#burtlederp

[whumpering-heights]

Whumpering-heights here with bad news...

Hi, you might know me from stories like Behind The Masks. Here's some of my art:

The bad news is that I have lost my blog. I have had it for nearly half a decade, then one accidental click and it's deleted forever. (I had meant to delete a sideblog I wasn't using anymore. I didn't realize it would nuke ALL my blogs.)

So I guess there's nothing to do but start over from scratch. I'm going put this in the whump tags, in the hopes of letting people know what happened. I would like to ask people to reblog this, so as many of my old followers can see this as possible.

(EDIT: thank you so much to @meaculpameahugeculpa for recovering my taglist of Behinds the Masks! ! @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @pumpkin-spice-whump @fanastyfinder @whumpy-arts-and-crafts @arsonfrogger @burtlederp @harri-00 @akito-fuckn-fear @potatoo-whump @jo-castle @mannerofwhump sorry for the bad news, but at least now I haven't left any of you in the dark.)

EDIT 2: I want to thank everyone for the support!!

You can find a checklist HERE of all the chapters I've been able to find. Once I have collected all I can, I will reblog the chapters in the right order, reposting where necessary.

[comfy-whumpee]

The Box

@bloodybrambles, @wildfaewhump, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @rosesareviolentlyread, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @burtlederp, @mylifeisonthebookshelf

Josephina Engels sits with the box.

When she is at her kitchen table, eating cold pasta from Saturday night’s batch cooking session, she sits with the box. Its cardboard is slightly bent around the corners, the brown colouring uneven where it must have spent time in the sunlight. The lid fits snugly on, unadorned. It’s an odd box. It must be the kind that was bought just to be a box, not repurposed and reused as most boxes are. It has no personality except a little wear and tear.

When she is at her desk, messaging friends and working on her heritage research, she sits with the box. It is buried at the base of the family tree she sketches out, neat lines tracking siblings and marriages, dates written in pencil as she discovers them. The story of her family opens out with her at the centre, the middle child of three. B. 1849, she writes, after scrolling through handwritten records scanned two decades ago. B for born. M for married. D for death.

When she is half-curled across her sofa with a book open in her hands, she sits with the box. The stories she likes are historical romances, where the steps towards courtship are subtle and mild, and the barriers are antiquated and unrelatable. She turns the pages with a finger, slow over the paper. She loses herself in another time and another country, but the box is always in her mind.

When she is out with friends, the box is there. When she goes to work, the box is there. It’s under her seat on the train. It’s tucked amongst the street furniture when she walks. She feels like she should be carrying it around with her, never once letting it out of her sight. A little shoebox like that, and one that hasn’t even held shoes, should be unremarkable. But it won’t let go of her.

After a long day at work, where spreadsheet grids are burned into her eyes and her head throbs with each glare from each passing pair of headlights, she comes home to it. She drinks a glass of wine with dinner. She reads. She researches. She returns to it.

It makes her feel sick just by existing. Pulling it out is worse. Opening the lid is enough to make her feverish, her heart running wild and her blood rising to he surface. She glances at the curtains, closed. She resists the urge to check over her shoulder.

Her vision blurs as she reaches in. Her fingers flinch from the soft plastic of the toothbrush grip, as if its slight yield is cold flesh. Her fingers skim over the splintering wood of a roughly-sharpened pencil. Then they slide over paper.

She closes her eyes tightly enough to worsen her headache. She swallows each breath, fighting back a sob or a scream. She pulls out a random piece of paper from the pile. Some sheets are whole. Some are scraps, torn into halves or quarters. Some are folded, sharper corners pricking her fingertips. If they draw blood, she could sleep for a thousand years. She could wake up when all of this, and whatever it becomes, is ancient history.

She unfolds the paper. Her thumbs find the tiny indents of the writing, and feel the smooth, dusty graphite. She can feel her stomach pushing up against her ribs in rebellion.

She owes it to him to look.

Through swimming eyes, she can see it.

1. I must always obey Master.

She huffs out a lurching breath. It doesn’t get easier. It doesn’t ever, ever change. The grief twists and spasms and writhes, but some days the leech of it is weak and placid, clawless. This is what never fades.

Her stomach rebels against the words.

2. I must never question Master.

She’s sweating, or shivering, hot and cold. She should ask someone over to take care of her, but who could she ask? This is a whole other world to her colleagues and friends. Her parents don’t deserve this burden. Her sister has already faced too much.

Josie is the one who has to hold the box.

3. I must kneel and submit to Master.

God. She knows what it sounds like, when she reads that.

4. I must always address you as Master.

She tries to breathe. The words are true, and real, and held between her hands. No matter how badly they jar and splinter against the memories in her head, this is her reminder of how wrong she was. How wrong they all were.

5. I must make no noise unless invited to by Master.

She lets the paper fall, her legs pushing her back from the box. She needs a break. She needs to stop getting sucked into this endless, eternal spiral. Every time she opens the box, if she even thinks too hard about it, she ends up here.

She rubs her wet cheeks with the palms of her hands. Why did this have to happen? Why did it have to be so close to her, and hurt so much?

There is nobody who can know. Nobody. Her brother’s memory depends on it, this secret she keeps in his shoebox. She can’t imagine ever saying it aloud. My brother was a monster. The details are too lurid, a horror story she lives inside. He banned his captive from making noise, so even when we were there outside, he didn’t call for help.

Marcie doesn’t talk about it anymore. Mum refuses to believe it. Dad clings to excuses. None of them want to know about the box. Josie was the only one who looked inside it, and she took it home to hide it, and the truth it held. She thought she was protecting them.

Even so, she can’t stop herself opening it, grasping the weapon to hurt herself over and over. Her eyes are drawn back to the paper. She can see the numbers continue down the page. Every piece of paper in the box has the same message.

She doesn’t need to read them anymore to know. She can remember the key parts. I must ask Master for permission. I must treasure Master’s touch. I must always thank Master for punishment.

Sometimes, she thinks that she should destroy it. It doesn’t make any difference, of course. The evidence was burned into his skin. She could, maybe, protect his memory from the world. She could let these details go unknown. The nauseating everydayness of the toothbrush, a reminder that he was there for years. The confessional pages of these rules, transcribed on repeat.

Why him? Why her brother? How could he do that to them? And how could he do that to someone? Josie has looked him up online, has read his missing person reports, and has watched the statement from his mother that she gave on his birthday. Ellis was a gentle, kind boy, who never hurt anyone.

She could still remember his smile, when Marcie had found him in the cupboard. She remembered his words. She hadn’t known his name until much later, because he didn’t give it.

12. I am Master’s pet and I need to be kept.

She puts the lid back on the box and crawls into bed.

[whumblr]

Jaybird screaming in the dead of night

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

-

“Hey Jay,” Zayne sang, slowly, menacingly, butchering ‘Hey Jude’, while swirling himself around the corner into the kitchen startling Jay. “Don’t be afraid.”

Jay, at the first notes of his name in rhyme, turned away from the counter and his dinner prep, his eyebrows raising in surprise and the hairs on his arms in alarm. Just hearing his name in song gave him many reasons to be afraid. He raised his chopping knife in an automatic response, just holding it out in front of him.

“Drop the knife,” Zayne said, now stepping forward and emphasizing his words with the click of his own knife, flicking it up, “Unless you want to compare which one is sharper.”

His kitchen knife might not be as sharp, but it was coated in onion juices. Not an experiment Jay wanted to engage in. With a loud clank, he dropped it in the sink, falling another step back.

Zayne kept advancing on him, slowly, backing him into the dark corner of the kitchen, talking and waving his knife about with every step. “So, I just bumped into your neighbour, downstairs. Or well, he almost fully crashed into me, really. So I shouted after him, holding the door open for him, ‘Hey, what’s the hurry?!’ And you know what he shouted back?”

