We start in the Crusade Era; there is now more focus on 3 major characters, though it's still built around Pinestar as the POV

Pinestar, Goosefeather, and eventually Pinepaw's apprentice Speckletail.

Pinepaw is born into the start of the Crusades, a bloody period where the Clans are invading Chelford and brutalizing cats in the hopes of appeasing StarClan. He only begins to learn the full story of what happened in Darkstar's Commandment once he begins going to Gatherings as a warrior

The truth being that Oakstar came up with this idea because he couldn't take an L

But even as an apprentice, it becomes quickly apparent to him that what they're doing is evil. They were brutalizing kittypets who aren't trained to fight back.

During his first raid as an apprentice, he allows a ginger-and-white mother and her kittens to escape

This came back years later, when that queen, Crystal, forms BloodClan in response to the Crusades.

Pineheart watches Oakstar die barely a year later to the queen he saved, using early claw extenders to cut right through him. Even if he hadn't been on his last life, it would have ended him.

But, Crystal lets Pineheart go, recognizing the Clan cat who had saved her life.

Watching his dad die along with several friends, and countless more innocent Chelford, plus being released by Crystal, is a Formative Moment.

Doestar continues the Crusades in the name of revenge for Oakstar, but now that BloodClan exists and is ARMED, the easy raids become bloodbaths.

They slowly peter out, not with a bang but with a whimper. She never announces an official end, eventually she just stops organizing them. No one gets closure, especially not Pineheart.

But the 'peace' doesn't last. Just before Heatherstar takes power from Smallstar and begins the Campaign to take the Mothermouth Moorland, ThunderClan deals with the Great Hunger

Pineheart and Goosefeather become very good friends, part of a little buddy group that also included Tawnyspots and Pheasantfeather (who will become One-eye later)

Pineheart was given his first apprentice, a rowdy little one and the niece of Doestar, Specklepaw. He's tasked with helping her fill the pawsteps of greatness she's destined to walk in.

Just like canon, Goose predicts the Great Hunger... though, he is an adult this time around because of some timeline changes.

And, like canon, it fails. They couldn't stockpile enough food to last an entire year of famine, a scorching summer and a frozen winter, they end up losing a huge stock of their food as if it was destiny.

Goosefeather was forced into a role he hates, given horrible visions of the future, and argues ferociously with Pineheart; if they hadn't tried to stockpile, they wouldn't have lost all that food to begin with.

It is in this moment, he comes to realize that every time he's fought back and used his visions like a warning, it's backfired.

So, perhaps, they are instruction.

But, meanwhile, Pineheart can't loose his apprentice or his friends. While others were hunting desperately, he was keeping cats alive through scouting for grubs, foraying into other territories, and...

Every bite of kittypet food he took for himself was a morsel in someone else's mouth. But this... this he kept quiet.

It started a "bad habit" he could never break.

Having lost the previous deputy to starvation and on her deathbed, Doestar nominates Pineheart to the position. He was shocked and upset by this, but he was the obvious choice.

Son of Oakstar, Hero of the Hunger, the cat who had kept Specklepaw alive when all the other kits and apprentices starved.

But, Pinestar took the helm to extreme controversy.

Everything Pinestar's ever done that worked was nonviolent. He's never seen battle do anything but bring harm, and the thought of leading people into war... it makes him feel sick.

But the rest of the Clan can't see what he sees. They yearn for the glory days (even though they were not glorious at all), itch to die for a cause, and leave this old, disgusting subsistence survival behind them. ThunderClan wants blood and Pinestar just wants peace.

Taking back Sunningrocks is an example of this. To avoid losing Clanmates, he proposed to Hailstar that they would have a Joust, instead.

ThunderClan's strongest against RiverClan's strongest. Adderfang vs Mudfur.

It didn't go well.

The problem with those sorts of situations is you have to abide by the deal. RiverClan took Sunningrocks for 6 months. It was humiliating for ThunderClan.

Even the cats he'd saved from the famine were furious with him

The only things that DID seem to please the Clan was when he would throw them fully into battle. Such as Goosefeather's prophecy that WindClan's herbs needed to be destroyed...

Every time a situation like that happened, where Goosefeather would phrase things as a Holy Struggle, Pinestar was thrown right back to the Crusades

Terrified eyes, screeching, cats begging for mercy, his father dead at his paws and feeling horror and relief swirling

Sitting vigil for old friends killed in these horrible fights, like Moonflower, it made him feel like how he felt the day he buried Oakstar.

And the bile rose in his throat, remembering that Oakstar was not there at his Leadership Ceremony, damned to the Dark Forest.

A thought was born, here. What does StarClan truly want? What do they expect of him? If they will send the architect of the Crusades there...

What of a cat who stayed fed on human food and fed grubs to his Clanmates? Or a leader who never knows the right thing to do?

When Mumblefoot retired and Sunfall became deputy, the Clan seemed to love him more than Pinestar. He found himself just... sitting back, and allowing Sunfall to call the shots.

It was towards the end, when Leopardfoot proposed an Honor Siring. He was from a glorious legacy, she wanted kits... and on his end, he wanted the peace that raising kittens could bring.

The warmth of human dens was calling him, but perhaps the warmth of love for children could keep him home.

UNLIKE CANON; Nothing about Tigerkit was born evil.

There was no StarClan vision of Tigerstar; Goosefeather knew full well that Thistlestar was the Leader of Prophecy.

But Pinestar would never give Thistleclaw an apprentice in time. Nor would he ever give his own little son to a cat as vicious as him.

Goosefeather never hurt anyone... but Pinestar just needed a push.

Pinestar was already anxious, unhappy, clinging to the goodness that was his little kits. Even as two of them were lost to minor illnesses, shortly after receiving their names.

It wasn't a lie. It was just half of the truth.

"Pinestar... you have a choice to make. StarClan has given me a vision of blood and war, and Tigerkit will have a role to play in it."

He DID have a vision... of Thistlestar. Not Tigerkit. But that was enough for Pinestar, his fear and trauma took the helm from there.

He'd seen his friends, his apprentice, the kits who had been born and died in his rule, all of them turn into the monsters Clan Culture demanded

Nothing he did ever seemed to work, why would THIS moment be different?

How could he prevent Tigerkit from becoming like that too?! Was StarClan telling him to KILL his son??

Pinestar's never had a vision from StarClan. He doesn't have the aptitude like a Cleric... what he has is a nightmare, of Tigerkit growing so large he crushes the whole camp under his claws

After a week of agony, Pinestar unknowingly creates a prophecy of his own,

"Can only the death of a child break fate?"

Sensing he was close to victory, Goosefeather dipped his head, not denying his question.

And it's the last straw.

And that is the climax of Pinestar's Crusade. Broken from his experiences, every turn taken for peace causing him more pain, the idea that he might have to hurt his own son plaguing his mind, he makes the choice to leave.

It wasn't hard, he'd still had that old bad habit of taking bites of kittypet food, a couple friends on the other side. But what he doesn't know is that by leaving with his life... he prevents Sunstar from acquiring his own.

Sunstar had ONE single life, StarClan was not able to give him more with the previous leader still alive. For leaving his Clan, for unknowingly preventing the transfer of power, and for dismissing the Warrior Code, Pinestar is sent to the Dark Forest after his death.

