#how the fuck would you get whumpee back?? your only hope is to convince the vampire to share

[echo-goes-mmm]

We don't have enough vampire caretakers in whump

Think of the possibilities! Sure they may or may not feed off of whumpee, but that's a very small price to pay for safety in a thoroughly hurt whumpee's mind

Vampire Caretakers can tell with a taste or even smell that whumpee needs more calcium or iron in their diet

Vampire Caretakers can use their Charm ability to help soothe whumpee

Vampire Caretakers who have all the time in the world with many resources to make whumpee as comfortable as possible

Vampire Caretakers that no whumper would Dare cross bc Caretaker could CRUSH them

Vampire caretakers Will Kill for their whumpee and god help Whumper when Vampire Caretaker gets ahold of them

Idk I wanna see a person capable of great harm being the kindest, gentlest person in a whumpees life

And maybe Vampire Caretaker has been lonely for far too long and now? A Friend! And they Will Love and Cherish their new companion damnit

[whumpsmith-participates]

Medwhump May 2024

Day 6 - Doctor turned patient

Kinda a continuation of Day 2

TW: Fetch being Fetch honestly— Ok serious TW: minor whumpee (16), whumper turned whumpee -ish, verbal abuse, tobacco (mentioned)

@medwhumpmay

Fetch still liked to call himself a doctor. Not having a license was merely a technicality and didn't take away from the fact that he spent years studying all the ins and outs of human anatomy. And do you know that saying how doctors make the worst patients? — Well, Fetch was definitely still a doctor in that regard.

Erick was pretty much fed up the moment they made it home. Fetch had somehow survived two hours without treatment after being shot in the thigh and bleeding from his artery past a badly-placed tourniquet, and he seemed determined to make that everyone's problem. And specifically Erick's, since he was the only one around after Tito's men helped them get home.

With his leg injured, Fetch was unable to stand without help, and was pretty much confined to bed, having to rely on Erick to get his needs met, yet he was acting like he wasn't almost completely reliant on the teen. Telling him off when he didn't respond fast enough, complaining about his wound care, and generally just having no manners at all.

"What took you so long?" Fetch snapped when Erick walked in with the coffee he requested.

Erick stopped in the door opening, throwing Fetch a look.

"I didn't take that long," he said, "if you're going to be so ungrateful I could also just stop making coffee for you altogether."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Fetch asked.

"I know, I know, attitude," Erick said, "what are you going to do about it? You can't even stand without my help."

"Get over here," Fetch ordered, but Erick didn't move.

"No."

"The fuck you mean, no?" Fetch asked, "get your ungrateful lil ass over here or—"

"I'm ungrateful?" Erick asked, appalled, "I saved your life! If I hadn't called Mr Rana when you passed out—"

"Oh yeah, wow, you made one phone call," Fetch said sarcastically, "what do you want? A sticker?"

"How about a "thank you?"" Erick said, "you haven't thanked me even once since I drove you to the middle of nowhere, cleaned your blood out from the van, I make you food and drinks, I help you get to the bathroom, and I've been dressing your wound!"

"So what? Do you want me to start listing everything I've done for you?" Fetch said, "because that's a significantly longer list!"

"And how many things on that list have I thanked you for?" Erick countered, "every. Single. One of them! I let you order me around to try and make up for it too, but I've had it! Make your own fucking coffee if I'm too slow."

"Erick—"

SLAM!

Honestly, he didn't mean to close the door that hard, but it seemed like a good closing argument at the time. Especially when Fetch started yelling at him through the door.

"Erick when I get out of this bed you're dead! You hear me? ERICK!"

Erick ignored him, heading back into the kitchen and pouring some milk into the coffee so he could drink it himself. In hindsight he probably shouldn't have stormed out, but on the other hand, it was probably safer to wait until Fetch had cooled down first. He almost hurried back when he heard a distinct thud coming from the bedroom, but he didn't even need to convince himself to stop as Fetch immediately began cussing at him. As if it was his fault that he tried to get out of bed without help.

After he finished the coffee, he looked at the pile of dishes in the sink and decided to start cleaning those to pass the time. He had half a mind to just go for a walk, but that might just cause Fetch to get even angrier instead of calming down like he hoped he would.

After finishing the dishes, he listened for any more yelling, but it seemed Fetch had at least settled down a bit. Erick sighed, taking a moment to gather some courage before going to check on him. He tried to approach the door to the bedroom quietly, but the floor had the annoying tendency to creak under his weight at the worst moments.

"Erick!" Fetch immediatelly snapped from the other side of the door, "open this goddamn door! If you think I'm going to shout any apologies through a door you'll have another thing coming!"

Erick rolled his eyes, before pushing the door open. Unsurprisingly, Fetch was lying next to his bed, half trying to sit up on his good leg.

"About time," he said, "help me up."

Erick didn't move, nor did he respond. Fetch glared daggers at him.

"Help me up, please." he said through gritted teeth.

Erick strongly suspected he could get hurt, but not helping him up after he so painstakingly said "please" would just be plain mean. He nodded, stepping further into the room and carefully helping Fetch up, letting him lean on him so he could get high enough to drop himself back onto the bed. So far so good, until Fetch kicked at him with his good leg.

"Ow! That's your thanks?"

"Shut the hell up," Fetch said, "you have no right—"

"I'm doing the best I can!" Erick said, "Is it too much to ask for a little patience? It's not like you have other places to be."

"It'd be easier to be a little more patient if you would get me my goddamn smokes," Fetch grumbled.

"I'm sixteen! Who in his right mind would sell me cigarettes?" Erick said, "just hang in there for one more week and then you can try walking to the corner store to buy them yourself."

"For fuck's sake— Just stop talking back and get me that coffee. Please."

"I'll make you a fresh pot," Erick said, "if you can survive the wait."

"Fuck off, Erick!"

"Actually, I just remembered we're out of coffee," Erick said, "so I'll have to walk to the corner store and buy some first. Do you need to use the bathroom before I go?"

"...Fine."

"That's too bad then," Erick said, stepping out of the room again.

"God dammit— When I get out of this bed I'll—"

"I know, I know, you'll kill me," Erick said, finding Fetch's wallet on the kitchen table and taking some money out, "do we need anything else while I'm going to the store anyway?"

"...The first-aid kit can probably use a refill by now," Fetch replied.

Erick could tell he was seething, but there was nothing he could do in this state, and Erick caught himself enjoying it. He would probably come to regret it once Fetch had the strength to punish him again, but for now...for now he might as well enjoy it.

"I promise I'll be right back, okay? Please don't try to get up on your own again," he said, pausing in the doorway again on his way out.

"I hope you get run over," Fetch said.

"Sure you do," Erick said sarcastically, before taking off.

Erick finally gets a little bit of retribution, as a treat.

Yes this will catch up to him later, but for now we can all enjoy it :)

I was gonna include a whole bit of Erick changing his dressing too, but idk it felt a bit too intimate and that's NOT the kind of relationship they have and it felt super awkward so I decided against it. Maybe some other time, idk.