Probably, yeah, Jay had an inkling of where this was going. And how it was now going to bite – stab – him in the arse. But he kept his mouth shut, dread stealing his voice and knowing Zayne would continue his terrorizing monologue anyway.

Which he did. “He said, ‘Sorry, I’m late!’. So I asked, ‘Late for what?!’” The conversational tone fell away as he leaned forward against Jay, one hand brushing against his, pinning him to the kitchen counter. “Work,” he breathed in Jay’s face. “He was late for work.”

Jay leaned back as far as he could, hands on the edge of the counter, arms bending. He tried to make a soft hum in feigned surprise, but it turned to a soft but sharp inhale as the knife was brought up in his face.

“You never told me he works night shifts,” Zayne crooned, brushing the flat of the knife over Jay’s jawline.

“I mean, it never really came u—”

“But then it all started making sense, you know. How you always tried to hold back on your screaming in the afternoon. And here I was, making an effort to keep the noise down at night…”

The knife fell away from Jay’s clenched jaw, dropped against his clavicle and disappeared under his collar. The cold sensation turned sharper, gradually pressing into his skin.

“Well, no need to worry about that now, you don’t have to hold back. He just left. You can scream as much as you want.”

~

~Bonus~

Zayne leaned back and pulled the kitchen knife from the sink.

“What were you chopping?” he asked, turning the knife back and forth as if he could analyse what was on it (instead of, you know, looking back).

“Onions...”

“Hm.” He swiped his own blade over the knife as if sharpening it, making them sing a threatening tune together. “Do you think it stings in more than just your eyes?”

“You don't need onions to make me cry,” Jay tried to goad him into dropping the knife. He didn’t need a dual-wielding Zayne.

Zayne merely stared at him, eyes softening to a fond expression as he was mulling it over and the stupidity of Jay’s words hit him.

“You’re right,” he said, to Jay’s short-lived relieve. Then his tone shifted and he merely whispered: “I don't.”

-

Tag list:

Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror @susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime @freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion @afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8 @itsmyworld98 @whumpifi @painless-and-colourful @withdrawingramen

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 138

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@appy-polly-loggies , @shydragonrider , @professional-idiocy , @burtlederp , @unicornscotty, @whumpwillow , @transjenderdeanjail , @bliss7575-blog , @grizzlie70 , @whatwhumpcomments , @madrono-but-i-am-not-a-fruit , @whumpzone ,. @maracujatangerine , @whump-em , @crystalquartzwhump , @outofangband @onlywhump , @badluck990 , @kixngiggles , @whumpacabra , @whumpy-catfish , @throwawaywhumper , @dont-touch-my-soup , @uvanuva , @kiichu , @dreamsofwhump , @valiantphantomturtle , @voidviewer-blog , @whumpsday , @kira-the-whump-enthusiast , @poorlittlekittycat , @finaldreams1106 , @slimesheep , @redwhump , @apokolyps , @wolfeyedwitch , @emmanemanem, @briars7 , @stuffmyfriendssay , @stuck-in-this-mortal-form , @whumpedydump , @fleur-alise , @basica11ywhumped , @hold-back-on-the-comfort , @withdrawingramen , @daddy-cowgirl-boots @sodacreampuff , @shywhumpauthor , @caughtinthera1n , @distinctlywhumpthing , @randomlifeunit ,

[pretty-face-breaker]

post-torture cuddles? :3

CW. creepy comfort, masochism, unhealthy relationships

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Hayko watches the smattering of cast-off bloodstains on the sheets. Glossy, an hour ago, and now dried flat and dull to the cotton. There’s a ringing in his head, hurting with each pulse. He doesn’t respond - the words didn't quite make it through.  

Nick kneels behind him and kneads his shoulders, almost gently. It’s the feeling of his nose in his hair that jerks him out of the reverie. He tenses, sucks in a breath, and blinks away the sting in his eyes.

“Are you back with me again?”

“Partially,” Hayko says, throat raw. He can’t stop the whine when Nick cuts his wrists free from the ropes with a few sharp tugs of his folding knife. Realizes, immediately after, that he didn’t hear him pull it out.

A puff of laughter against his neck, then. “Back in your skin?” 

He’d be lying if he repeated himself. He was. When the pain was a punishing, pulsing thing. Now, with it gone, he’s untethered again. The light cascading in from the window is too bright, the carpet springy and rough. It’s too much. 

“Hey, now.” Nick taps him twice on his cheek, just on the edge of too rough. “I didn’t whip the wits out of you, did I?” 

 “Hardly.” In different circumstances, he might have laughed. “If you did, wouldn’t be much left of me, at this point.”

Nick’s smile comes sharp against his head, an eyetooth pressing into his scalp. He rubs away the chaffing on Hayko’s wrists, sitting limp on the mattress. It’s a mean thing. They’re bantering. Bantering after he just consented to being beat out of orbit for-

For his-

“Is there something you’d like?”

“Just-” His voice chips and self-loathing fills it. “Just stay for a few minutes. Just-”

Nick hushes him, so gently his eyes sting again. Hayko’s throat tightens as the ministrations move to his hair and Nick smooths out the snarls. A few beats of that and he’s pulling him back against his chest. Hayko lets himself fall and hisses, when his shirt catches on the welts. 

“Have I ever left you like this?” 

Hayko swallows, a fervid when haven't you? tucked behind his teeth. But he knows what Nick is referring to, and no, technically, he’s never left him after this. Something decidedly not safe or sane but asked for, all the same. 

He must drift for a minute because when he opens his eyes again, he’s draped over Nick’s chest on the bed, half-wrapped in a towel. He foggily registers a hand smoothing gel over his skin, the other playing along his ribs. 

“You’re running out of time, you know.” 

The hands stop. Nick’s heartbeat is steady beneath his ear, unyielding in a way that seems to disagree with that. Hayko stops himself from flinching when he speaks again.

“Don’t worry about me, dear.” 

He takes the press of lips to his scalp with little more than an aborted breath before Nick gives his ribs a squeeze. Presses into the welts hard enough to startle a full gasp out of him. He’s afraid he might not stop his probing, might just sink his claws clean through his back and into his lungs- 

“Oh. Please-...” 

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Nick’s voice is gnarled with a grin. 

His next breath whistles from his teeth. It fucking hurts. It hurts like nothing. It's so good. “Yes. Yes.” 

And then, nothing. His fingers are gone, leaving him panting and arching up. Bastard, he wants to say, as Nick pulls them through his hair, smearing blood through his curls. Within a second, he’s back to rubbing aloe cream on his back. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Nick says. “After they run out of time, it’ll just be us. No distractions, hm?”

-

@doveotions @heathenville @thewhumpstuff @thatsthewhump @adamantem-rose @lonesome–hunter @whumpsorbet @whumpasaurus101 @lektricfergus @downrivergirl914 @burtlederp @redwingedwhump @nicolepascaline @ifbtnna @oh-so-skeletal @whumperfully​​ ​@brittaunfiltered09

[galaxywhump]

I still want to put Wren in a box

As you wish! Of course I ended up with more than 100 words, so it's an almost-quadruple drabble.