He can choose to walk there, or spend time in the mortal plane as just a spirit, but StarClan offers him no place in the cosmos.

[catgirlscratches]

I just realized

Inspector Cabanela is left with broken bones but a spotless coat, just like how he had to go through immense pain, betraying his friendship with jowd just to keep a spotless facade, not showing his pain or failures to the outside world. Oughh this game is good

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whumpril 2023 - Day 13

Sometimes we comfort the strong brave Archer, sometimes we scare the shit out of him and the rest of the team. c: Thank you forever to @that-one-thespian!! Also is this technically what the prompt asked for? Maybe, maybe not! But it works!

TWs: buried alive, grief, blood, broken bones mentioned, near death experience

Blurry Vision | Support | “I think I need to sit down.”

"Bastian! Mariano!"

Jewel cautiously approached the pile of concrete and metal. The air smelled like spilled gasoline and dust. The air was hazy, choking. She had to tug her shirt over her nose and mouth to even hope to breathe.

It was silent.

Archer was already calling for their two missing people, hands on either side of his mouth. His voice was steady, strong. Jewel felt the panic he stomped down loud and clear, though. The guilt that threatened to swallow him alive. There was no triumphant laugh from Bastian, no shifting of rubble as he stood and announced that explosives were no match for a dragon's hide. There was no pair of dark hands breaking free, no mage with fire in his eyes pulling himself from the destruction like it was the only thing on his mind.

"Can either of you hear us?" Archer started climbing, gripping twisted rebar with his prosthetic as he tried to survey the pile of destruction for any movement. "Fuck--fuck, I don't think they got out." Archer's voice shook, just for a moment as he hauled himself to the top.

"That's, that's a lot of metal." Fletcher sounded faint as he approached too, pulling his sweatshirt sleeves over his hands to protect them as he followed Archer. The twisted remains of construction equipment were half-buried, crushed from the force behind their fall. "That's a lot of metal. How much, how much equipment was being kept upstairs?"

This had been a storage facility for construction equipment. The basement had been their target. Mariano and Bastian had gone ahead to scout, swallowed by the darkness of the stairwell and the click of a door shutting. The rest of them had stayed on the ground level to investigate further.

Elana had heard the transmitters turn on before anyone else.

This trap had been meant to kill them all.

Jewel carefully, cautiously looked around. She scanned, searching for some vague feeling or emotion that could've been coming from Bastian or Mariano. Anything. Even dread, the certainty that they were dying, would've been more welcome than the absolute stillness. The silence was suffocating.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, swallowing down the urge to cry. It would be a miracle to find them alive and unharmed. A deeply improbable, unreliable miracle. It was just unthinkable that they'd still be there to rescue, not after tons and tons of material had been dropped on their heads. Jewel had to accept that they were probably trying to find bodies. They were probably trying to find pieces of bodies.

She had to brace for that inevitable wave of horror and grief.

Bastian and Mariano had been further down after all, deeper in the warehouse than anyone else. Archer hadn't argued too much when Mariano had suggested it--what Mariano couldn't handle, Bastian certainly could. They wouldn't be going alone, either. It would be safe and keep the rest of the team available for backup if it was needed.

They had all figured this would be a trap. An ambush. A fight. They hadn't counted on the person they were tailing to bring down a whole building in an attempt to get rid of them.

Bastian and Mariano's comms hadn't sent out a single transmission since the first explosions went off. One urgent "Get out of here" from Mariano, not even a second after Elana had already picked Fletcher and Jewel up and started sprinting. That had been it. The last words they'd heard--telling the team to escape.

It had been so loud. They'd all been shouting, calling names and instructions and directions as terror snapped at their minds. They'd barely made it out to a safe distance by the time the closest explosives went off. All five of them had collapsed, holding each other. Shaking and clinging. It had been a struggle to not be overcome by all the emotion, Jewel bracing herself against Elana as her head spun.

Now, all they could do was search. Desperately, Fletcher shouted for either of his and Archer's boyfriends. "Bastian! Mariano! Please, anything! Anything at all!" He begged, voice cracking under the weight of his tears.

And then she felt something.

There.

Jewel's attention snapped to one spot in particular. There was a flicker of something: confusion. Pain. Worry. "Over here! Elana, over here!" She shouted, darting to the spot she could feel it coming from. "Under this--this big piece, right here. Can you lift it?" That flicker fanned into something more substantial. Hope. Relief.

Elana laughed, grim and confident as she rolled her shoulders. "Always." Elana got her fingers up under the concrete and rebar slab, and Jewel saw her arms tense. Her shoulders strained as she kept her back straight, breathing evenly as she lifted. Archer hurried over, levering his prosthesis up under it to help. Together they gently set it down, just to the side.

There, half-buried next to a still-partially-standing support beam and scowling in the light, was Bastian.

The dust in the air was too thick, it clung to Bastian's hair, his skin, turning even the dark red of his blood a pasty grey. Bastian tried to move, hissing and gripping his side before he met Archer's eyes and seemed to realize what he was seeing.

"A...Archer?" He croaked as both Elana and Archer started sweeping away everything that covered him. "Is...is everyone okay?"

Archer and Elana finally got Bastian revealed, their hands keeping him from sitting up as Jewel knelt by his side to start looking him over.

"Bastian--fuck, we're okay, we got out." Archer said, holding Bastian's face in his hands. "You're alive. You're here, you're okay." He whispered, as though he were trying to convince himself that he wasn't imagining this. Archer had to take a moment before he spoke again, squeezing his eyes shut. "We haven't found Mariano yet." Jewel didn't miss the tremble in his voice, or how he pressed that terror down further.

"Oh..." Bastian groaned, one hand pressing against his eyes. He was dazed. "He's...he has to be here. Got...we got separated in one of the blasts." Jewel saw how Archer's face twisted, felt how his tightly controlled grief flared high and hot. "Feels like my ribs got stomped on by a bull." Something had cut Bastian in the chaos, freshly drawn blood trickling down his face.

"You might have some broken ribs." Jewel said, frowning. She circled around to his other side, pressing her ear to his back. "Breathe for me, Bastian." She didn't hear any rattling when he did. "Good. Okay, Elana, let's start moving him to the van, be careful with his spine--"

A horrified gasp drew their attention. Fletcher was pulling frantically at a pile of rubble towards the outer edge, tossing smaller pieces aside. Wren was at his side, looking equally alarmed as she saw the same thing he did. A harsh, strangled coughing filled the air as they pulled one particularly heavy-looking piece of metal away.

Jewel felt her own hope soar amid the confusion and pain she could feel from that direction. She knew that cough. She knew that breathless, painful sound.

"Mariano! Mariano, Marito, we have you." Fletcher's voice soothed, and as Jewel stood again, she saw Fletcher and Wren with their arms wrapped tightly around Mariano. He was bloodied, curled up, and completely caked in dust. His hands clutched at them both, leaving grey hand prints on both of them as he tried to catch his breath.

Jewel ran over, realizing that one little portion of an outside wall was still standing at Mariano's back. The metal they'd pulled away had been a solid work table. She could almost imagine him scrambling under it and curling up amid the destruction and noise.