Masterlist Main account

[dump-o-whump]

Red Market — 1: Pet #27

fun fact!! this situation is my worst fear :) that made this fun to write (/s but it actually was really fun to write djdj)

content: bbu, begging, pet whump, threatened vivisection, stockholm syndrome, immortal/supernaturally healing whumpee

•

Leo was getting a new owner and he didn’t know what to do.

Master had told him the night before. He didn’t want it, though. He didn’t want a new owner with new rules and a new life. All he really wanted was to stay with things as they were with Master. He loved Master, he did, and he didn’t want any other life.

And Master loved him.

Or, at least, he thought Master loved him.

When he first got him, Master was kind. He would stroke his hair and hold his hand and kiss his forehead. He would give him kind, affirming words — “You’re doing so well, pet, I promise” — whenever he had to be punished. He was the best master a pet could ask for. Leo still loved Master so much, he had learnt to from the early days. But now, Master was getting rid of him, and he didn’t know what to do.

Leo heard Master’s footsteps down the hall and immediately perked up, crawling from his ‘sleep corner’ (the name he’d affectionately given to the damp patch of his cell he was forced to sleep in) to the barred doors. “Master!” He called out excitedly. His hands were wrapped around the bars as far as the chains would let him, but he couldn’t fit his head through, so he couldn’t see Master as he walked down.

This was it. He was going to be able to convince Master not to get rid of him. He would tell him how much he loved him, he would beg and plead like a good little pet and Master would cradle his face like he used to and say “It’s alright, love. I won’t take you away.” as he stroked his hair and Leo would finally be happy and Master would finally be happy. And they would all be happy.

He was so relieved he could cry.

“Master! Hello, Master!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Leo did, slamming his mouth shut immediately and shifting away from the door as Master swung it open. Master was holding a new collar with a tag attached to it. Leo grinned.

“Is that a new collar? For me? Thank you, Master, it means so much! Does this mean—“

“It doesn’t mean I’m not getting rid of you, you fucking vermin. It means your new owner wants you to have a fancy-ass new collar instead of the dirty thing you have now.”

Leo’s hopes were dampened but not destroyed. “I don’t think you should get rid of me,” He said, voice small.

“Too bad I don’t give a shit what you think.” Master said as he approached Leo. He clipped the chain to the new collar before carefully taking off the old one.

Leo stared at it. It was made of tough, black leather with a silver bell. The entire thing was matted with blood and full of cracks. It was disgusting, and Leo was happy to have it off, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

The new collar looked much nicer. It was lined with crushed velvet, with a paper tag that read ‘Pet #27’. Leo lifted his head up as the collar was clipped around his neck, smiling at the absence of the bell’s jingle when he moved.

“Thank you, Master. But… there is something I want to say.”

Master shot him a look of pure, unadulterated hatred, and Leo suddenly felt like something small had died inside of his chest. “And what’s that? Hurry up, I’m busy.”

“I don’t want a new owner. I want to stay here,” He smiled up at his owner hopefully. “With you.”

Master threw his head back and laughed. He leant down, grabbing Leo’s chin roughly, that cruel glint still in his eye. “Listen. You’re a pet — that’s all you are, that’s all you ever will be. You know that.”

Leo nodded enthusiastically.

“Not only that, you’re my pet. You belong to me.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You are my property.”

“Yes, Master.”

“It is my right to do whatever I want to or with you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Ma—“

“Shut up! Let me finish speaking, for fuck’s sake.”

Leo nodded silently, not daring to speak another word.

“Good. Now, listen to me. Use that thing between your ears for thirty seconds to take in what I’m about to say.”

Leo nodded.

“I hate you. I do, I really do. So… I’m gonna sell you off.” Master’s face softened and it suddenly dawned on Leo that he really meant it.

Every time he’d said it, Leo had ignored it, because it was always screamed in a fit of anger. Master was venting his frustration. But he didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it.

Please tell me he couldn’t mean it.

“Now, stop your crying and bitching before I slice you open.” Master pulled a pocket knife from his jacket, leering at Leo with it and earning a shocked squeal. He laughed. “I’m gonna miss that sound.”

He swiftly left the room, slamming the door behind him with a huff of laughter. Leo curled into himself and sobbed.

Leo was getting a new owner and he didn’t know what to do.

•

idk man this is poorly written but i haven’t posted in weeks so shut up

taglist: @whumpsday

[inscrutable-shadow]

Whumptober 2023 Days 4, 18 - wasn't what you wanted (but i had something to give)

@whumptober-archive

No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”

Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?”

No. 18: “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened.”

Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.”

contains: gore, captivity, vampire whumpees, immolation

too long? read on ao3!

Avrae thought she really should have expected something like this. Waking with the red-hot sensation of silver blistering against bare wrists and frigid air tickling her ribs, perhaps not exactly, but some form of capture or another. One could only be public enemy number one of most of vampire-kind for so long before someone succeeded in kicking the shit out of you. What she genuinely didn’t expect to see was the bruised and battered face of one Thanatos Iuventus, being hauled around by his hair and generally looking worse for wear. He was also shirtless, and covered in what was presumably his own blood, red as it was. Their captors were Daxerine, and everyone knew Daxerines had black blood.

“Well, well, miss Angel of Death. Looks like we’ve caught two birds with one stone. I must admit, when your Harbinger was spotted in the area, I was quite worried, but once we’d caught him, my fears were quickly dispelled.” Avrae recognised this man from the briefing documents: Edric Godfrey, the current Lord Viarossa and the target. He and six of his scions were slated for elimination, leaving the two remaining members of the Viarossa bloodline to be folded into the new House Penumbrae, which was eagerly waiting to seize assets as soon as Avrae reported mission success. Lord Godfrey shook Thanatos a bit, which only served to increase his dishevelled appearance. The limp strands of dark hair clinging to his face, caked with blood and sweat, made him look a bit like a damp raven. Did he always look so wretched? Honestly. Typical Iuventus.

Thanatos’s breathing scraped raggedly from his throat and his eyes (faintly glowing red, a telltale sign of a hungry vampire) darted wildly around the room. He got his mouth halfway around “Ten- ugh…” before his face hit the floor.

Godfrey, who’d dropped him, stepped over his body into the room. “He hasn’t been of particular use to us, I’m afraid. I can’t imagine what you use him for.” The answer to that was obvious, even from here. The runic sigil tattooed onto Thanatos’s chest could be easily read by anyone who understood the magic as a planar focus. It was what let her shadow-walk over long interstellar distances to carry out the hits. Thanatos would go the slow way, and as soon as she was in, he’d take his leave and head for the next destination. She rarely saw him, and to be honest, that was just fine with her. “Fortunately, he brought you right to us. I trust you’ll be of much more use.”

“What the fuck do you want, anyway?” Avrae asked, ignoring Thanatos’s quiet whimpers. 