Set in the Berkeley's Revenge AU.

contents: recapture, muzzle, restraints, trapped in a small space, referenced carved mark and amputation.

~~~

“I could use a break from having to see you, Rackham. Your face pisses me off.”

Wren glares up at Berkeley from inside the huge cardboard box he had been pushed into. As much as he hates to admit it, there’s nothing he can do, muzzled, forced into a curled up position with his wrists cuffed behind his back and his ankles restrained. Berkeley snorts and closes the box, and Wren grimaces as the sound of pulling duct tape fills his ears. He’s never been claustrophobic, but his stomach still sinks when Berkeley seals his new temporary prison with layers upon layers of tape. He’s trapped, and he has no idea how long he’s going to be left here, and he can barely move and the muzzle makes it harder to breathe and-

Calm down. He exhales and closes his eyes. Just stay calm until he opens the box.

He can’t give Berkeley the satisfaction of hearing him protest and struggle, and that thought helps him tune out all the other ones.

He hears Berkeley sit down on a chair with a satisfied sigh, and a moment later he flinches when the top of the box sinks with a creak, as if-

Ah. So he’s being a footstool again. At least this time it’s indirect, and he doesn’t have to feel Berkeley’s boots on his back. It’s the small things.

“At least you make a decent footstool,” Berkeley laughs, and Wren frowns. “Maybe I’ll just make the box into your new home? It’s cozy and I won’t have to look at you too often. Sounds like a plan.”

Wren’s heart skips a beat, but he forces himself to relax. It’s bearable. No matter what Berkeley does to him, he can survive it. He has survived so much already; being stuck in a stupid box is nothing.

It’s just that the box is yet another thing on top of the word carved into his chest, the loss of a finger, the forced haircut, the threats, the constant reminders that he’s going to be killed. He’s going to be okay, he’s going to be saved, he is - but as he’s lying there, in darkness, sick and tired of having to stay strong and only rely on himself, he bitterly wishes that his rescuers would hurry up and find him already.

~~~

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

[yet-another-heathen]

Remember, the goal isn't to choose the option you would take in real life! Pick whichever option you think would be more fun to read.

---

Tag List | @ink-and-salt @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpsical @redwingedwhump @lave-whump @castlehillwhump @sideblogformindtrash

@burtlederp @fanastywhump @whump-in-the-closet @sunshiline-writes @kixngiggles @suspicious-whumping-egg

[ashintheairlikesnow]

"There are worse things"

"Kauri." It's Nat's voice behind him. He doesn't look up, just breathes deep where he hunches over the sink. Nausea rolls through him in wave after wave, cold sweat trickling down his temples, his neck, alongside his ribs.

His heart pounds, a terror entirely physical washing away everything but the panic, the adrenaline, the sense that any moment he will die from this.

He tightens his grip on the metal edge of the sink until his knuckles are white.

"Jus'..." He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, but his hand is so sweaty and wet it doesn't feel like it helps at all. "Just give me a second, okay? Think I picked up a... a flu or something..."

Nat is quiet, but after a few moments he feels her hand rubbing his back, gently maternal. The scent of her perfume somehow doesn't make it worse. She has dark hair loose and wavy from having been in a braid before, and his blurry vision keeps wanting her to be someone else. Someone he doesn't know, can't know, because if he has to have a headache on top of this he might actually just give up and die.

"You should stop taking them," She says. She doesn't say what. She doesn't have to.

"Oh, don't worry about me. Once I get some more-" His stomach tightens suddenly and he shoves himself fully over the sink, but all that happens is a flood of sour spit and a dry sob. "... I'll-... I'll be fine." Is he panting? His words are airy, barely breathed.

"Kauri-"

"There are w-... worse things than this," Kauri manages, voice thin. She brushes a little hair back from his face. The sobbing comes again, but not dry this time.

This time, he finds tears.

His heart pounds so loud it drowns out everything else. He's going to die. He's going to die.

He left Owen and he sleeps with other men and he's going to die.

"Kauri-"

"Worse things... I've d-done them all. I mean, I did O-Owen, right?"

He laughs, but there's an edge of hysteria to the brittle sound, and his stomach twists again.

She rubs his back as his stomach roils and his muscles burn and his shirt sticks to him like Owen's eyes, and he knows once he feels better he'll head back out, climb the back fence, and he won't even say thanks before he goes.

He can disappear into a drink or a pill or powder or whatever he can find and maybe this time they'll tell him to not come back.

Maybe this time they'll see he doesn't deserve to come back.

-

@finder-of-rings  @endless-whump  @arlin-always-writing  @thefancydoughnut  @newandfiguringitout  @doveotions  @pretty-face-breaker  @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow  @boxboysandotherwhump  @oops-its-whump  @cubeswhump  @burtlederp  @nonsensical-whump  @whump-tr0pes  @autophagay  @whumptywhumpdump  @whumpiary  @orchidscript  @outofangband  @eatyourdamnpears  @hackles-up  @grizzlie70  @mylifeisonthebookshelf  @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

[whumpering-heights]

Eureka!

I just realized that I can reblog the chapters in order, and simply put the text that's under the (broken) readmore link in my reblog!

The one downside is that my work would not show up in the tags. But I'd be able to preserve all the nice comments on the original posts, and retrace my steps in chronological order!

(if I can't find a chapter, i will repost it instead.)

This is going to take a while. But at least I have a plan for rebuilding this now!

(Tagging the taglist so that people know what the plan is. I will tag you guys one more time when I've rebuild the masterlist, and then it will just be for new updates again @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @pumpkin-spice-whump @fanastyfinder @whumpy-arts-and-crafts @arsonfrogger @burtlederp @harri-00 @akito-fuckn-fear @potatoo-whump @jo-castle @mannerofwhump @meaculpameahugeculpa )

[comfy-whumpee]

Every Time

One of the @amonthofwhump Whumpmas prompts hit me just right.

TW: murder, intimate whump, drugging mention, referenced emotional abuse and child neglect.

Savvie, Izzy and Jamie are characters from @ashintheairlikesnow and written collaboratively!

@bloodybrambles, @wildfaewhump, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @burtlederp, @rosesareviolentlyread, @eatyourdamnpears

-

Jax wakes up without moving. Moving isn’t safe. He takes his first conscious breath of the day without even opening his eyes. Where is she? What’s the last thing he remembers from last night? What was the last thing he ate and drank? Can he feel any pain?

Savvie is lying next to him, half-draped over him as usual. Her hair is what woke him up, tickling the underside of his chin, with threatening strands around his mouth. He’s dreamt of choking to death on her hair, more than once. He doesn’t need blankets when she does this.

He twists his head, then waits. She doesn’t stir. Her breathing remains steady. He opens his eyes.

There’s light behind the heavy curtains, but only enough to suggest the sun is up. It’s not daytime yet. She won’t want to be woken up, and if he tries, she’ll grumble and roll over.

That makes it the perfect time. He reaches out for the edge of the mattress, fingers curling around it, and uses the leverage to slide himself sideways on the bed without sitting up. Gently, he slips free of her weight. One of her hands flexes, reaching for him, and she lets out a tiny groan, which stops him dead.

“I’ve got it,” he murmurs to her.

Half-asleep, she doesn’t wonder what it is that he’s supposedly got. It could be anything. But he’s taking care of it, so she doesn’t have to move, or care, or wake up and ask why he’s leaving her. He knows she usually doesn’t even remember these moments in the morning. When he draws the covers back over her, she smiles and sighs, eyes still closed.

He tiptoes over the plush carpet and out the door. He exhales his first full breath. Free for an hour or two, except for the cameras and the locks. And the collar, but that’s only a problem if she wakes up annoyed that he’s not there.

Feet angled along the edge of the floorboards, he pads his way down to the other end of the hall, where the kids’ rooms are secluded far enough that they won’t disturb their mother, but close enough that they can rouse their father, if they need him. He listens at Izzy’s door before knocking softly, knuckles barely brushing the painted wood underneath her Isabella sign.

There’s no answer, so he moves on to Jamie’s room. He doesn’t need to knock for Jamie, but he does anyway, another soft rapped pattern. He is not surprised when he hears a whispered voice inside, and moments later, the door opens to show his daughter.

“Hi, daddy,” she whispers.

She knows it’s him before she sees him, of course. That’s why he knocks, no matter what room she’s in. She doesn’t deserve the stress of being startled, even if it’s a happy surprise. He smiles at her anyway, and she carefully checks up the hall for Savvie’s bedroom door. Seeing it shut, her eyes light up, unguarded this early in the morning. The monster still sleeps in its cave.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, stepping into the room. He looks for Jamie as his first instinct. He knows where Izzy is, closing the door quietly behind him, so he needs to account for his other top priority.