Crouching down, Jewel started examining Mariano. Some possible breaks, some cuts, and he'd be lucky if he wasn't completely black and blue the next day--not to mention the worry about what was in the dust they'd all been choking on. But...he wasn't much worse off than Bastian. This was all fixable. None of it was an immediate risk to life.

As they all slid back into the van, shaking and dirty and exhausted, Jewel slumped into the passenger seat. Archer and Fletcher were in the back. They were holding hands and kissing dust-caked foreheads, helping Elana to keep Mariano and Bastian from getting jostled around too much as a teary Wren drove them back to the clinic.

Jewel had been a doctor for too long to accept miracles as legitimate possibilities. However, maybe this time, she thought. Maybe this time she could accept a miracle.

[snowe-zolynn-rogers]

What kind of things did eclipse go through when being bought and sold?

Unspeakable things. Abuse of all forms. Torture, broken bones, manipulation, gaslighting, beatings, ect. Basically the only thing that his owners wouldn't do was cut dismemberment, since him being in one piece was in the agency's selling clause.

[ravenzeppeli]

🩸Twisted Fate |Yandere Ghiaccio x Reader Angst|

Warning: strong/violent language, threats, kidnapping, murder [random men], physical abuse, dark thoughts [thoughts of - noncon, abuse, torture], verbal abuse, torture [broken bones, choking, beating]. Extremely dark - MA.

Comission

Ghiaccio's POV

Ghiaccio could clearly remember the day that you vanished away from him eight years ago, your entire family, as well as you moving away. For years, he's tried to track you down, searching for you, for any signs of your existence so he could return you back to himself. You belonged to him, and one day, he felt as if you would return to him.

As the years passed, he started to lose hope, his mafia affiliations being no help in tracking you down either. How could someone just up and vanish? The pain of losing you was hard for him, his sadness turning into a permanent, icy rage that he could no longer control. How dare you just up and leave him after he promised to marry you once the two of you turned 18. You've wasted so much of his life with you, and now he's going to be all alone forever. All alone because you fucking left him.

Months had finally passed since he'd last continued his long search for you. Despite him thinking of you every single day, he tried his best to distract himself heavily with work. At night when he got home he would pull out an old picture of you, staring at it until his eyes were fucking blurry and watering. You were permanently burned into the back of his mind. All he was left with was one single fucking picture of you as a reminder of what he lost forever. A reminder of a perfect love that he thought that he lost forever.

As a folder with your picture appeared on the mission table, Ghiaccio's heart nearly jumped out of his chest as he snatched up the folder. Instead of lying to his capo Risotto he explained who you were and how much you meant to him, how you were his high school sweetheart that he lost once the two of you hit adulthood due to you vanishing. Lying to his capo was something that he never did, Risotto was understanding when it came to his men. He was a great captain and someone he trusted deeply.

The man who placed a hit on your head was a random male, a male having no ties to the mafia, but it seemed that you had ties to a completely different mafia organization, a new organization that was trying to rise above the rulings of Passione. The group was small, only five men and you in total, and he planned to fucking kill all five of those bastards. In fact, Risotto gave him permission to kill not only those five men but the man who placed a hit on you as well. As fate would have it, you would be returning to him after all. He would be allowed to keep you. To have you as his again.

Risotto made it clear to Ghiaccio that he would have to complete this on his own, and that if he messed up he may just lose his life, but it was a risk that he was willing to take. It was a risk that he was always willing to take, especially now, considering the stakes were so high. The stakes of you being all his again, rather you fucking liked it or not. You didn't have a choice. You belonged to him, and he would make sure that you would never leave his side again.

It only took him one day to take out the pathetic hitman team that you were a part of. Smaller mafia families always disgust him, and the fact that his beautiful beloved was a part of that? It pissed him off, and it pissed him off even more when he realized that you actively were living 30 minutes away from him. Right under his nose.. for years you've been fucking right here, right under his fucking nose, purposefully avoiding him. How dare you. Why would you not want to be with him?

Tracking you down now that you had no protection wasn't hard. In fact, it seemed as if you were waiting for him. He entered a cheap apartment complex, the dim lights flickering as he pushed into the apartment complex where you lived. One of your fucking teammates ratted out where you were in exchange for his own life. After the man disclosed your location, Ghiaccio blew his fucking cock off with three quick shots, watched him bleed out, enjoying every second of it. That's how he killed all five of your teammates as well as the man that placed a hit on you, feeling enraged with the fact that those men were around you while he was stuck without you for the past eight years.

Sitting right on a worn-out dark leather couch was you, your head raising slowly, body immediately going stiff once you saw him. You looked so much older, so much more beautiful than he remembered.. that pissed him off, his hands balling into fists as he slammed your apartment door shut as he stepped in, locking it with a swift motion.

The tension was so thick that it could be cut with a knife, a knife that he wanted to slice across your soft skin as punishment for leaving him. Your soft, beautiful flesh.. he wanted to fucking tear into you for leaving him. He wanted to beat you bloody, bruise up your pretty little face and break your nose. He wanted to make sweet love to you, filling your cunt with his seed. So many things.. he wanted to do so many beautiful things to you.

"You fucking cunt," Ghiaccio growled, his heart skipping a rapid beat as he approached you. With no hesitation, he pulled out his gun, pointing it straight at you. "Eight fucking years.. I've been waiting eight long years to see you again. Where the fuck did you go!?" He pressed the barrel of the gun to your forehead as you raised your head to look up at him. You couldn't fucking run away from him now, he would blow your goddamn brains out if you tried anything stupid. Or he would crack your head open with the gun, whichever he was feeling.

A tad bit of fear washed over your cute little face, your eyes slightly widening as he pressed the barrel of the gun deeper into your forehead, forcing you to look up at him further. "Ghiaccio," you whispered, venom dripping from your voice. How dare you not speak to him with love. "I didn't want to marry you so I left. We were graduating in a week so I panicked and left, I left you a note behind." The disrespect.. he couldn't believe the disrespect that he had endured for so long.

A dry laugh escaped his lips as he dropped the gun from your forehead, a small circle imprint being on the center of your forehead due to how hard he pressed the gun against your forehead. His free hand balled into a tight fist, crashing into the side of your head with force, your body limply falling to the side. "NO!" He screamed, rage filling his body. "Your shitty note only said bye and nothing else, you dumb cunt!"

Anger completely took over his body in this moment as he climbed on top of you, his fist raising, crashing into the side of your face, making a low pop sound, a pained cry escaping your lips. "Cry, fucking cry you unloyal whore! I know you let those men fuck you, they said you didn't but I know they're lying! You're mine, you're fucking mine!" He raised his body slighly, his fist raising again.

A sharp sting across Ghiaccio's cheek caused him to freeze up, his glasses flying off of his face, making a light thump sound as they hit the ground. In the past, when he beat you up, you would cry and beg for mercy. Never did you hit him back in the past. These eight years have changed you. They've made you unclean. He didn't like the feeling of not having control over you. He expected to slip into immediate control.