Godfrey leaned over her, careful not to touch the silver chains. “I want your list. Everyone slated to be executed. Everyone your new council of feral mongrels has deemed unnecessary.” His voice dipped to a malevolent growl as he spoke, and he cleared his throat and swallowed the emotion. Quite a bit of vitriol there, ‘feral’ was an insult vampires reserved for the most absolutely despised.

“Look in a mirror. You’re priority one, asshole.”

Her neck snapped to the side as he backhanded her across the face. This was enough to rouse Thanatos from his stupor of self-pity and put the fear back into his eyes. He pressed himself into the wall, hoping Godfrey would forget about him. Avrae couldn’t tell if he was putting on an act to appear non threatening or if Lord Viarossa had just put the fear of God into him. No time to ponder it, though. “Don’t get smart with me. If you don’t talk willingly, I’d love to convince you. Your friend here can tell you just how much I enjoy it. Get him up,” he ordered, and two other men stepped in to chain Thanatos to the opposite wall in a reflection of her own restraints.

Thanatos didn’t even flinch as the silver closed around his wrists. He was clearly used to it, and the scars on his arms confirmed that. Silver was the only thing that could scar a vampire, and its use was considered taboo for intraspecies disagreements. This ‘Culling War’, as it was being called by people on the wrong side of it, had seen all of those conventions thrown out of the nearest airlock. It was clearly meant to send the message that nothing was off the table, probably not even sunlight. She didn’t see the pale scarring of previously sun-scorched flesh anywhere on Thanatos’s exposed upper body, though, so that was a mercy. Meant they hadn’t been pushed that far yet. For the best, really, even the strongest stomach could turn watching charred skin slough off of muscle. 

“You remember this, don’t you, Harbinger?” Godfrey crooned, tipping Thanatos’s chin up with his left hand and bringing the right up toward an already red mark on the man’s side. The pulsing crackle of an electric baton drew both Avrae’s and Thanatos’s wary attention. “Why don’t we show her what we’ve been doing for the past few days?”

Thanatos went rigid and averted his eyes from the implement, his breathing settling into an uneasy rhythm. He didn’t flinch away as Godfrey brought the arcing electricity teasingly close to his skin. Avrae swallowed. She wouldn’t do him the dishonour of looking away, but it had been several centuries since she’d watched someone be tortured in front of her. That much disuse could make even the most hardened killing machine go soft. Though she’d never been as hardened as others had hoped. She’d always taken too greedily to peace, ached too desperately for normalcy. She would sand off her own sharp edges if it didn’t happen quickly enough on its own. Maybe that’s what had made her brittle, caused her to shatter, a hopeless, broken thing. (She just wanted to be like them.)

The contract had reforged her, made her a weapon again. She’d almost expected it when they’d approached her and offered a new assignment. It had been odd, not being wielded. It had felt good doing what she was made to do. Somehow, it didn’t feel good to watch Thanatos (delicate, rail-thin, craven Thanatos, whose greatest pre-vampiric hardship had been paternal pressure into an annoying career and who’d looked as if he were one cough away from an early grave every time she’d seen him) go through something she would have been expected to withstand as a child. It was just electricity, just pain. It was impossible for it to damage him permanently. Physically, at least. The sunken, haunted eyes told a different story.

The first scream was cautious, curated. Clearly intentional, gauging the atmosphere, probing Godfrey to see how far he wanted to go this time. Hoping that would be the end of it. The second had a bit of despair to its edge.

The third was real.

Long, drawn-out wails of utter agony rang through the small room. Red Lichtenberg figures blossomed across his side, like grasping fingers stretching toward the sigil on his chest. There was nothing Avrae could do to help Thanatos. They would just have to wait until Godfrey got bored. Asking him to stop would be a display of weakness, and she didn’t have the information that would theoretically save him. She didn’t even know who the target after Godfrey was supposed to be yet. Thanatos might, but if he did and wasn’t telling, he had more iron in him than she’d given him credit for.

Minutes pass and Godfrey shows no sign of slowing down. Thanatos gives no suggestion of wanting to beg for the pain to stop, either. His cries are entirely wordless and stop as soon as the prod is moved away from his skin. Either he’s already tried and knows it’s pointless, or it’s his own brand of defiance. Avrae’s tired of it either way.

“Is there a point to this or do you just like hearing him scream? My hearing’s very sensitive, so if it’s the latter, could you move this show somewhere else?” She made a point of ensuring her expression was as bored as possible, something she’d had quite a bit of experience with since becoming nocturnal.

Godfrey rounded on her, shaking the baton under her nose. “It could be you next. Ruin that pretty skin of yours. Unless you have something to tell me?”

“Nope.”

He growled in frustration and tipped her chin up with the end of the prod. “I don’t think you understand the severity of what I’m asking you.”

She smirked, shifting against the silver chains. “No, I think I get it. You think I’m the only method the Council has of getting this done? I’m the merciful route. You could kill me right here and it wouldn’t save you. You could know every name in the ledger and you couldn’t do jack shit about it. Either the High Council does this, or the Galactic Council does. They won’t be kind enough to leave two of your scions. They will gladly exterminate every single one of us. If my options are you kill me or they kill me, I’ll take silver over the stake or the sun.”

Lord Godfrey’s expression hardened into a scowl. “I’m going to leave you two to talk for a moment, and when I come back, I’ll immolate him.” He said the last few words slowly, leaning over her position sitting on the floor. Thanatos’s eyes flickered with some emotion, but quickly returned to glassy diffidence. “Let’s see where we stand after that.” Godfrey indicated to the other two men to leave the room, and the iron door scraped shut.

The room was silent for a few moments, then Thanatos made a sound that might have been a sob, but was stunted and malformed. He took a shuddering breath. “I… don’t want to die, Tenebrus.”

“Well, yeah. Expected as much.” She sighed. “I suppose you want me to get you out of this.” Thanatos said nothing. “You’re nothing but trouble, you know that?”

He blinked slowly. “I apologise.”

It wasn’t really any fun poking at him if he wasn’t going to fight back at all. “Do you have the info he wants?” Godfrey probably had cameras in here, but there wasn’t really any point in bluffing about this. They’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

He shuddered. “No. They give me the next location once they’ve confirmed you’ve reached the destination correctly. I’ve been here since before then, and I’ve got nothing through the datastream. I don’t know if signals can get through here.”

“Mm. I used your locator to get through, popped into an ambush. These assholes’re lucky I didn’t walk through them. If signals have trouble getting through, the Council might not even know I got here.”

“Would they send someone for you? If they knew?” Both of them knew Thanatos was a bit of a sacrificial lamb for this enterprise. If something untoward were to happen to him, he’d be replaced, simple as. Avrae was a bit more difficult to substitute. The Council might make an attempt at recovery rather than giving her up as lost.

“Dunno. Any chance of your uh… partner?” Most of the rumours about Thanatos, if you heard his name at all, centred around the idea that he was banging an extremely powerful magical being. Avrae didn’t quite believe it, but far be it from her to understand a fae’s sexual preferences.