Jamie is half-sitting on an array of pillows, clearly arranged to help him stay mostly upright. One of his books is at his feet, and his pudgy fingers touch its open cardboard pages, exploring the textures of the creatures on the page. He does this with an obvious expression of total wonder. It’s one of Jax’s favourite things about raising this little boy: the world is endlessly fascinating to him.

Izzy knows the truth about the world, but still, she likes the occasional story. He scoops her into a quick hug. “You woke up early again?”

She gets put to bed so damn early it’s no surprise. Savvie wants mommy and daddy time, which is code for the shit Izzy absolutely does not get to see or hear about ever at all. Of course, mommy and daddy time cannot have their actual children present. Jax hasn’t yet pointed out the irony.

Izzy is already going back to Jamie, who has noticed Jax’s presence and is trying to drag himself off the bed. Jax isn’t sure why Savvie put a bed in here, next to the crib, but he’s glad she did. Even if he usually falls asleep in the armchair instead, Jamie in his arms.

Jax joins her, helping Jamie onto his lap, where he desperately wants to be. He lifts his baby boy up to his chest, so Jamie can throw his little arms around his daddy’s neck. Izzy tucks into his side.

“We was reading a story,” Izzy explains. “Jamie wanted to feel.”

Jax picks up the book, but Jamie isn’t about to let go for a minute. “A story for Jamie, huh? How about you go get one for yourself? I think he’s going to want to cuddle for a bit, no story.”

Izzy looks at her brother and nods. She gets down without another word, and a brief instinct clutches Jax, urging him to reach for her and make sure she doesn’t leave. He doesn’t let it show. She’ll be right back.

He watches, lips brushing Jamie’s hair, as she opens the door as little as possible and slips out. He has the sudden realisation that she learned it from him. The less you open the door, the less it creaks. He can’t hear her footsteps down the hall, or the door of her own bedroom open and close.

She’s back within moments, book in her hands. Jamie’s breathing has slowed, hot pools against his collarbone, and Jax tucks his arms back down where he can clutch shirt and not collar. He pats the space next to him, and Izzy comes back to his side.

If he shrinks the world just to this space on the bed, and makes everything else disappear, there’s a chance he could be at home. It would have to be Izzy’s bed, though. And he wouldn’t buy her a duvet cover like this. She’d want a unicorn or something. But if he ignores that too, just focuses on his two kids and the books on his lap, that’s enough.

He reads quietly, stopping here and there to point out the illustrations, or see if Izzy can work out the big letter at the start of each page. Jamie sleeps, stirs, gets his bottle, sleeps again. Izzy sits completely still, but pays perfect attention, giggling at the jokes he dredges out of his brain for her. If this morning could last forever, with Savvie always asleep, he could probably make a life out of it.

Stupid wish. She makes herself known before they’ve even finished the damn book, her door opening with a loud click and her footsteps thudding down the hall. “Jax?” she calls, even though she knows damn fucking well where he’ll be.

Izzy is already reaching out to take Jamie from him. He feels that tug again. The fear of leaving them both.

He screws it up in his stomach and lets Izzy take her brother. Her arms are safer than his right now. He kisses her on the forehead as his goodbye.

“Jax?” She demands his presence. He crosses the room in three steps and slides out of the door, closing it behind him promptly before she can look inside and remember her children exist, and can therefore be hurt.

“Morning, Miss Savvie.” He breathes out a smile. “I didn’t think you’d be awake so early.”

She gives him a pouty look, but her eyes are smarter than the rest of her face. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He takes another easy breath and course-corrects. “Well, it’s more like I’m disappointed. I was hoping to bring you breakfast in bed.”

He listens for Izzy and Jamie, behind him in the bedroom, behind the door he’s guarding. He can’t hear them. Jamie must not have woken at being passed off. Jax’s arms ache for the warm, soft weight in them.

Savvie smiles like she doesn’t quite believe him, but she chooses to. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Let’s go out for breakfast instead. I don’t want anything we have in the cupboards.”

It’s a punishment for going to see them, instead of staying with her. He’ll find a moment later, when it’s less obvious, to mention that Jamie was starting to cry. He’ll give her the excuse and mollify her, but he can’t do it now. She’ll deny it’s a punishment - how could it be? Isn’t it a treat? - and possibly notice the manipulation. He doesn’t want her to notice that he lies.

Even though she demands that he does, to her face, several times a day.

“That sounds great. How soon can Hannah be here?”

The assumption tries to place her under obligation, but she breezes past it. “Oh, they’ll be fine for a couple of hours, won’t they? Isabella knows how to take care of her brother. Come on, we need to pick your outfit.”

She loops her arm around his, and he doesn’t resist as she effortlessly drags him away.

He doesn’t see his kids for the rest of the day.

-

Jax wakes up without moving. Moving isn’t safe. He breathes in slowly, slow enough that if she’s already awake, he’ll still sound like he’s asleep. He listens for her. She’s draped over his chest, arm around him, hair carpeting him from shoulder to chin. Strands tickle at his throat.

She’s asleep. He can feel her chest rising and falling. He opens his eyes.

Early morning again, that’s good. No, actually… He probably shouldn’t get up again today. She’ll hold it against him if she notices a pattern. He stays where he is, at least for a few seconds. Then he just has to get her hair out of his face. He strokes it instead of shoving it, though, and she breathes out deeply as he does, comforted.

He swallows painfully, thinking of Izzy with that same hair. Fuck it. He has to see them, whether Monster Mommy likes it or not. He reaches for the edge of the bed, grabs it, and pulls himself free. He imagines her making a sucker-popping noise as he comes loose, like an octopus.

He gets his feet to the floor, and then he’s running free, long tiptoed steps out of the door and down the hall. He knocks at Izzy’s door, gets no answer, knocks at Jamie’s.

The first blink of deja vu happens when she opens it. Something about the sound. Something about the exact arrangement of her oversized curls. He looks past her, and there’s Jamie–

“Hi, daddy,” she whispers.

–propped up on a throne of pillows, with the same book in his lap, his fingers touching the sheep’s wool.

No, Jax tells himself. Jamie likes the same book for days.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says. He steps into the room, and the relief is the same, to be out of the hall, out of sight of the door that could open at any time.

Jamie looks up, and this time, Jax sees his face drop into an expression of total shock before he starts crawling determinedly for the edge of the bed. Izzy hurries to stop him, and he lets out a short grunt of annoyance as she scoops him back onto the pillows. Jax sits down, and of course, his lap is colonised by the little terror Izzy cannot restrain.

“Been reading?” he asks. He can’t bring himself to say, again? Maybe he dreamt yesterday. Maybe it’s just a scene he’s seen before. This morning routine of his is hardly new.

“Mhmm,” Izzy confirms, picking up Jamie’s book and offering it to him without success. Jamie is gripping Jax’s shirt, trying to pull himself up, his little feet digging into Jax’s legs.

“You really like this one, huh, Jamie?” It’s the closest he dares to admitting his suspicion. Then he thinks of a better way. “But it looks like he’s only interested in cuddling right now. How about you go get a book for yourself, kiddo?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

Down she gets. Off she tiptoes. Slips out of the door and disappears.

Jax puts his hands around Jamie’s waist to help him stand properly. “Now then, you. What’s going on?”

Jamie stares back at him with befuddled brown eyes. Jax picks him up and hugs him close.

Izzy comes back in, and Jax smiles at her without needing to try. When he sees the book in her hands, he doesn’t flinch. The butterfly on the cover. The same one.

He pats the space next to him. At least he knows how to do this. She snuggles up and they read. He tries out the same jokes, the same letters for her to identify, and is rewarded with the same little giggles, the same tentative answers, and inevitably…

He hears the click of the door like a gunshot. He sets Jamie into Izzy’s ready arms.

She calls, “Jax?”

He’s already at the door. It hurts. He gets himself out of the room just as she’s calling his name again, and he meets her in front of Izzy’s door. “Morning, Miss Savvie.”

If this is the same as yesterday…

“I didn’t think you’d be awake so early.”