"Fuck you," you spat up at him, your blood coating his face. "I hate you, I never loved you!" Tears were rolling down your face, that causing a grin to appear on his lips, despite your words and you slapping him, your tears meant that he was breaking you again. What he was about to do to you, he would take much joy in it. He would enjoy this so fucking much, because as beautiful as you are, as much as he wanted to marry and impregnate you, you needed to be hurt. If he hurt you badly, he would just fix you up. It was fine, he could fix you up and buy you things later on once he finished destroying you mentally as he did oh so long ago.

Your entire face was bloody, blood pouring from the side of your head, your entire left side of your face sporting a large purple bruise that had blood seeping from a small cut the middle of the large bruise. Your bottom lip was slightly rolled out, swollen with little bite marks from where you bit down on your lip. You must have done that to muffle your pain. How fucking pathetic.

He grabbed the hand that dared to slap him, bending three of your fingers back until he heard three snaps. "Dumb cunt, think I care about your love!?" He snapped, low sobs escaping your mouth, your body finally trembling beneath him as he held up your hand, your three broken fingers starting to swell and turn purple. "I will rip your fucking fingers off and shove them down your throat if you ever slap me again! Now apologize before your entire arm gets broken, you brainless bitch!"

"S-sorry," you gasped out, his other hand quickly wrapping around your throat, beginning to squeeze.

Killing you would be so easy, so easily he could squeeze your fragile little throat until your body went limp. He could leave you here to rot, leave your body in this dump of a place for the rats to pick at you. No.. he's waited this long. He's waited for you to come home with him and marry him. You belonged with him, he couldn't just end your life. Ending your life would mean that you would be gone forever. He wanted to kiss and fuck you, he wanted you to be his property again.

He continued to squeeze, watching the life slowly drain from your eyes as you weakly wiggled beneath him. "Come back with me or die." His hand squeezed harder as your mouth muttered 'die', his other hand raising, beginning to repeatedly punch you in your stomach, not using his full strength so that you could still answer him. "Come back with me! Marry me! I'll beat you to death, I'll strip you naked and beat you for weeks until you die! I know how to keep someone alive for a long time, I've tortured countless men to death!"

Pained moans escaped your lips, your tears mixing with your blood, staining your neck red. "Fine!" You cried out, blood spilling from your mouth. "S-stop, I'll do it!"

He let go of your throat, leaving a dark bruise behind, the blood that coated your neck caked onto the side of his hand. He didn't mind. After all, you deserved this beating. You deserved to have your throat fucking slit for leaving him those many years ago, but he would push that from his mind. After all, he loved you. He didn't want to kill you, he only wanted to beat you so that you would love him and be submissive. He would beat all of the ignorance out of you, beating his love into you.

"I love you baby," he muttered, his throat sore from all of the yelling that he's done all day. He's yelled more today than he's ever has in his entire life, and that was saying a lot. "I've searched for you these past years, I'm so happy that you'll be returning to me." He let himself lean down, his body leaning over you as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling your limp body into a tight hug. "My sweet girl, did you think I wouldn't find you? It was fate, we are meant to be!" That folder showed up for a reason. Fate wanted you to be his. The universe had brought you back into his arms, and he was so grateful.

"P-please," you sobbed, but he didn't know why you were sobbing. Shouldn't you be happy that he found you again? "I don't wa -"

"I don't give a fuck!" He snapped, raising his hand, roughly smacking the back of your head. "Now hug me back. I'm your fiancé now, and soon I'll be your husband. You'll be beaten and fucked until you are perfect."

Weaky, your arms wrapped around him, sobs escaping your mouth as you clung to him. You said nothing, and he liked that you weren't saying anything. You just needed to shut the fuck up and accept his anger. You being submissive and kind will get you treats, fighting back and being mouthy would get your teeth knocked down your throat. Either way, he would get what he wanted. All he wanted was you, he found you beautiful with or without a fucked up face and missing teeth. The choice was up to you.

"Good girl," he muttered, sitting up as he pulled you into his lap, placing a kiss on your forehead. "I'm so glad to finally have you back. Isn't fate perfect?" He got no reply, a satisfied hum escaping your lips as your head weakly rested on his chest, your low sobs providing him with comfort, a smile appearing on his lips as he listened to you sob and shake in his arms. He was so happy to have you back, so relieved. Relieved because now you were his again, and he wouldn't ever let you slip away from his grasp again.

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Continued from this

Author's Notes: gonna see where this Cloe story takes me

Content Warnings: winged whumpee, captivity, broken bones, recovery, reluctant caretaker, mentions of death, 'it' as a pronoun

----

This morning when Galea left home Cloe was still asleep. But when she returns midday he's finally awake, lying on his back and staring up at the high ceiling. When she enters he carefully sits up.

Galea shuts the door a little too hard and Cloe jumps. He holds his splinted arm protectively and keeps his head down.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Galea says, not to comfort him but because it's a fact. She hands up each of her weapons one by one and removes her outer layer.

"Am I yours now?" Cloe asks cautiously.

"Just for today."

"Then what?"

It should be easy to tell him, but Galea hesitates. In the silence Cloe draws his own conclusion.

"Then I go back to him?"

"Not exactly."

"Please tell me," Cloe pleads, eyes welling with tears. "Why am I here? Why bother patching me up if he's just going to hurt me again?"

Galea isn't sure herself. She makes a mental note to stop sitting at Omeron's table. It will save her a lot of future trouble.

"He plans to get rid of you," she says bluntly, seeing no point in sugarcoating it. "He gave you to me for the day to try out. That's all."

Suddenly Cloe is very pale and still.

"Get rid of me," he quietly says to himself. "How?"

"Come on, you don't really want to know."

"He's going to throw me off the mountain." It isn't a question.

Galea frowns. "How did you know that?"

Cloe pulls Galea's cloak tight around himself. He's shaking and staring blankly ahead.

"We find them sometimes, you know. The ones who get dropped. We find their bodies on the ground or caught on branches. They're so shattered and bloody sometimes we can't even tell who it is."

A chill runs through Galea at the mental image that conjures.

"I don't want my family to find me like that," Cloe continues softly. "If he's going to kill me, fine, but please...not like that. Anything else. Please."

"It's not up to me," Galea says.

But as she says it, she considers...maybe it could be up to her. She has no use for Cloe, but has no doubt Omeron would let her keep him if she asked. Maybe she could give him some dignity in death. Even the hawks and falcons her people keep as companions are given that, while the small-wings are discarded like spoiled meat.

Cloe is now fully enveloped in the cloak, hiding his face while he cries. Galea offers no comfort, but does set a jug of water and a plate of fruit and nuts out for him before she leaves.

-

"So," Omeron begins. Galea can hear the smirk in his voice before she even looks at him. "What do you think?"

"Nothing yet," she answers coolly, "it's too damaged to do anything."

Omeron scoffs. "If it can walk it can work."

"With one arm?"

"Yeah, who cares?" Omeron leans in, a wicked grin on his face. "Don't tell me you're getting soft, Gal - "

In an instant she has his head pinned to the table and one of his fingers in her hand, pulled back just far enough to hurt.

"Go ahead," she dares him, "say that again. You don't need this finger, right?"

She bends it further and Omeron yells.

"Okay, okay! Come on, I was joking! Let me go!"