He hesitated, then sighed. “No. None at all.” This sentence seemed to drain him more than even the torture had.

“They wouldn’t stop you burning to death?”

“Ae’s not available. Won’t even know what’s happened to me for a few years.” Oh. That was… awful, actually. Did this partner of his even know he was out here fighting a war?

“Okay. So we’re on our own then. I can break the chains, but the manacles won’t let me shadow-walk. I’d still be trapped.”

“You’re strong enough even with the silver? I suppose your physical enhancement must truly be S-class.” Sure. Whatever. If that made it easier to believe.

“Door’s silver-lined too. If I can get out of the silver while it’s open, I’ll be able to teleport and it’ll be easy to get you out then.” He had no reason to believe she wouldn’t just leave him there once she was free, but also, if he could have got himself out, he probably wouldn’t still be here.

Thanatos’s brow furrowed. “The only way to get you out would be if he- ah. I may have a solution.” She waited, but he failed to elaborate further.

“And?”

“Trust me. Play along. Let me show you what purpose a Iuventus serves.” His eyes had never looked defeated, except for the brief moment when he’d thought of his partner, but now she detected a glimmer of defiance or even mischief. What was he planning? She nodded, willing to let him take the lead.

He was quiet for several seconds and then raised his voice. “I want to confess! Please! You can’t silence me, Tenebrus. I won’t die for this cause!”

Godfrey immediately opened the door, much too eagerly. “Oh? Finally changed your tune? I almost thought I’d have to use this.” Behind him, his goons wheeled in what Avrae recognised as an ultraviolet spotlight. That thing could render a vampire to ash almost sooner than he could scream. She’d be astonished if Godfrey could watch that without vomiting.

“No, please, I don’t want to die!” Thanatos’s pleading was fervent, almost fanatical. “She can do what she likes to me. I… I can’t die. I’ll give you the information.”

‘She can do what she likes to me,’ eh? Avrae thought she might be picking up what he was putting down. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, you pathetic coward, I’ll make you fucking wish I’d immolate you. You think silver hurts? I’ll flay you and sun bleach your organs. Keep you nice and well fed, so you keep regenerating. You’ll beg for death by the time I’m done with you—”

“Promise me you’ll protect me! If you’ll protect me from her, a-and from the Council, I’ll tell you anything you want to know!” he begged Godfrey, on his knees at the man’s feet, or as close as he could get at the end of his chains.

Godfrey grinned. “Of course, anything you like. We’ll set you up with your own private estate, far away from all of this messy business. The Council will never find you, not even with their bloodhounds.” He shot a glance over toward Avrae. Oh, that was rich.

Thanatos’s laugh was almost manic. “See, Tenebrus? You have no hold on me. You would have to rip the tongue from my mouth to silence me now.”

Oh, okay. “Maybe I will, shitstain!” She pulled hard against the chains, and Godfrey’s eyebrows raised, momentarily alarmed. Yeah, get scared. “Maybe I’ll rip your larynx right out of your throat, see how much you spill then! I should have known when they assigned you to me it’d be something like this. You’ve never been anything but a liability.” It probably wasn’t necessary to drag him this badly, but she really wanted to sell it. “I’ll send you right back to your lover with no eyes, no tongue, and no dick.” One sharp pull, and the silver chain disintegrated.

Thanatos’s shrieks and chokes as her hands wrapped around his neck sounded pretty real, even though she wasn’t actually trying to suffocate him. She hoped he had a plan for this, cause she’d be obligated to actually kill him pretty soon if she didn’t want to lose face. Godfrey’s men were trying to pull her off of him at least, though they weren’t being very successful. She checked behind her quickly, and to her astonishment, they’d abandoned the spotlight blocking the door from closing. If she could get out of the manacles, they were free. The split second her eyes were off of Thanatos’s face let her also be surprised when her wrists erupted in pain.

“What the fuck?” she yelled and immediately dropped him. He’d bitten her, he’d actually fucking bitten her! Hold on. A green substance that was definitely not the typical vampire venom was eating through the metal around her hands. It was melting her flesh too, but that could probably be fixed. She held her arms toward her body to hide what was going on and let Godfrey’s men pull her back.

“Oho, looks like our Harbinger has a few thorns of his own. Don’t worry, Angel, we’ll take good care of him. And you. Once we don’t need you, I’ll take great pleasure in making you answer for what you’ve done.”

“Yeah, uh-huh,” Avrae murmured as the shackles hit the floor. One blink, and one of Godfrey’s men had a hole through his heart. Another, and the second went down. They were in the dossiers anyway. She’d have had to do it eventually. “Tell me all about what I deserve. I’ll make sure to take note of it. Don’t think you’ll get the chance to do anything about it, though. Why don’t we see what this thing does?” 

She kicked a gobsmacked Godfrey into the path of the spotlight and threw one of her shadow blades at the switch. The spectacle was just as horrifying as she’d imagined. Every inch of the vampire’s skin melted, then charred, then turned to ash, revealing new flesh which then did the same, his whole body bursting into white flame and rendering down to a pile of fine grey dust in seconds. Thanatos whimpered behind her, probably imagining himself in that position.

She turned to him. “Well. That was something. The fuck did you do, anyway?” The only response he gave was a moan, and she realised his lips, fangs, and tongue were being liquefied by the same substance he’d put onto her wrists. He probably couldn’t talk at all. “Were you keeping that acid in your fangs the whole time?” He nodded wearily. “Shadow’s fangs. You’ve got more balls than I thought.” He huffed and looked away. Shit. He was going to need to regenerate, or more likely, some kind of medical care.

She snapped him out of the shackles and heaved him over her shoulder. “You really are no end of trouble.” Thanatos made a sound that might have been a cough and might have been a laugh.

taglist: @albatris, @milkshakes-lust-and-chiral-dust, @thethistlegirlwrites, @athenswrites

[ashintheairlikesnow]

For Kauri and Chris: it doesn't work as well as you hoped, does it?

(follows Time Apart)

CW: Former pet whumpee, past noncon references, fucky headspace around consent and SERIOUSLY misconstrued response to assault, some hardcore angst going on here, internalized victim-blaming

Chris feels fingers move through his hair, gently sweeping the shaggy copper to one side, and opens his eyes to see Kauri leaning over him. His wide blue eyes are warm, understanding.

"I saw Laken leave," Kauri says, gentle, and sits next to where Chris has curled up on his side on his bed. His fingers continue to run through Chris's hair, tingling over his scalp, a soft and subtle reassurance, words he doesn't have to hear. You are good, you are a good boy. "You want to tell me what happened?"

Chris closes his eyes again, turning his face to his sheets, to the faint scent of laundry detergent and the soft rustle of them against his skin. He tries not to see Laken's face, reddened and wet with tears, as they walked away. "We, we broke up."

Kauri's fingers pause - and then start up again, the moment so barely-there that even Chris almost misses it. "You broke up? Did they break up with you, or you with them?"