The pout. The calculating stare. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He takes a breath. Switches the script. “Well, the weather looks rubbish today. I thought you’d sleep in.”

“Oh, is it? I didn’t notice.” She tilts her head at him, her smile sparkling. “Rubbish, is it?”

He twists out a smile at her pantomime accent. He plays the game. “Aye, Miss Savvie.”

She laughs, looping her arm through his, turning to go back down the hall. “You’re so funny, Jax. Come on, let’s get breakfast. I want to try out that cafe–”

“We’re going out?”

“Yes,” she shakes his arm slightly, “and don’t interrupt, it’s rude.”

Fuck, fuck. “Do you want me to call for Hannah?”

“Don’t be silly. They’ll be fine for a couple of hours, won’t they?”

But it wasn’t. It won’t be. It was breakfast, coffee and pastries at the cafe, then the boutique next door, then a whole fucking shopping spree, lunch at a restaurant so fancy he thought he’d be asked to serve tables, then over to Isaac’s for dinner, and only then would she tell him to send someone to check on the kids, and she wouldn’t let Jax see them for the rest of the fucking day until he persuaded her to let him at least tuck them in so they’d sleep properly and not disturb their fucking mommy and daddy time.

The helpless lump in his throat gets swallowed down, where it burns and burns. “A couple of hours, yeah. I guess so.”

“You worry too much. Isabella’s old enough to take care of her brother.”

Maybe if he’s good enough at breakfast, she’ll give up on her revenge. He takes another breath.

“You’re right. Let’s go uh, pick my outfit?”

She giggles delightedly. She drags him away.

-

Jax wakes up without moving. He opens his eyes. Savvie’s arm presses down on his chest, her hair nearly in his mouth, and her breathing deep and slow.

He closes his eyes again. He’s sick of this dream. He’s sick of this everything.

He wakes up to her fingers tracing his eye socket. He blinks awake, flinching from the nail that’s right in front of his eyeball. She’s probably just being affectionate, he realises a second later, but a second is too long.

“Oh,” he says quickly. “Oh, Miss Savvie.” He breathes sharply, too fast. “I was having a bad dream, thank you for waking m-me.”

Her head tips to the side. She pretends she isn’t doing it to shake out her hair. She thinks it makes her look good. “Of course, sweetie,” she purrs. “You were frowning in your sleep. I just had to smooth away those wrinkles.”

He gives her a soft, dreamy smile. “You knew.”

It’s bullshit. She likes it when he’s scared, she wouldn’t wake him. But she just smiles more widely back. “Of course,” she repeats. She snuggles down, and he puts his arms around her how he’s meant to. “You must be stressed.”

For once, she’s not fucking wrong. Then again, that’s pretty much always true. “Yeah, a little.”

“Hmm.” She sits up, gasping as if she’s just had an idea. “Ooh, I know! Let’s go out today. We can get away from everything for a bit, have some time together, just us.”

His heart cracks. She’s not just talking about breakfast. Even though he didn’t get up, even though he’s right here where she wants him, and he’s being perfect, she still wants to take him away from the kids.

“That sounds lovely, Miss Savvie,” he says, each word tasting like chalk. The word lovely never used to be in his goddamn vocabulary. “You were telling me about that new cafe…”

She looks taken aback for a moment, and then she beams. “Oh, honey, you do know me so well. Let’s do it.”

He straightens, looking to the wardrobe. “Should I wear the new jumper, the cashmere one?”

It’s what he’s been wearing the last two days. But it seems, because he’s suggested it, it goes off the table. “Mm, not yet. Wait…”

As he watches, she gets that scheming look in her eyet.

“Yes, wear that. With the ivory slacks. You’ll look smart.”

Smart enough for dinner at her uncle’s, he guesses. She’s already got the whole day mapped out before she’s said a word to him. He’ll be sitting opposite Brayden getting his toes stamped on by the end of the day.

It’s pointless, but he asks. “Will you send someone to be with the kids, when they wake up?”

“Oh, they’ll be fine. Isabella’s old enough to take care of her brother.”

“If we’re going out for the day, though, Miss Savvie… We can’t risk a hospital trip.”

She sighs. “See, look how stressed you are! Maybe we should go away for longer.”

He hates her. God, he wants to smack her stupid smile off. “Maybe. We can see how I feel after today?”

“Mm.” She stretches. She casts a look his way, under her eyelashes. “Alright. If you’re still grumpy tomorrow.”

He has a feeling it won’t fucking matter, either way.

-

Jax wakes up without moving.

He sits up, gently placing her arm down by his side. He takes the pillow out from underneath his shoulder. He shifts a knee over her.

Doesn’t fucking matter either way, does it?

He puts the pillow over her face.

He’s going to have a nice, peaceful day with his kids.

-

He’s lost count.

“Can you go get a book for yourself, kiddo? I’m going to take Jamie down and make Mommy breakfast, and then I’ll be right back.”

She slips down off the bed. He holds Jamie close, and swallows the same old fear. She’ll come back. He knows that, now. She’ll come back with the butterfly book, and they’ll read it together. She’ll laugh when he points out the cross eyes on the little girl in that one picture. She’ll get O and D mixed up when he asks her to tell him which letter is on page six. Jamie will cling to his shirt.

They’ll have a nice morning together, if he can keep Savvie placated.

It’s the same as yesterday, as every day, as his whole fucking life before and after this…whatever this is.

Purgatory, probably.

-

They sit on either side of the little round table in the window of her new favourite cafe, sharing two pastries. He managed to get the coffee plain and black this time around, but he still imagines he can taste the fucking gingerbread syrup from every other cup he’s had.

“What’s wrong with you today?” she asks. It’s blunter than usual. She must be upset he’s not making this the romantic getaway of her dreams.

His hand curls around the mug. It’s so hard to keep looking forwards, when it’s the same as looking backwards.

She sets her hand down on the table, demanding he put his into hers. “Sweetie?”

The mug burns his skin. He imagines throwing it in her face. But no, it’s too early in the day. She’d have time to make the kids hurt. He’ll wait.

“We should go on a trip,” he tells her. “Just us two. It’s been a while.”

“Oh, that’s a brilliant idea!” She is instantly distracted. Too delighted to even be suspicious. “Where should we go? No, I know where…”

Later, he tells his aching hand. Closer to midnight. When nothing fucking matters.

-

He puts a finger over his lips. Izzy stares, wide-eyed, but nods slowly. She trusts him. No matter what. He kisses her forehead, and scoops Jamie out of his pillow kingdom.

They tiptoe downstairs, her little feet placed in his footsteps. He makes her a full English breakfast. By the time he sets the plate in front of her, he can hear Savvie’s footsteps down the hall.

He puts Jamie in his chair. He’ll have to cut up the hash browns and fried eggs for him afterwards.

The coffee cup is waiting on the side. He takes it upstairs. She’s calling.

He kisses her on the mouth before he hands her the drink. He watches her as she coos over his generosity. He watches her drop the mug after her first mouthful. Then she drops, too.

He’s done this too many times to care, anymore. He can keep the kids busy enough they won’t notice. He drags her back into the bedroom and shuts the door. He goes back downstairs to his children.

“Mommy’s not very well today,” he tells Izzy. He sits down next to Jamie to feed him quarters of button mushrooms. “She’s going to stay in bed all day. So we can do anything you want today.”

“Do we have to be very quiet?” she asks.

“Not at all. Mommy took some medication that makes her sleepy. We don’t need to worry.”

The light comes into her eyes. He’s never going to see a fucking sunrise again, but he can make do like this. “Okay, Daddy.”

Jamie bites down on his finger, and he laughs, until he cries.

It could be any day. It will be every day. He’ll never see Hannah again, not even if he lets Savvie drag him to the fucking Marcoset family dinner - which he does, sometimes, just for the variety, and to remember what Stewart looks like. He’ll never see his dad again, his mum or his sisters, and any of his friends. He’ll never go home and buy Izzy the unicorn duvet cover she deserves.