Galea keeps him like that another moment. She bets he never gave in when Cloe begged. Picking on something so small and helpless...coward.

Finally she releases him. He sits quickly sits up and scoots away from her, shaking out his hand and laughing nervously.

"How about I let you keep it another few days?" he offers.

Galea doubts a few more days will make her decide to keep the small-wing. But she has already made up her mind that Cloe is never going back to Omeron. She tells herself this isn't sympathy, but spite towards the boastful warrior who gets his kicks torturing things weaker than him.

"Deal," she says, turning back to her dinner. Omeron wisely takes his meal elsewhere.

[sacredwrath]

P1. Three days

This is part 1 of a long oc whump fic I've been working on. Check the masterpost for possibly triggering themes to come later.

Torture for information, nonbinary whumpee, male whumper, breaking whumpee, vauge military setting, beating, broken bones mention, negative self talk

Jesse watches a faint sliver of sunlight creep under their cell door. It illuminates their surroundings just enough to see the dim outline of their hand laying against the cold cement. Their fingers are broken on this hand and look like gnarled twigs soaking up the pale sunlight.

With each passing second, the light grows brighter, and their heart picks up speed. Dread sits heavy in their gut, pinning them to the floor more effectively than the chain around their neck.

Soon.

Jesse groans, pain lancing through them as they wriggle their unwilling body further into the corner's illusion of safety. Part of them is disgusted at their own futile desperation, but a louder part just wants to be as far from the door as they can get.

Pathetic

Give up. The traitor in their head prods.

“Shut up.” they hiss back. What's happening to them?

Relax, they remind themself. Stay calm. Be patient, the others will come for you.

If they wanted to, they would've come by now. The traitor whispers back. As always, it sounds like Morgan's voice.

As if conjured by the though, the lock rattles and their cell door swings open.

"Morning sunshine!"

Jesse tries to scramble back, but their body is already pressed up against the stone wall. Officer Adrian Morgan closes the distance in a few brisk strides, grabbing the chain around their neck and hoisting them from the floor.

"Miss me?" He drives a punch directly into the mass of dark bruises covering their ribs eliciting a cry of pain.

A month ago Jesse would have fought back. Weeks ago they would have hid their pain under a blanket of snarky defiance, but now it's all they can do to keep from dissolving into hysterics. Pathetic

Morgan hurls them to the ground. On instinct, they try to catch themself, but only manage to land on their bad hand, sending burning jets of pain blazing up up their arm.

They're screaming before the beatings even started.

Each kick targets their injuries. Morgan's steel toed boots hitting cracked bones and untreated gashes. They want to sob, but can only manage whimpers as the air is driven from their lungs again and again.

Stop, please stop, please!

Jesse begs silently, not letting the traitorous words past their lips.

When it's over, Morgan speaks to them. They can't understand his words.

Desperately, they try to calm themself. Slowing their panicked breaths, letting the sensation help draw them back.

Morgan is dragging the cell's only piece of furniture, a low wooden stool over to where they huddle. It's pointless, but every fiber of their being screams at them to run.

To disappear

"Good, now you're awake, we can get going." Morgan's voice is cheerful, as always. As if they're old friends on their way to lunch. As if his boots weren't stained with their blood.

Jesse can only manage a groan.

"Oh stop being so dramatic!" Morgan chides. "I've barely touched you."

Jesse draws a trembling breath, trying to form words through the pain.

"Clearly." They snap.

Morgan rolls his eyes. "Oh please, you entitled little shit! Trust me, it could be a lot worse."

Jesse doesn't trust him.

"Which I'll happily show you unless you start talking. I'm not asking for much, not even names. Just give me the location of your base. If you're lucky your little band of idiots will be gone by now. They'd have to be morons to stay after we caught you." He pauses, “which is possible, I guess. After all, they did let you join up.”

He pulls a long knife from his belt and carefully begins paring his nails. For a long moment neither say a word.

Jesse stares at the ground, trying to avoid looking at the knife in their enemies hands. They've been through this before. At this point, more times than they can count. It's not an option, they can't give up the others. They won't. No matter what.

Morgan won't go easy on them, the thought alone makes their blood run cold. But there's nothing they can do. They just have to pray someone comes back for them. Betraying their location wouldn't be as simple as letting slip a base or safe house, their base is their home. Most of the team grew up there. Even if they did abandon it, the location would give away several of their identities and that would be fatal. For years they've managed to keep it secret, not just from AQUA police, but from the entire world. That secrecy is precious and hard won. Not a single soul outside their family knows where to find them, and Jesse refuses to be the one to screw that up.

Something small and sharp hits their face, interrupting their thoughts. Morgan flicks another piece of fingernail at them.

"You're not going to hold out much longer." He observes. "You're almost at breaking point already."

"You're wrong" Jesse wishes their voice was a little less shaky. Morgan grins

"Am I? Look at yourself." He gestures with the knife and they can't hide their flinch. "You realize you're almost completely unbound now? Any competent rebel would have grabbed that chain and used it to choke me out by now. Hell, even you would've tried some stupid shit like that a few weeks ago. But what happened?" He pouts. "You were always pathetic, but now..." he gestures to them again, huddled shivering at his feet. "How much longer do you really think you'll last?"

Despite themself his words hit home. Jesse wonders the same thing. Every agonizing second that passes in this place kills another piece of them. How long till there's nothing left?

Morgan lowers his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. "I bet you lay awake at night so scared it feels like it's eating you alive. You worry the fear alone might kill you. I bet you wonder why your precious crew hasn't come to get you yet. What if they forgot me?" Morgan whines in a mocking sing-song. "It's worse than that though. They're glad you're gone."

The words hit like a gut punch. It's not true. Their friends love them, they would never abandon them. especially not to a fate like this. Their friends love them. Don't they?

"That's not true! You won't convince me to betray them by pretending to know us. I won't betray them." Jesse spits back. They sound confident, angry, but their tormentors lips still twitch with barely contained amusement.

"Sure you will." He looks thoughtful. "Just give it time. You already have, in the little ways. When you got here you trusted them completely, but the longer it takes for them to save you the more you wonder. Was any of it real? They were pretending to care about you the whole time. Pretending you matter. Lucky for you, I'm here! Here to remind you just how worthless you really are.” He kicks out lazily, making contact with a burn on their shin eliciting a gasp of pain. “Eventually you'll realize how stupid you were to think anyone could care about something like you. You'll remember what it feels like to be nothing." He spits the last words, watching them flinch as he articulates the very thoughts the traitor whispers in their head. “Maybe you never really forgot…” he trails off, watching them. Fresh tears well in their eyes. They want to disappear.

They can't take it anymore

"I give you three days." He stands, casually flicking the knife closed and glances at his watch. "Damn. Wasted all our time chatting again! Lucky you." He winks, dragging the stool carefully out of reach. "Don't miss me too much.'' He gives a little wave and strides from the cell.

Masterpost | Next

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Hand in Hand (part eight)

@whumptober Alt. 12: Broken

cw: broken bones (didn't see that coming did you :) ), death mention, deathwish

prev ///// au masterlist ///// next

~ ~ ~

He's on the verge of sleep when he hears noise outside the room; shuffling, muted voices, the click of the lock.