"Um. I, I, I thought they broke up with, um, with with me but then when they came over, they hadn't? But we just-... I, I broke... I broke up with them." His voice trembles, throat threatening to close up around the words, and he exhales, rocking himself forward and back where he lays, rubbing his hands reflexively over the seams of his pants, seeking out the soothing feeling of the texture there. "I told them I, I, I can't be with them anymore. I made them go."

This can't be the end, Chris. Not like this. Laken looked like he'd slapped them, their face pale and red both at once, eyes wide, dark pools demanding he take it back. This can't be the end of the line for us.

Then, then, then what is? Just, just go. I don't-... I don't, don't, don't want this any longer, for you. You shouldn't-... I, I, I'm... just go home, Laken. You shouldn't, shouldn't have, have wanted a whore anyway.

Chris. You know you're not-

I know I am! I, I, I almost had-... I almost-... I almost cheated on you last night!

Laken had swallowed, lips barely moving. You what?

I let, I, I, I let someone touch me, and it felt good, you know? It felt good. I, I, I got-... I, I got turned on by it. Like a fucking- He'd heard Handler Petrus in his mind, felt him against his back, the weight and heat of him, whispering into his ear while he sobbed. I'm still just a fucking slut. I'm, I'm, I'm still what I was, and it won't ever stop and-... just fucking go, Laken! Just get out and, and, and and and and-... and, and-

Chris, please-

Just fucking go home!

Chris-... baby, god damn it, I don't care if you-

But I do! Get the fuck away from me!

They'd left. Chris had listened to their footsteps running down the stairs and out the door, heard their car pull out of the driveway, and he'd cried into his pillow until it was damp, until he couldn't hear their car any longer. His phone buzzed twice, a text from Ben and another one from Akio, but he didn't answer.

He didn't answer when they called after that.

He didn't answer Jake calling to him from downstairs, he didn't answer Antoni in the doorway, he didn't answer any of them at all. He just stayed right here, on his bed, and knocked his head into a pillow he held against the wall until he calmed down enough to stop.

And then he cried more.

His head pounds, a dull throb, and he feels dried out from all the tears. Like he'd been crusted with salt, like his professor who told the story about Lot's wife and Orpheus and Eurydice. Don't look back or you'll turn to salt, you'll go back down into the empty places alone.

He can't not look back.

He groans, smacking himself on the thighs reflexively, repeatedly, as if he can stop his thoughts that way.

Kauri doesn't try to stop him, only pulls his hand back to give Chris the space to move. "Did you want to break up with them?" He asks, simply. His voice is calm.

"No. Yes. I, I don't know." The seams of his pants aren't enough, and Chris breathes against the sense of a chaos inside of himself, a swirling mix of self-hatred and grief. His hands move up to tap on his stomach. Finger-twist-tap-tap-tap. It doesn't help as much as he needs it to. "I didn't... want them to, to, to have to be with me."

"I think Laken is capable of making that choice for themself." Kauri sits slowly back against the headboard, breathing out, his eyes moving over the messy contents of the bedroom. The pictures Chris has taped haphazardly up on the walls, the shelf with his stim toys on it, his computer on the desk half-buried in a pile of clean clothes he hasn't folded. "If they want to be with you, that's their decision. Do you want to be with them?"

Chris wants to say yes, but the word sticks in his throat. His heart pounds inside him, all out of rhythm. He just nods against his sheets, and feels Kauri brush fingers through his hair again. "But, but, but, but I'm, I'm not worth it, I'm t-too hard, I'm still a, a, a pet too much."

There's a silence. Then, "Is that what you really think?"

He'd love to be able to say no. He'd love to be able to say he's being dramatic. But instead, in a small, soft voice, Chris whispers, "I just. I just. I, I, I don't know a-any-anymore. I... Yes."

Kauri is quiet, and then his hands are on Chris's face, wiping away with his thumb a tear Chris hadn't even realized had escaped. Chris had flinched from the same gesture when Laken did it, but he holds for Kauri.

"Oh, honey. I used to think that, too." Kauri sighs, and Chris opens his eyes, looking up at him, seeing a faraway expression.

He shifts, moving to rest his head on Kauri's thigh, a silent request for the petting through his hair to begin again.

Kauri smiles, a little faintly, a little sad. His fingers move over Chris's scalp, settle over the top of his scar, start again. "I did that for years, Chris. I told myself I was a pet, just another Romantic, that I deserved everything I did to myself and I didn't deserve anything better. I woke up in alleyways and on park benches and sometimes in the beds of guys I couldn't remember meeting. I got... I got hurt by some of them, and I told myself it was what I wanted. I got drugged a few times, I drugged myself a bunch more. I tried to make myself not want to be cared about anymore."

Chris thinks about the taste of gin and olives down his throat, throwing back dirty martinis until he threw them back up again, until he couldn't stop hearing Sir's voice inside his head, feeling his lips against the back of his neck. Hands on his hips, phantom ghost touch, moving him into position.

"It... didn't work as well as I'd hoped. Every time I told myself I didn't deserve love, even when I believed it... that didn't mean I didn't still want it. Need it, even. But I wanted, so badly-..." Kauri's voice catches, and his eyes close, briefly, as he steadies himself. "I wanted to make sure everyone around me hated me as much as I hated myself. But God, Chris, it hurts so much to live that way. Don't... don't be like me. It took me years to realize I didn't deserve that pain, that I didn't deserve to be punished for leaving Owen."

Chris is silent, now. Kauri's voice is always almost hypnotizing, deep and a little melodic, and it settles some of the buzzing awful noise inside of him.

"I had to learn-... to accept... that what happened to me makes up a lot of who I am, because it was the thing that made me, but it isn't all of who I am. And if I keep repeating the patterns I came up with to protect myself... I'm not really protecting myself at all." Kauri smiles, a little. "I'm only laying siege to myself, and I'm the only one who starves inside the walls. I-... I built those walls, and Jake kept trying to knock them down, and I kept building them higher. And Nat would throw food over the wall, and I'd throw it back. And... I think I got a little off track. My point is that... is that I shattered myself, over and over again, because shattered is what I was taught to be. But eventually I had to admit that breaking myself into pieces was just cutting me up, not anyone else. Do you understand?"

Chris swallows, his throat opening a little bit, and he hums. Kauri's leg is warm against his ear and his cheek, his hand is warm over his hair. Chris grips onto the silicone feather he wears always on a cord around his neck and runs it over his lips, feeling the carved vanes move against thin, sensitive skin. "Kind of."

"You try to see the light in everything," Kauri says, and the love in his voice makes Chris smile despite all his pain. "That's always been what made you stronger than me, Chris. You saw the world as full of good things you were here to discover. You never hated yourself like I did. I don't want you to start now."

"How... how did you, um, did you learn to to to stop?"

Another long exhale. Outside, two birds are singing in the trees. "Time, mostly," Kauri says, finally. "And... that guy I went home with once, when I came back all... fucked up. Remember that?"

"Y, yeah."