He’ll read every book in the house to them. He’ll watch every show on TV. He’ll teach Izzy the difference between O and D every single day. He’ll fry the eggs, grate the potatoes, chop the tomatoes, and put bleach in Savvie’s coffee, covered up by enough syrup to make her swallow it.

Every time. Parents would kill for this, he thinks. To spend every day with their kids, and never have to watch them grow up. Never having to watch them leave.

-

He figures out the passcode to her phone eventually. They’re sitting at the café at the table in the window, Izzy’s feet pressed gently against his legs just to feel him there on the other side of the table. She sips very carefully at her hot chocolate while Jamie gnaws on a flapjack, and Jax stares at his own face on the home screen of her newly opened phone.

He dials without thinking about it. Then he dials again, remembering the international code.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Dad.”

Izzy’s eyes go wide. She freezes in place, and he regrets his impulsivity. He tries to smile reassuringly at her.

“Jax?” his dad whispers. “Where are you?”

He probably should have planned this better. But he’ll get a do-over tomorrow. “I’m good, Dad. Uh, yeah, I’m out. I’m safe, I’m at this shelter. Cops are working on getting me home.” He pauses. What else would his dad want to hear? “And I’m not f… messed up, like before. I’m okay.”

“You’re coming home?”

“Yeah.” He reaches for Izzy’s hand, gently loosening it from the cup. “And, listen, Dad… I’ve got kids. Don’t – don’t ask the question you’re thinking. I’ve got a little girl called Izzy and a baby boy called Jamie, and they’re perfect. I’m happy, right now, alright? And I can’t wait for you to meet them.”

His throat nearly closes. Alfie will never get to meet them at this rate. But they can’t exactly get across the fucking ocean in a single day.

“Two kids,” Alfie repeats, stunned. “Your own kids?”

“Yeah. Gallagher kids. You know all about beans on toast, don’t you, kiddo?” He smiles at her. She’s starting to relax, slowly, at realising her mother isn’t going to appear and rain hell on them all for Jax daring to speak to his old family. “They’re mine and they’re coming with me wherever I go.”

“Well, of course…” Alfie’s voice is starting to ease from shock to wonder. “I, I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me how mam’s doing. And Georgia and Poppy and the kids, and Casey, and everything.”

Jamie drops oats down his front, and Jax puts the phone down on speaker on the table so he can clear them up. He doesn’t let go of Izzy’s hand as Alfie starts to talk.

-

Jax wakes up already rolling out of bed. He feels like he can handle the pillow today. Sometimes, seeing her thrash for her life is too much, but recently it’s started to feel routine. She’s long since been dead, to him. This is just catching her up with reality.

He knows where the remote is. He knows how to disable the collar. He’s forgotten what the days were like when they were different, but this one, he knows perfectly.

The kids are awake. He gets them dressed, kissing each of them as he helps with buttons and babygros. He takes the car keys. He throws all the food he fancies into a bag and entrusts it to Izzy. They’re going for a picnic. Yes, Mommy said it was okay.

Maybe he’ll make it to the coast, this time.

Maybe he’ll take another stab at getting to Hannah.

Maybe he’ll just go to the field with the wildflowers. They both loved that one.

Or maybe he’ll think of something new.

[whumblr]

Heyoooooo, been rereading home is where the hurt is, cause like it is so absolutely amazing, always a delight to find again and rerealise how fantastic it is.

Anyway I was reading lessons learned (yay for jay he earned his little triumph) and I was wondering how Zayne would retaliate? I feel like Zayne was also tired in it and normally he still could overpower Jay easily, but Id really love to read more of him getting his revenge at a later day, if you want to write that.

I hope you have a nice day,

~ @whumpedydump

Ehe :3 Yes, he can easily overpower Jay, that's the fun of it. Thank youu <3 Follow up to Lessons Learned.

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

-

"Jay... I think we need to revisit what happened last night."

Yep, there it was. The consequences of his own actions. A hand snagged the neck of his t-shirt and pulled him back in a swift tackle to the ground.

Zayne immediately took his chance and sat right on top of him while Jay was still getting some air back into his lungs from that smash to the floor.

While Zayne's face showed no swelling or bruising from yesterday, Jay could still see a darker line crossing his nose. A tinge of pride pricked through his fear.

"Because you'll want to be careful with such tricks," Zayne whispered, taking utmost care himself not to repeat last night's mistake. He didn't lean over Jay yet, just sat up straight on his hips and pinned Jay down. "Because some people... might not take to it as kindly as I did. Might not be as... merciful to let you get away with it."

"I wouldn't describe you as someone who's full of mercy..."

Zayne merely curled a lip in a wicked smile and continued. "Some people, would be pissed!" And he slammed a fist right next to Jay's head.

Jay flinched hard.

"Would start retaliating." Another blow barely missing the other side of his face. "Punch your lights out." A fist flew towards Jay's nose and Jay twisted away as best as he could, brought up his hands. But when he opened his eyes, Zayne had stopped, knuckles now an inch from his face. A trembling exhale released, followed with a betraying, pathetic little whimper.

"Or worse..." Zayne pulled his fist back and unfolded two fingers into a fingergun. "What if it had been someone with a gun, like Emery?"

Jay pulled a face and couldn't expel the sudden vision of Emery sitting on top of him instead of Zayne. He shook his head and looked straight into Zayne's eyes, the familiar evil that he suddenly way preferred, trying to ground himself in reality.

Zayne slowly leaned forward and let the tips of his index and middle finger rest against Jay's forehead. He clicked his tongue, flicked his thumb. "He'd probably empty a gun into your brain if you tried some stunt."

"I'm not stupid enough to pick a fight with someone with a gun."

Zayne laughed. "You do realise that is literally what you are doing by researching his crimes, right?" He caught both Jay's wrists and slammed them roughly into the floor. "Not to mention that you are stupid enough to pick a fight with someone who hands you your own ass multiple times a week."

"You literally asked for it yesterday."

"Well, you know how I always like to encourage you to fight back," Zayne crooned right in his face, knowing he had Jay pinned to rights. "Just, you know, be careful with it. It could do you more harm than good."

"So you're saying to only try this on kindhearted souls like my trainer or you."

"That's right."

"I see." And Jay suddenly bucked his hips up, caught Zayne both off-guard and off-balance, tipped him forward, and tossed him right over.

-

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror

@susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime

@freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks

@hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion

@afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8

@itsmyworld98 @whumpifi @painless-and-colourful @withdrawingramen @lolrpop

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 137

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@appy-polly-loggies , @shydragonrider , @professional-idiocy , @burtlederp , @unicornscotty @whumpwillow @bliss7575-blog @transjenderdeanjail @grizzlie70 @whatwhumpcomments @madrono-but-i-am-not-a-fruit @whumpzone @maracujatangerine @whump-em @crystalquartzwhump @outofangband @onlywhump @badluck990 @kixngiggles @whumpacabra @whumpy-catfish @throwawaywhumper @dont-touch-my-soup @uvanuva @kiichu @dreamsofwhump @valiantphantomturtle @voidviewer-blog @whumpsday @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @distinctlywhumpthing @finaldreams1106 @redwhump @apokolyps @wolfeyedwitch @emmanemanems @briars7 @stuffmyfriendssay @stuck-in-this-mortal-form @whumpedydump @fleur-alise @basica11ywhumped @hold-back-on-the-comfort @withdrawingramen @daddy-cowgirl-boots @shywhumpauthor @caughtinthera1n @sodacreampuff @slimesheep

[pretty-face-breaker]

piggybacking off of whoever asked this- https://at.tumblr.com/pretty-face-breaker/nick-would-u-stop-hurting-hayko-if-it-meant-he/0ay7k6o4c660

would hayko go back with nick if nick promised not to hurt him (or the people he cares about) anymore ?

"You'll live a life of glamour."