It's time to act.

Dan knows nothing is optimal about the situation; he'll be outnumbered for sure, and even if he wasn't, he'd already be at a significant disadvantage from his physical condition. Surprise is the only tool he has, and once he uses it, he knows he can't hesitate. It's all or nothing. Escape now, or die trying. Better that than this unlife Swift has him trapped in.

He'll wait for them to unlock his restraints, of course. He'll probably even let them get a good distance down the hall, let them sink into the complacency of routine, then he'll make his gambit. If there's only two guards this time, he stands a fighting chance. Hell, even with three, he might just be desperate enough to pull it off. And if he fails... if he fails, he can only hope that she doesn't let Wes suffer for it for long.

Dan closes his eyes, breathing slow and quiet as the door swings open. If he feigns sleep, will they be put more at ease?

"Good afternoon, Mr. Melchior."

His eyes fly open, and he turns his head fast enough that his previously-subdued headache flares back to life, making him wince.

The guards are here, but they aren't alone. Mercury Swift is at their side, smiling down at him.

A sick feeling begins to coil in his stomach, his body sensing a wrongness before his mind can catch up. It's okay, he tells himself. Don't panic. Let her say her piece and save the plan for next time.

But what is her piece? She's never come directly to his room like this, he's always been brought to her. Is she here to make threats? Tell him how she'll be puppeting him at the next meeting?

"Is it already afternoon?" he replies, the words scraping against his throat as they leave it. He doesn't care.

"Ah, forgive me. It must be difficult to tell the time from in here."

"What do you want?" He's too tired to carry the banter for long. He just wants her to spit it out and leave him alone.

To his surprise, she doesn't chastise him for being impolite. "Straight to the point, then." Her smile widens. "I've been doing some thinking these last few days."

Dan's heartbeat is speeding up, thrumming in his chest. He tries to ignore it.

"Since your little... escape stunt, I've realized it's not possible to be too careful."

Breathe. Keep breathing.

Swift turns to one of the guards. "Alright, send him in."

The Riot King leaves, and Dan's chest tightens. Him. Wes? Is she about to force him to watch another fucking demonstration?

But when the door swings back open, it's just another guard, this one holding a heavy metal pipe. His stomach drops.

"Right leg, I think," Swift says to him, then sits back and watches Dan pull uselessly at his chains as the man and the weapon close in on him.

"No..." He needs to think, needs to find a way out of this. "Swift, please," he gulps down air, mind frantic for any words that might sway her. "You've already punished me for the escape, th-this isn't necessary--"

"It isn't a punishment, it's security," she murmurs, sounding disinterested.

"What about the meetings?" he tries. The man reaches the bed. "What will your allies think?"

"You don't need to walk to be useful to me," Swift says. "And is a broken leg really so uncommon?"

The pipe raises, and Dan isn't sure if it's the Riot King holding it that's dragging out the moment, or his own panic. Any plans he has, any hope of making it out, will shatter with the bone. Forget fighting, how will he walk? How will he carry Wes?

"Please!" he cries, jerking on the chains, causing nothing but a sharp clink. "Please, don't do this, I won't do it again, I swear--"

"It's your leg or your friend's," Swift replies. "Make your choice."

The obvious choice is Wes. If Wes can't walk, that's fine. Dan can take care of him. If Dan can't walk, they're both doomed. But even as he opens his mouth, he can't say it.

Spare me. Hurt him instead. Break his leg, make him scream and tell him it's because of me.

He can't. His body is recoiling more from the thought of that than the thought of being hurt.

He can't be responsible for any more of Wes's pain.

He inhales shakily. "No. Don't hurt him."

"That's what I thought."

Dan closes his eyes.

He hears it before he feels it. A brief whoosh as the pipe cuts the air, followed by a sharp sound that's more crunch than crack.

At first, the pain is surreal. A distant, impossible explosion, so bright it hurts his eyes. The air in his lungs freezes, the air in his throat chokes him, and for a moment he can't even scream. His leg, just below his knee, is engulfed in something jagged and inescapable, like someone is taking a cheese grater to the bone.

He barely feels himself being unchained, trying to hold as still as possible to avoid making his leg any worse, and when a hand closes around his wrist, yanking him off the bed, he doesn't even think to fight it.

His now-broken leg is the first thing to hit the ground, and Dan screams, crumpling into a heap. He bangs his head on the bedframe in his haste to take weight off the limb, but he doesn't feel it. Hands catch hold of him from either side, hoisting him back up, and even though he's careful not to let his bad leg touch the ground, the pain is almost enough to steal his consciousness.

He wishes it would.

The guards start walking, dragging him with them, and every little shift is enough to make him cry out. Every bit of strength that remains in him is devoted to keeping the bad leg off the ground, no room left for wondering where they're taking him, wondering what comes next.

Somehow, there's still room for fear. Not the overthinking, frantic planning Dan's used to, but a blind, pain-driven panic.

The movement suddenly stops, and then he's being shoved forward, into colder air, onto rough concrete. The impact with the ground goes right to the shattered bone, sending a sharp wave of nausea through him, and for a long while he can do nothing but lie as still as possible and gasp for air.

He doesn't know how long it takes for his body to get used to the worst of the pain, his consciousness finally pulling back its focus from his leg as it accepts this as his new state.

He's in the cell. Subconsciously, he already knew that, but now that he's actually aware of it, he lifts his head, eyes sweeping the dim room until they land on Wes. The other man is curled up tightly, with his back to Dan. His ribcage is heavily bruised, his skin layered with unhealed welts. Every breath must be agony, but he is still breathing. Still alive. Dan isn't sure if that's a mercy anymore.

He inches towards Wes, pulling on the concrete with his hands, pushing off with his good leg. The movement, however slow, is excruciating, grating against the fragmented bone like the teeth of a predator, but he keeps going, breathing through tightly clenched teeth, not trying to stop the tears from pouring down his face.

This might be it. This might be the last of the time he has with Wes, and he isn't about to waste it. Inch by inch, foot by foot, Dan drags himself across the cell floor, the pain in his leg building to a howl long before he reaches his friend.

But he does reach him. Shuddering, panting, crying, but he's there.

"Wes..?" He reaches out, carefully lays a trembling hand on his shoulder. There's no indication that Wes is conscious, but his bare skin is cold, so Dan shifts again, wincing through the movement, until he's tucked up behind him, chest to back, one arm draped carefully over his side. His leg is throbbing, but Dan holds as still as he can, not wanting to agitate the wounds on Wes's back, the ones he caused.

Fuck, how did things get this bad?

How could his own men hate him enough to let them both suffer like this? How could Swift be so cruel? How could he be stupid enough to let it happen, to let Wes drag himself into it, to not escape when he had the chance? How?

He's truly lost all control. The plan he'd had was a last resort brought on by desperation, but it was still his, it was still something he could've done, even if it was destined to fail.

Now there's nothing he can do. He's whatever Swift wants him to be, and if he isn't, she has no trouble breaking him apart until he's the perfect puzzle piece. He can do nothing---

He could kill Wes.

The one kindness he has the power to grant. He could kill Wes, and ensure Mercury can't drag this out any longer.