"I realized... I realized, when Jake was helping me up the stairs, that every time I tried to push him away, he was still there. And every time I hurt him, or Nat, or Antoni, they were still there. And that you were-... you were so new, Chris, and I was teaching you this really awful idea that you can't get better, and I couldn't do that any longer. I couldn't. It's not instant, and there are backslides, and some days getting out of bed is the hardest thing I've ever done. But I do, because I love the life I've made, and I know you love yours. You worked so hard for this, Chris, for everything you are and you've done since you came to live with Nat. Don't give that up because... because you're struggling. Don't let them win by convincing you you can't be anything else."

"I'm so-... it feels like a shell," Chris says, and pushes himself up to sitting, legs out to one side, tucking his head into the crook of Kauri's neck. The older man's arms move around his waist, holding him close, one hand moving up to keep stroking through his hair as he bites down on the feather, chewing on the familiar plastic. "Like I, I, I built a shell, and when Nova-... it cracked."

"Yeah. I know how that feels." Kauri turns his head, pressing a kiss to the top of Chris's hair, easy and comfortable. Chris hums around his feather, rocking just a little. The rising tide of grief inside him threatens to become a wave he can't withstand. He pushed Laken away, too far away, he made them leave him.

He broke up with them.

He made them go.

He can't take that back.

"Listen to me," Kauri whispers, lips against his scalp. "When I was at my lowest, when I hated myself the most, when I demanded Jake abandon me to what I kept telling myself I wanted... he didn't. He was still there. He was still there, and even if we weren't going to be together, he was still willing to help me stand up as a friend. When I was nothing but pieces drawing blood, he still loved me. He loved the pieces as much as the person, and he helped me put myself back together. It's not perfect. It's not overnight. And you'll still have hard days. But it's worth it, Chris."

"Why? Why, why, why is it worth it?"

"Because the world is beautiful," Kauri says, repeating his own long-ago words back to him, and Chris almost smiles. "Because I love the world, now, Chris, and I decided to try as hard as I can to love myself. I learned that from you."

"What if-... what if, if, if it's too late? What if I can't t-talk to them, or-"

"Then we'll stand you back up from there, and start moving forward again. You'll never lose us, we're family, Chris. But I think you should talk to Laken, and tell them what you're feeling, and let them decide how to react instead of deciding for them. They love you." Kauri puts a hand under his chin and lifts it, so their eyes meet. "Let them love you hurting just as much as they do when you're not."

"What if I don't... want to try any longer?"

"Then we'll be here to help you through that, too. All of it. Any of it. For better or worse, Chris, I'm your big brother - and so is Jake, and so is Antoni - and you're stuck with us whether you like it or not."

Chris tucks his head back down so Kauri can't see the tears well back up and run down, even as they soak into his shirt. His teeth grind down on the silicone plastic between them.

"I, I, I fucked up, Kauri," he whimpers, and then starts to sob. "I didn't-... I, I, I just don't w-want to be in m-my body anymore..."

Kauri holds him close.

"I h-hate it, I hate it, I hate it," Chris wails, and Kauri rests his chin on Chris's head and lets him cry. "I hate being p-pretty, I hate my, my, my, I hate that they made my body like this, I hate that I g-get scared and and and, and, and I can't stop things from happening to me, I h-hate that I hurt Laken, I hate it I hate it I hate it I hate it!"

"I know," Kauri whispers. "I know, honey. I know."

"I h-hate myself-"

"Sssshhhh, I know."

Chris doesn't know how long he cries for.

But eventually he falls asleep in Kauri's arms.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @whumpfigure @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears

Playlist for this piece:

Lewis Capaldi: Hold Me While You Wait Rob Thomas: Pieces Vienna Teng: Between Aerelie Brighton: Breathe Josh Ritter: Girl in the War Beth Crowley: Runaway Train

[hurting-fictional-people]

Okay guys, so I think I’m getting attached to these characters and might have more ideas for them... so please let me know if you’d be interested in seeing more?

CW: (putting them here because tumblr decided to be weird about my tags tonight) a whole lot of angst and betrayal, stabbed whumpee (recovering from it... kinda), collar and chains, IV mention. Please tell me if I missed something

Continued from here

tagging @thelazywitchphotographer and @swift-perseides

-

“You said you’d set Whumpee free if I gave you the information,” someone hisses somewhere above them.

The timbre of that voice is a familiar caress, soothing the uneasiness that threatened to take over as soon as consciousness approached. Still, there’s a sharp edge to it that propels Whumpee’s eyes to flutter open, even as it calms the fear.

“Can you prove it?” 

That’s the sound that truly awakens them. The sound they hoped never to hear again, that sends chills down their spine and makes them squint their eyes against the dim light and groggily look around.

“Can I p– you know you said it, Whumper. Stop fucking around,” Caretaker growls. “If you don’t want to let me go, then fine. Keep me here. Torture me if you will. But leave them alone.”

“Ah, to be young and in love,” Whumper sighs.

Someone towers over Whumpee, large shoulders they know better than their own stand by their bed, restraining their line of sight to the wall to their right and the one in front of their bed.

“I gave you what you wanted. Now let them go.”

Before they can think about it, before they can even truly remember where they are or why or with whom, their hand reaches out and touches the soft skin of Caretaker’s arm, making them stiffen and turn around with a furrowed brow over softening eyes.

“You’re awake.”

It’s the worry underneath the words that brings it all back. The betrayal months before, all the hurt and bitterness, and then those last hours – minutes? – with a hole in their abdomen silently draining their life away, suffocating in pain.

They pull their hand back.

“What happened?” Whumpee rasps out, only then noticing how dry their throat feels. 

They know what happened. Every second of it is etched on their mind forever, but the question still slips out, the need for reassurance bigger than anything else.

“I got you fixed,” Caretaker gives them a sad smile, “just like I promised I would.” 

“Actually, I got you fixed,” Whumper says, walking around Caretaker to stop in front of Whumpee’s bed. “You’re welcome.”

Whumpee’s eyes dart between the two of them, narrowing at the way Whumper’s gaze shines with something dark while Caretaker holds themself statue still. 

“How are you feeling, dear?” Whumper asks.

“Like I’ve been stabbed,” they grumble, frowning when Whumper chuckles. “Why am I not dead?” 

“Poor thing, you were really out of it, weren’t you?” Whumper smiles as they hold Whumpee’s ankle through the sheets and rub circles that would’ve been calming coming from anyone else. “Caretaker took the deal in the end. Almost too late, but my doctors are pretty good, so you should heal just fine. If given proper time, that is.”

“So, what now?” they ask, half wanting to just close their eyes and pretend to still be asleep. Their throat pleads for water, but they don’t want to ask either of them, so they just swallow saliva and pretend it helps.

“Well, that’s a question for Caretaker to answer,” Whumper says, turning toward the third person in the room, the one keeping disturbingly silent, arms crossed and jaw clenched. Probably regretting saving them in the first place.

But Caretaker doesn’t say anything. All they do is glare at Whumper from their spot beside Whumpee’s bed.