"I did, once." Hayko's voice is hushed, barely audible. His heart has stopped racing and now rests at a steady thrum. "It was terrible."

There's a pause on the other end of the line.

"How about if I stop hurting you?"

"...You and I both know you would never do that."

Even with Vladimir out shopping, he can't bring himself to laugh. Not even scoff, out of an unplaceable anxiety that he might not be alone. He knows he's alone. It's only him in the bathroom, the other man being, hopefully, miles away on the other end of the burner.

Still, he can't bring himself to make a sound.

"I love you," Nick drawls in a uniquely coercive tone. "Come back."

Hayko swallows, fidgeting with his destroyed cuticles. He sweeps the pads of his fingers over the white, raised skin around his nails and tries to pretend that he wasn't the one that called. Every day spent running is another one wondering just how close Nick has gotten.

Impatience drips from the line.

"I'm giving you a non-violent option here, my love."

At that, he can't help but scoff a little. "Why do you even bother promising to stop hurting me? It's a fucking complex for you." His voice breaks a little at the end but he hopes the phone disguises it.

A beat.

"Why exactly did you call me, Hayko? To get me riled up? To piss me off so thoroughly that when I find you-"

"...You won't find me."

Nick's laugh is distorted by interference, giving it an inhuman quality that sinks his stomach when he hears it.

"Since when have you been able to keep me away?"

Click.

—

@doveotions @heathenville @thewhumpstuff @thatsthewhump @adamantem-rose @lonesome–hunter @whumpsorbet @whumpasaurus101 @lektricfergus @downrivergirl914 @burtlederp @redwingedwhump @nicolepascaline @ifbtnna @oh-so-skeletal @whumperfully​​ 

[galaxywhump]

if you're interested and willing: would love to see wren having a bad day (depressed/frustrated/etc) and seeking out comfort from daniel unprompted, and daniel's reaction to that

[SV-240 masterlist]

contents: forced relationship whump, slavery whump, creepy/intimate whumper, depression, creepy comfort.

~~~

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

At least, Wren thinks, Daniel still knows that something must be wrong when he sits down next to him of his own free will; and something must be even more wrong when he leans his head against his captor's shoulder.

It's not a good day. He's not in any physical pain, he hasn't been tortured in a while, but that just means that torture is approaching, which doesn't help.

It's just depression, really. It almost feels trivial in this nightmare, but he can't deny there's no way to avoid depression in his situation, and… maybe it had been there even before the kidnapping.

Apparently it took being kidnapped and sold for him to realize his mental health has been in shambles for a while.

Today he needs comfort, but continuously reminding himself that he’s going to escape does not cut it. He needs touch, contact, but the only person who could provide it is the one who’s been hurting him this whole time, making him depressed. 

Maybe he could make it work, get that much needed touch and closeness while forgetting that it's Daniel giving it to him.

"Can you be quiet?" Wren mutters, closing his eyes.

"Why?"

"Because I just need you to hold me and not say anything and let me feel like shit in peace."

Daniel huffs, amused, and wraps his arm around Wren, holding him closer. Wren is tense at first, but when he realizes that Daniel seems to have agreed, he allows himself to relax in his embrace.

“You know you shouldn’t be ordering me around, right?”

“I’m not,” Wren groans. “If you want to punish me, then whatever, but later. Please.”

“Alright.” Daniel’s voice is soft, affectionate, and Wren doesn’t know - nor does he care, really - whether the word carries with it the promise of punishment or forgiveness.

Daniel goes back to reading - Berkeley had brought some new books, so he has plenty to read; on second thought, Berkeley’s recent visit might have contributed to Wren’s foul mood - not saying another word. Wren takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes closed, and tries to get far away from the house. He’s curled up on a couch, or an armchair, or a bed, in a living room, or a bedroom, it doesn’t matter; he’s sitting on something comfortable, and, more importantly, he’s being held by… someone. Someone without a face or a voice, who, after a minute or two, starts to run their hand up and down Wren’s arm, gently, like they could never do harm.

He knows their name and just how much harm they’re capable of doing, but he has to pretend he doesn’t. Right now the person is nothing more than a source of comfort he so desperately needs, and they want nothing in return. He’ll have to open his eyes eventually, face his captor’s delight at him seeking out his touch like this; it’s the price he’ll have to pay for this moment of peace.

Eventually, when he escapes, there will be no price. Until then, trading tiny bits of his determination for tiny bits of comfort is all he has.

~~~

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[yet-another-heathen]

Separation

1,483 words. Original Work: Liliholm & Page.

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Author's Note | This is the re-penned version of everyone's favorite Liliholm and Page chapter! Since originally writing this, Luca and Garcia have evolved so, so far into their own characters and their own story arcs, and I wanted to go back to have this chapter actually reflect that. I hope you enjoy getting your first glimpse at them, there's more to come soon!

Want to see the original version? You can still find it (and all the beloved comments and replies) here <3

Chapter Warning | interrogation, torture, stress position, suffocation, head trauma, loss of conciousness, dislocation, knives, blood, cursing

Tag List | @ink-and-salt @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpvp @redwingedwhump @lave-whump @castlehillwhump @sideblogformindtrash @burtlederp @fanastywhump

And special thanks to @whump-in-the-closet, who found this series the very day that the update was set to post <3 Hope you enjoy!

"I'm going to give you exactly one chance, Deimos," they said calmly, lifting his chin with the tip of their shoe. Wesley's entire body was trembling with strain and desperate agony, "What did you do with the files?"

He had been interrogated before. Tortured a handful of times, too—so came the risks of sticking his nose into places he knew he shouldn't. But this?

They tsked down at him.

This was brutal.

The ropes tightened again, and a groan of pain clawed its way out. It felt like every muscle in his chest was about to tear. It ended with an ugly, bitter laugh.

"You know, you'd be a lot more intimidating if you weren't all of five foot fucking nothing," he rasped, trying to relax into the oncoming waves of pain, "At least that brute is imposing, even if he's got all the brains of a meatloaf."

"Hm."

They let their shoe fall away, and Wes' head slumped. Out of the very corner of his eye he saw them nod to the other interrogator.

The mountain of a man who had been looming in the corner walked up behind him and pulled the restraints further up his arms, lifting them impossibly higher behind his back. He increased the pressure until his shoulders were on the verge of dislocating. His breaths came ragged and shallow through his nose, and he couldn't help but let out a gasp as he pressed his forehead against the ground.

And this time, the biting weight of a hard rubber sole pressed into the nape of his neck, tearing at the hairs. Luca's weight crushed his forehead down into the concrete as they ground their foot into the back of his skull.

Wes opened his mouth to gasp, but no air filled his lungs. Something about the angle had cut off his breathing, and the pressure just kept increasing and increasing—

"He thinks he's cute, doesn't he? Garcia, you think he's cute?"

Wes' diaphragm started seizing, stabbing pain jerking through his ribs when his lungs refused to expand.

"Maybe before you started making such a mess of him. Now? Not so much."

His consciousness slipped along the edges of their minds, searching for cracks, but it was like trying to hold onto a glass sphere covered in soap. All he could think about was his diaphragm, and the burning of air that wouldn’t come.

Darkness began encroaching on his vision. The figures above him exchanged something that he entirely missed, but the shoe and all Luca's weight still didn't move.

His body started jerking, fingers clawing into the empty air behind him as desperation finally took control of his movements.

He couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe—

The shoe slid down his spine, catching agonizingly on his skin until it threatened to rip. And with one final, tiny push, his shoulder left its socket. A lurching POP rent the air.

Darkness became white, and everything fizzled out into agony.

When the room came swimming back into focus he realized his teeth were vibrating with bitten-back sobs of pain. He dragged in wet, rasping breaths through his teeth. The fine grit covering the floor was sharp against his cheek.

Luca was a few feet away from him with their back turned, the dull echo of voices shifting under the void of his thoughts. Pain rang up his arm, down his back, and so deep into his chest it felt like something was trying to crush his heart.