He could, but he can't, he knows he can't. He knows Wes will die either way, but he's still not strong enough to at least make it as painless as possible.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"D...an?" the voice is quiet and broken and small.

"I'm here," he says, trying to keep his own voice steady. "I... I can move though, if y-you want."

"Stay. Please."

Dan doesn't need to be told twice. He inches closer still, pressing his face into Wes's neck, wanting to say I'm sorry again, because it's hard to think of anything else when everything hurts and they're both going to die here.

But he doesn't. Instead, Dan holds Wes close.

"It'll be okay," he lies. "We'll be okay."

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast @kixngiggles @shywhumpauthor @whumpsday

~ ~ ~

[starlightvld]

Word Game Wednesday - "Mine"

__

When Price speaks again, his voice is low enough that John has to strain to hear him.

"I feel responsible. I knew something was going on between you two. I should've put a stop to it."

"Wouldnae have made a difference. I was gone on 'im long afore anything happened 'tween us."

"Still—"

"No' yer fault, Cap. S'mine for bein' a goddamned fool, and Simon's for makin' me think he..."

John lets the words trail away, but the unspoken ending screams inside his head and stabs into the tender flesh around his shredded makeshift heart all the same. He pushes his glass forward and raises his hand, motioning to the bartender for another.

[whumpshaped]

Another overly specific prompt: winged whumpee’s wings get preened for the first time when they fall into caretaker’s hands <3. Bonus points for concerned caretaker and for whumpee being nervous because preening is vulnerable. Yes this is self indulgent, no I’m not sorry. ~🐸

tw winged whumpee, past trauma, mention of broken bones

Whumpee stared at the floor in front of them in flustered silence. They were fidgeting with the little toy Caretaker had given them, specifically so they wouldn't have to focus on the feeling of a relative stranger touching the most vulnerable parts of their body.

It wasn't right. This was supposed to be done by their best friend. By their mate. Everything in their mind and body screamed at them to get away, but they forced themself to stay still and let the stranger help. They needed their wings taken care of after years of neglect.

"I know this isn't ideal. I'm sorry." Caretaker leaned forward, trying to sneak a peek at Whumpee's face. Whumpee instinctively tried to turn away and hide it. "But it's not super horrible, is it? I'm trying to be as gentle as I can."

"It's– It's fine."

Whumpee glanced at Caretaker, tensing up when they saw them frown. Was that not the right thing to say?

"Alright," they said anyway before getting back to work. "But really, tell me if it hurts. They're... not in good condition."

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's not your fault. I'm not mad at you. I'm just... worried. And sad. I wish someone helped you earlier."

"Oh."

Minutes passed in silence again, Caretaker focusing on the task at hand, and Whumpee counting the floorboards. They chastised themself for not being able to relax. If they could've put that horrible, nervous feeling aside, they might've been able to enjoy it even. It was so silly to be so scared of something so harmless. Something that was supposed to help them.

"They broke them," Whumpee blurted out.

"Sorry?"

Whumpee held their breath. They shouldn't talk about it. Not to yet another human. But the urge to explain their reactions was too great. "They t-told me they would help. I thought– I thought they were genuine. And then they broke my wings. Laughed at me. Called me naive."

Whumpee felt Caretaker's hands come to a stop, and then disappear from their wings entirely. "Whumpee... I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I... Do I remind you of them?"

They hesitated. "A little," they admitted eventually. "You said the same thing. It was scary. I wanted to run." They held up the fidget toy, then dropped their hand back in their lap again. "They didn't give me anything. They hurt me as soon as I got within arm's reach. So... I thought you might be different."

"I would never hurt you, Whumpee. Not intentionally. I really am trying to help you."

"I know," they said hastily. "I know. I, I understand. It's very kind of you. I'm... I'm just scared."

Caretaker didn't reply for a moment. "Oh, sorry. I was nodding back here. I forgot you couldn't– never mind. I forgot you couldn't see me." Whumpee smiled a little. "I, um, I get that. The anxiety." Another pause. "I hope it gets better."

It was Whumpee's turn to nod. They appreciated the sentiment, but they had a horrible feeling that it wasn't entirely dependent on them, or even Caretaker. It would get better, if they managed to avoid humans in the future.

Well, at least mean ones.

"Can I continue?" Caretaker asked gently.

"Um, y-yeah. Yeah."

"Okay." The hands returned, but this time, Whumpee felt like they could be more at ease. "Just tell me to stop at any time, and we'll take a break." Whumpee hummed in agreement.

Maybe it would be okay.

[fallenwhumpee]

Pawn

• Masterlist •

Warnings: Sensory overload, sleep deprivation, blindfold, interrogation, torture, broken nose, nosebleed, drugging, touch starvation, mentioned suicide bombing.

In the eerie stillness, their mind grasped for any trace of familiar sights, but all they found was an abyss. Their own breaths were the only thing they could hear, their gasps distant as if underwater.

They groaned, but the sound came out as a croak. They knew their captors were enjoying this show from somewhere, probably discussing what to do to them with sadistic smiles. As if on cue, a loud bang made them flinch, disoriented with the ringing in their ear.

They tensed as the sound grew clearer and closer. Footsteps circled around them, and they cursed the blindfold, not for the first time since they were first captured.

They cried out as their hair was yanked, their back sore from sitting in the same position without being allowed to lean on something.

"Were you alone?" the interrogator demanded.

"Yes," they answered, their voice unreadable but tired and hoarse.

"We both know you're lying. Tell me what your objective was."

"I was alone, a-and it was a suicide bombing. I was to receive the bomb f-from an abandoned warehouse. No contact, no info. I'm merely... merely a pawn," they recited from memory, trying to sound clear but failing towards the end.

"What was your target, you vermin?"

"The... presidential palace, of course," they replied, struggling to keep their thoughts together, with sleep once more trying to claim them.

"No one told you that you can't do that? We do not let people wander around the building, let alone an armed rebel."

They closed their eyes, despite knowing it wouldn't make any difference behind the blindfold. The next question was just a noise in the background, and their head fell, their senses finally giving them a moment to rest. Their hair was pulled harder, a cry escaping from their mouth as a punch met their face. Their eyes watered, pain jolting them awake. A warm liquid slid down over their mouth, the smell of iron stinging.

"How many times have I said that you're not allowed to sleep until I'm satisfied with your answers?"

"Or you s-satisfied your thirst... for violence," they shot back, but regretted it instantly. They tensed and shrunk as much as they could, their 'not caring about their life' persona cracking with this mistake. They really should've kept their mouth closed, but they didn't know how long they could comply enough not to anger the interrogator while withholding information about the rebel group. Maybe it was due to exhaustion or hunger or thirst or pain or the ringing in their ears or uncertainty...

"Mhmm, scared now? Maybe you'll chant 'glory to the government' if I work on you a bit."

Their stomach dropped with the thought, a shiver shaking them as a hand gripped their shoulder, heavy and authoritative.

"Since you began to understand the situation, tell me, do you know who this rebel leader is?"

They bit their lip, tasting blood. Of course, they knew them. They were the leader. But they didn't talk, and it was an answer good enough to let their hair go.

"You do. Good. What's your connection to them?"

"I told you. J-just a pawn ready to die for t-the greater cause."