“What do you mean?” Whumpee asks after a few seconds, stifling a yawn, eyelids pleading to close.

“They mean that they have no word,” Caretaker snaps. “Whumper wants to make another bargain even though they never fulfilled the first one.”

“Fine. But why am I here?” Whumpee whispers, forcing their eyes to stay open long enough to hear the answer.

“Because you’re the bargaining chip, lovely,” Whumper smirks, squeezing Whumpee’s ankle until they gasp.

Whumpee’s heart drops to the floor, and then lower. 

Caretaker has saved them once, which was a miracle in itself. Expecting them to do it twice is just too much. 

“Can we discuss this later, since you don’t seem inclined to negotiate right now?” Caretaker nods toward the door. “Whumpee needs to rest.”

“I guess they will be needing their strength very soon if you don’t change your mind,” Whumper sighs, winking at Whumpee as they walk to the door. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone for now.”

The lock clicks behind them, but neither Caretaker nor Whumpee acknowledges it. They’re too busy staring at each other to do much else. 

Deep bags mar the skin under Caretaker’s eyes, just like it always happens when they don’t get enough sleep, and Whumpee hates themself for still remembering that.

“Why did you–“ save me, Whumpee tries to say, but their voice fails when a dry cough makes their chest heave and their wound hurt. 

Caretaker is immediately leaning close, one hand splayed on their back and the other on their tight, each touch raising goosebumps along their skin. “W-water,” they rasp, closing their eyes at the humiliation.

But Caretaker doesn’t seem to notice how defeated Whumpee’s eyes are, how their cheeks burn red for having to ask them for something so simple. They simply grab a plastic water bottle from the bedside table and hand it to Whumpee. They gulp down the entire thing.

“How are you feeling?” Caretaker asks once they sag back on the mattress.

“Like shit.”

It’s true, but the irritated tone is nothing but a defense mechanism, and they fear as much as they hope that Caretaker notices it. 

The pain is a constant weight in Whumpee’s stomach, and the medication slowly dripping into their veins through an IV makes them nauseous and sleepy, but none of it makes Whumpee any less confused or sad whenever they look at Caretaker.

Why did Caretaker save them? A blurry memory tickles their brain, of sobs that didn’t come from their lips, of trembling hands holding theirs, warm lips kissing their forehead when they couldn’t convince their eyes to stay open anymore. It dissolves before they can grasp it, leaving only an empty feeling behind.

“You should sleep,” Caretaker says when the silence grows uncomfortable.

“Are you regretting saving me already?” Whumpee whispers, averting their gaze.

“What? No.” It sounds so real they almost believe it. They want to, so badly, but they’d already made the mistake of trusting Caretaker once before. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There’s a hurt edge to their voice that makes Whumpee’s eyebrows rise as they look Caretaker straight in the eye. “Tell you what?”

“What Whumper did. That you were bleeding out.”

Oh.

“You could’ve died, Whumpee. You almost did. If you had just told me they had stabbed you, it would never have gotten to that point.”

“Why do you sound so angry? You’re the one who taught me not to trust anyone. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you but I’d do it again’, remember? You are the one who said those words. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think it would matter.”

Caretaker furrows their brows, opens their mouth, and turns around. Before they do, though, Whumpee catches the flash of pain and sadness crossing their eyes and pretends not to notice the glint of tears there.

The seconds tick by, and as the silence extends, pain and exertion make Whumpee’s eyes take longer and longer to open each time they blink. They are almost asleep when Caretaker’s voice sounds again.

“It’s not true, you know. It would’ve mattered. It’ll always matter when it comes to you.”

But Whumpee is already dreaming once they stop talking.

-

“So, have you made your choice?” Whumper asks from behind a ridiculously large desk. Caretaker folds their arms and doesn’t fight the will to bare their teeth. “We’ve talked through it already, Caretaker. It won’t even be any sort of bother, you just have to go in, pretend I let you free, and come back with the drive I gave you.”

“You and I both know it’s not that simple. You want me to infiltrate my own team, lie to their faces, and hand our biggest enemy a drive filled with classified information,” they bite back, hands curling into fists.

“Well, you can always say no,” Whumper leans back in their chair and grins. “You know I’ll even let you walk out if you do. And then I’ll have a pretty little pet to play with. The only downside is that dear Whumpee won’t last very long as my plaything with that wound of theirs.”

The words might as well be a blade sinking into their heart. And Whumper knows it, relishes the knowledge, laughing when Caretaker holds their breath.

It’s been three days since Whumpee’s woken up. Three days of poorly hiding the desperate need to be by their side, to make sure nothing would ever hurt them again. Three days of knowing that each small noise of pain Whumpee lets out, each hazy look they get whenever Caretaker says something kind or offers help, each distrustful glance, it’s all Caretaker’s fault.

Whumper doesn’t even bother hiding how much pleasure they take from locking Caretaker up until they can’t help but bang on the door and beg to see Whumpee. And when they do, it’s only to be hit by a new wave of pain breaking against their heart, flooding their veins with sorrow every time their eyes meet. 

“Don’t fucking touch them,” Caretaker spits out, taking a step forward before they can stop themself.

“Is that a ‘yes Whumper, I agree with your terms’ I’m hearing, dear?”

“How can I trust you won’t hurt them while I’m gone?”

Whumper’s lips tug upwards, growing into a mocking, open smile. “You can’t. And I won’t even bother promising I won’t. So if I were you, I’d hurry up, because each second you try to stall me makes me even more excited to play with little Whumpee, and I don’t think they’ll appreciate my games as much as I will.”

It’s almost funny how a handful of words is capable of completely shattering someone’s heart, of stealing the ground from under their feet and filling them with dread all at once. 

“Don’t you dare touch them,” Caretaker says, but it’s scared and quivery and both of them notice. “How the fuck do you expect me to leave with you saying you’ll hurt Whumpee?”

“Do they know how much you care about them?” Whumper muses, getting up and sauntering around the table. “Because I remember rather clearly Whumpee telling me you’d sooner offer them ruin than help.”

“What do you care?” they say through clenched teeth.

“It’s just intriguing how desperate you are to keep them safe and how oblivious they are of it. What did you do to make them so distrustful of you?”

Tore their heart apart with my bare hands. The answer comes to their mind unbidden, bringing a sharp twist of pain along with it. They can still see Whumpee’s shocked face, tears streaming down their cheeks, eyes desperately searching theirs for an excuse that wasn’t there for a treason they had no way to deny, no matter how much they wished to. I’m sorry I hurt you, but I did it for the greater good, and I’d do it again, Caretaker had said with all the pride and coldness a soldier could master. 

They had kept their own tears for later, when no one could see them shatter.

“Is your life so miserable you have to feed off of someone else’s or are you just a nosy bastard?”

Whumper laughs, and they wish they could punch that laugh out of that smug face. “I’ll give you the details now and you’ll leave tomorrow. And just because of the insult you won’t get to say goodbye to Whumpee.”