Wes curled one lip and spat a mass of blood and spit on the floor, trying in vain to lift his weight off his injured arm.

Voices came back in slowly, muffled and too loud all at once.

"—like this."

They turned around, and Wes tilted his head back to see what they were holding in their hand.

A kitchen knife. A really fucking big one, glinting as it caught the harsh light from above.

...of course.

They handled it so casually, twirling it loosely by the hilt. "I've always appreciated the simplicity of household implements," they said to their coworker over his head.

"Almost poetic, in't it?" Garcia's deep, gravely voice replied, "After all, it's still all just gristle and meat."

Wes felt his heart pick up, pounding in his ears and throat. They knelt down beside him, looking him over with a hollow smirk.

"Make sure you hold his head up. I want to watch his face."

A huge, thick hand tangled in his hair and wrenched his head upward, exposing the bare curve of his throat. But it wasn't his neck they went for, they were leaning over him and—

His eyes went wide, only moments before the tip of the blade stabbed downward through his skin. He jerked and hissed, trying to lean away.

The knife dug slowly, so so so slowly, into the bent mass of his shoulder where the joint had been separated from its socket.

It took every single ounce of his resolve not to scream. The horrible, horrible pressure of the blade digging in between cartilage and bone made his face pale, nausea rising in his mouth.

He felt the grating echo through his entire body as the knife scraped along bone, inside him, like an ice pick wedging between his teeth.

The sound that left him was inhuman. Low and bitten back and so deep with agony that it scarcely counted as breathing.

"Hm. Tough crowd," the big one teased.

And it finally ripped a frantic cry out of him as the flat side of the blade tilted downward, prying the bones apart.

Nausea rose to an unbearable limit, and blackness overcame his mind.

When he came to he was slumped with almost all of his weight in Garcia's hand, neck bent backwards at a painful angle. Sticky heat was pouring down his chest and dripping to his thighs. It took him a long moment to realize that it was blood. A lot of blood.

His body was jolting with hiccupping little half-sobs, breaths coming so shallow that he wasn't truly breathing at all. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back against the unbearable pain that sent little floating wells of black across his vision.

Luca wiped the blade clean on Wes' trembling arm, squatting so close to him that it made him sick.

"Reconsidering your position yet?"

Wes recoiled, surprising himself when a little surge of anger split through the fog of pain. He gathered himself to spit a mouthful of blood at them. He stopped short only when the tip of the knife pressed against his lips.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," they said quietly.

Wes glared at the blur of them, entire body trembling with exhaustion and strain. The unspoken threat made his blood boil.

"Go fuck yourself," he snarled, ignoring the way the cutting edge tugged at his lower lip.

He reached for his powers, and threw everything he had at them. They almost dropped the knife when the sound hit, eyes flying wide with shock and pain as they gasped and covered their ears against the raging scream of noise only they could hear.

"Garcia!"

And Wesley's head was slammed into the concrete floor. His attack was immediately cut off, gold blooming behind his eyes from the ferocity of the blow. He felt his hair ripped upward, ready to slam him down again—

Luca barely stopped Garcia from simply cracking his skull open on the concrete. This time when they seized Wes by the chin, their nails dug in. Every ounce of amusement was gone from their eyes.

"You little shit," their voice was scathing, "The next time you pull that stunt, I'm going to peel off your face, piece by pitiful little piece, and feed it to you."

Wes wanted to snarl something clever at them, but his brain was having a difficult time staying any form of coherent. His ears rang. Everything was swimming, the walls seeming to zoom out around the edges of their silhouette.

That wasn't good. That really wasn't good.

It didn't stop him from spitting that dark spray of blood directly into their face. Red and clotted black splattered across pale skin.

No matter what they did to him for it, Wes decided then and there that the look of shock and disgust on their face was worth it.

They slowly wiped a hand down their cheek, a cold mask slipping over their expression. Then they sighed.

"Well, I did warn him."

They leaned forward again, knife breaking the skin just above Wes' other shoulder, only to stop at the sound of approaching footsteps and muffled words from the other side of the door.

"Ah, now the show's starting."

Despite so much blood, despite the arm loose from its socket, despite the fact that he was trembling from head to toe and very, very much in pain, Wes growled at them, "I'm not fucking scared of you."

He startled when both of his interrogators laughed. The door lock snapped in its casing, heavy hinges creaking as it was pushed open and the sallow light from the hallway poured in.

"Oh, I'm not the one you have to worry about."

They casually flicked the tip of their blade toward the thin, frail-looking old man that entered the doorway, wiping his hands clean.

"He is."

[ashintheairlikesnow]

CW: Pet whump, dehumanization, referenced torture, referenced death/murder, sadistic whumper, internal dehumanization

For @whumptober 2022, day six: Screams from across the hall 

Jameson’s masterlist

- 

It doesn't matter.

The pet in the cage curls himself up as tightly as he can, ignoring the throbbing ache in his knees and thighs, pretending he isn't covered in welts, some of which are deep enough to bleed. 

He keeps the thought on a constant loop in his mind, trying to shout it, silently, until it drowns everything else out.

It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter-

The scream cuts through his thoughts, tearful begging, and he shakes his head violently, forcing it back out. 

It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter... 

Doesn’t-

Doesn’t matter-

With the muzzle on, he can't open his mouth enough to speak. He can't do anything except grind his teeth together until his jaw aches, hands pressed over his ears, forcing them flat against the thin skin of his head, the straps of the muzzle rubbing everything red and raw. 

The sounds are muffled, but he can still hear them. The power drill is the worst - that high pitched whrrrrrrrrrr digs an icepick into his mind, making it harder for him to drown out the screaming with his thoughts. 

And this one is a screamer. 

He has to tell himself again and again that there isn't anything worth feeling bad over, she's going to die and better for her if it happens sooner and not later. Regret won't save her. He's locked in a cage counting bottles of Jameson as they're emptied and lined up along a mantle piece. He can't help her. 

He can't save her. 

 It doesn’t matter.

The pet keeps his eyes shut tight to pretend this isn't happening, because it isn't happening to him, and caring about the ones that are brought here to die will wear him down to nothing too fast. 

But if he could just not have to fucking listen, that would be great.

Her screams raise to a higher pitch, cracking through all his defenses, and the pet screams in tandem with her. His throat is raw and hoarse and his voice cracks, disappears and reappears, as he throws his head back and kicks his legs out against the door of the cage, rattling the bars and the lock that keeps him trapped, screaming until even what small hints of volume are less fade to crackling and then to nothing at all.

Just air, escaping his body even though he can’t. 

The sound of the power drill stops. 

 Fuck.

After a second, the screaming from behind the basement door turns to wracking sobs. The pet lets his hands slowly lower from his ears. Is he done? Will it stop for a while? Maybe he'll just… fuck her, and then he won't want the pet, he can only take one, he isn't-

He isn't Nanda, who could go all night-

The pet forces away the memory of the man he loved as best he can. Memories only make it harder to survive. He swallows against the tight leather of his collar, straining to listen, jaw working against the construction that digs in along the underside of his jaw. 

 It doesn’t matter that Nanda is dead, because the pet isn’t.

It doesn’t matter.

"Fucking asshole slut," He hears, alongside the muffled thumping steps of Robert coming back up the stairs. His tongue sours with the taste of his voice. "Someone could hear that and call the cops on me, stupid brainless slut…"

The pet's upper lip curls back from his teeth in a snarl, hidden behind the dark leather of the muzzle. His heart, though, starts to race. 

Robert heard him. 

Shit. 

He'll be the next one screaming. 

 Not that he really can anymore.

He shouldn't have felt sorry for her. He shouldn't have cared. He should have pretended he wasn't listening. 

 He should have understood that he’s on his own. She won't care as much about him. If their places were switched, she’d have stayed quiet.

She’d have understood that it doesn’t matter who dies, as long as the pet doesn’t.

-

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