"Such claims are not tolerated here. You have ten seconds to fix your mistake."

"The government, along with all its officers like you, can go—"

-•-

For a long time, there was only darkness. Slowly, the ringing in their ear made itself known, their whole body aching. Breathing was too hard, and they were unsure if it was from the broken nose or possibly broken ribs. They groaned, unable to make any other noise. They heard a shuffle from the back, but maybe they were imagining things. They couldn't trust themselves at this point.

They groaned once again, trying to determine their position on the ground as it seemed to shift beneath them. They were better than this—better than tossing around like an animal, better than getting caught, better than giving an opening. They were leading a rebellion with little to no support against a government with endless resources. They weren't supposed to be helpless, weak, and a burden on their limited resources.

Tears welled up as they suppressed the sobs racking their body, absorbed by the blindfold as they streamed down their cheeks. Instead of crying, they laughed. Their pathetic state in enemy territory felt like nothing but a cruel joke after too many years of being a ghost for both the rebellion and the government.

With a hitching breath, they forced themselves to sit up quickly, their body protesting and the ground tilting left and right beneath them. They swallowed the dizziness, leaning on their arms to steady themselves. They didn't feel any better than the last time; restlessness still clouded their thoughts.

The sound of a door jolted them, but they couldn't tell which direction it came from. They opened their mouth to call out, but a hand covered their lips, silencing them. Half of their face was covered harshly, and they winced as a sharp pain radiated from their nose, feeling the blood flow once more. They were pulled back by their hair again, struggles becoming futile as their strength left them.

They were roughly thrown onto a cold metal floor, their weakened body protesting against the harsh treatment. They tried to distract themselves from the gnawing emptiness by focusing on their surroundings. The sound of the engine drowned out their thoughts, and the rhythmic vibrations seemed to mock their weakened state.

In the cramped darkness of the truck, or at least that's what they guessed based on the size, Leader's hunger grew unbearable. They couldn't remember the last time they had eaten a proper meal. Days? Weeks? Time blurred together in the abyss of their captivity. They might have passed out at some point, waking up to find themselves seated. The lights were too bright this time, and the walls were painted in a claustrophobic shade of grey.

"So, we've got ourselves another rebel, huh?" a gruff voice sneered.

Leader straightened, their body aching.

"I've seen people like you," another voice chimed in, dripping with disdain. "You think you're making a difference, don't you? Sacrificed as pawns left and right, following orders from your high and mighty perch."

They clenched their fists, their knuckles turning white. The words struck a nerve, stirring up the guilt that had already weighed heavily on their shoulders. They knew that every decision they made as a leader came with consequences, but the thought of those sacrifices being in vain was something they always feared deep in their soul. They knew it wasn't the case. They had made a difference in countless small towns, becoming a threat to the corrupt order, but they would always feel guilty for the lives lost.

A sharp sting at their neck sent a sudden freezing void through their body.

"You rebels are all the same," the gruff voice continued, mocking. It was right behind their ear, but the bright lights were hurting their eyes. "Thinking you can change the world with your little acts of defiance. But let me tell you, we always win in the end. We break you down, reshape you, and all your lofty ideals crumble into dust."

Their vision blurred with pain as they were struck on the temples, plunging them into the familiar black void as the blindfold was pulled over their face. They flinched at the sound of a door, still able to hear everything more than they should. The coldness seeped deep into their bones, intensifying their weakness and making every movement an agonizing effort. They longed for warmth, for a comforting touch to alleviate the shivering. Time became a distant reminder, and soon, endless screams from the battlefield echoed with their commands, while unconsciousness offered the only escape.

-•-

Right Hand, leading the raid on the facility, surveyed the area with a sharp and calculating gaze. They had received information about the location of the rebels being held captive and had meticulously planned their operation to free as many as possible. As they approached the centre of the place, their makeshift army moved with the seriousness that training had instilled in them. The weight of their responsibility felt heavy, but they knew they had to push forward. Leader would be proud.

Their radio crackled, the names of the rescued rebels being counted. As the transmission ended, an unfamiliar voice came through the static.

"Uhm, there's someone... they're barely awake, but they don't look like anyone on the missing list. They just have the rebellion tattoo on their left wrist—although it's pretty ruined. Does anyone know them?"

Right Hand's heart raced, a mix of relief and concern washing over them. They quickly recognized Leader's weakened form, hidden in plain sight. It was a dangerous situation, their leader's identity at risk of exposure. They scanned the surroundings, ensuring no one else was nearby before motioning for the rebel to follow.

"Good job. Now leave them to me," Right Hand said, their voice barely a whisper. "I believe you can go help with the transfer."

The rebel nodded and hurried off to assist the others. Meanwhile, Right Hand rushed to Leader's side, their heart aching at the sight of their battered and weakened leader. It was a stark reminder of the sacrifices made for the rebellion's cause.

Leader's eyes flickered with a glimmer of recognition, their voice barely audible. "Right Hand..."

Right Hand's grip tightened gently around Leader's arm, their emotions overwhelming yet suppressed. They wanted to reassure their leader, to convey the unwavering support and determination that fueled their own actions. But they had to remain cautious, protecting Leader's identity above all else.

"I'm here, Leader," Right Hand whispered. "You're safe now. We've come to bring you back."

Leader mumbled weakly, their words a jumble of fragmented thoughts. Right Hand leaned in closer, their ear attuned to catch the faintest whisper.

"It's cold," Leader murmured again, their voice trembling.

Right Hand wrapped their arms around Leader, mindful of their injuries, and drew them close, feeling the chill emanating from their frail body. They wished they could shield Leader from the harsh realities they had endured.

"It's okay," Right Hand whispered, their voice soothing. "I'll keep you warm. We'll get you out of here. Just lean on me."

Right Hand carefully wrapped their arms around Leader's shoulders, cradling the limp body with utmost care. It was a testament to the bond they shared, the unspoken trust that connected them.

As they made their way towards the waiting transport, Right Hand spoke in a hushed yet comforting tone. They carefully carried Leader towards the waiting transport, their steps steady and determined. They spoke softly, their voice a constant presence in Leader's ear.

"You're doing great, Leader. We're almost there. Just a little bit longer."

Leader's eyelids grew heavy, exhaustion taking its toll. They mumbled weakly, their voice strained. "Tired... so tired..."

Right Hand tightened their hold, offering reassurance. "I know you're exhausted, but you're safe now. You can rest soon."

As they reached the waiting transport, Right Hand gently settled Leader into the vehicle, ensuring their comfort. They climbed in beside them, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. The engine roared to life, and the vehicle began its journey to safety.

Time refused to pass, and Leader's breathing became shallow and erratic. Right Hand leaned closer. "We're almost there."

Leader's fingers weakly grasped Right Hand's, and they gave a faint squeeze.

As the vehicle sped away, the rhythmic hum of the engine lulling them into a void of stillness, Leader's eyelids grew heavier. Their grip on Right Hand's hand loosened, their body finally surrendering to exhaustion.

Right Hand watched over Leader, gently brushing a hand over Leader's forehead, smoothing away the lines of worry.

"Rest now, Leader," Right Hand whispered softly. "We're nearly home."