Caretaker glares in response but doesn’t argue. They don’t deserve to be near Whumpee, not after everything, and are pretty sure Whumpee wouldn’t want it either. Besides, the simple thought of seeing the face they love so fiercely fill with suspicion each time Caretaker opens their mouth makes them want to weep. 

Still, as long as they are alive to do so, Caretaker will gladly take the suspicion and anything else Whumpee throws at them. They deserve far worse anyway.

-

Each breath Whumpee takes hurts, and they are about to start crying out of frustration when the door opens. They don’t dare recognize the sharp tug of disappointment in their heart when the face that appears isn’t Caretaker’s.

“Good morning, love, how’s that wound?”, Whumper asks.

“Fine.” There’s an air of amusement around them that makes Whumpee shiver, even if they don’t know exactly why. “Where’s Caretaker?”

It leaves their lips before it hits their brain, and Whumpee has to bite their tongue to avoid slapping their forehead for it. Stupid. Caretaker shouldn’t mean anything to them anymore.

“Oh, dear. You still care about them, don’t you?”

Whumpee doesn’t even open their mouth, not when the answer they can voice would be a blatant lie and they’d both know it.

“It’s really unfortunate to have feelings for someone who doesn’t reciprocate them, isn’t it?” Whumper says, drinking in the slight frown between Whumpee’s brows, the way they look away to hide how much the words hurt them. 

Before the wave of bitterness can crash over Whumpee, Whumper nods to someone outside the room and two guards step inside. 

Their heart starts to pound, thrumming louder at each step the men take toward them.

“What, what’s going on?”

“We’re going somewhere else today, love. I assumed you needed the help to walk.”

They are shaking their head before Whumper even finishes the sentence. With a smile stretching across their face, they raise their brows, as if inviting Whumpee to do it themself.

They know what’s going to happen even before it does, and by the glee on Whumper’s face they do too, but Whumpee still kicks the thin blanket away and gets up on wobbly legs before taking two steps forward. On the third, the pain becomes unbearable. On the fourth, they can’t help but hold their injury and hunch their shoulders. Whumper watches them with mock concern as Whumpee stumbles out of the room. When they finally fall to their knees two steps later, Whumper simply tuts from their spot against the door.

“I guess you did need the help, huh?” they say, and Whumpee catches only a glance of their smile as they wave for the guards. 

Two pairs of hands grab Whumpee’s arms and pull them up, and they can’t hold back a scream when it makes their entire abdomen explode in pain. 

They are hauled over countless hallways, into a room made of concrete walls and nothing more, barely big enough for all of them.

“Please,” they breathe. “What are you doing? What about your deal with Caretaker?”

“Caretaker left, Whumpee.”

It’s the softness in their voice that makes Whumpee’s head turn to them, all wide eyes and parted lips. 

“The bargain we told you about was for them to either betray their team and keep you safe or go away and leave you behind. They made their choice.”

Whumpee can only stare at Whumper’s sympathetic smile. The words take a while to truly sink in, and when they do, all Whumpee does is take a deep breath. 

They’d been expecting this all along, they tell themself. They knew they couldn’t trust Caretaker, knew they’d never come first. They know it, they do. But then why does it hurt so much?

“And you see, Caretaker’s leaving made me kind of mad,” Whumper says as Whumpee is dumped on the cell’s cold floor, falling on all fours. “Betrayals make me bloodthirsty, I’m sure you’ll understand. And since you’re mine now, how can I resist it?”

Whumpee’s mouth dries at that. Terror shoots through their veins at the same time sadness tightens their heart.

The two men who’d carried them there take a step forward at the words and grab chains from a hook behind the door they hadn’t noticed before. As the chains are hung on metal loops attached to the wall, Whumpee realizes how wrong they’d been. The cell walls aren’t completely barren after all.

And when the guards crouch down in front of them, Whumpee can barely find strength through the panic and the pain radiating from their stomach to fight. 

They do, though. Even when it burns and sends waves of dizziness down their body, Whumpee thrashes in hands that don’t budge, jerks against grips that only tighten. 

But none of it matters when metal cuffs lock around both their wrists, nor when the chain is shortened until their arms are pulled straight above their head, back touching the wall. At least they are still sitting. Not that they could get up if they wanted to.

“Whumper, pl–“

But it isn’t over yet, they realize when another shiny gray circle approaches. Whumpee lets out a choked whine, but it’s all they can do before the collar closes around their throat and locks their neck to the wall as well. An uninvited sob escapes their lips, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it either.

“You look beautiful in chains, love,” Whumper says from the door, grinning with sadistic satisfaction at Whumpee’s weakness.

Humiliation tinges their cheeks red when Whumper’s gaze travels up and down their body. Chained, collared, like a dog, unable to do more than wiggle their arms and weakly kick their legs.

“Why are you doing this?” Whumpee asks, voice airy and desperate, searching for an explanation they know isn’t there.

“Because I wanted to. Because it brings me joy to see you struggle. I wouldn’t keep thrashing like that, though, you’ll wear yourself out very quickly with that unfortunate wound of yours, and we don’t want this to end too soon, do we?”

They leave the cell with a giggle and a wave of goodbye, and when the door doesn’t lock behind them, Whumpee almost chokes on a bitter laugh.

The cell is big enough for them to lie down straight if the chains weren’t keeping them tightly tied to the wall. But as time goes by, it seems to get smaller and smaller, closing in on them with each ragged breath Whumpee takes. The chains clink together as they squirm, but there’s no give. Their wound hurts through it all, burning with each movement, but stopping feels like giving up and if they do, then what? 

No one knows where they are but Caretaker and they’ve already made it clear they won’t help. They’ve already given up on Whumpee, left them once again.

No one cares. There is no saving this time. 

Whumpee chokes on rage and grief as tears stream down their cheeks, for a love that should never have been born, for the heart that has been broken in so many pieces they don’t know how it can still find strength enough to keep beating in their chest.

Whumpee stares at the gray walls and feels a scream building, and there’s no one there to stop it from bursting out, containing all of their anger and sadness and betrayal and spilling it over to the world. But even though it’s left their chest, the cry keeps echoing, bouncing around the walls, and none of the feelings are gone. They are all still there, still boiling inside of Whumpee.

So Whumpee sobs and pulls at the chains until their wrists are raw and bleeding, and don’t stop until both their strength and their voice are gone and there’s nothing else to do but sag on the chains. 

-

Caretaker is in the elevator when the phone Whumper’s given them buzzes. Seven floors to go before they have to face their team. A few seconds before they have to betray the people who are nothing less than their family.

Even so, it’s not that thought that sends a shiver down their spine. 

No one but Whumper has that number. The phone was given to them with specific instructions to be used solely to communicate with them. It’s Whumpee’s wide eyes that shine in their mind when Caretaker unlocks the phone, and it’s the memory of their smile that makes Caretaker’s heart race as they stare at the text and the video attached to it.

Got bored. You better hurry up.

Their hand trembles as they click on the video and Whumpee’s thin figure fills the screen, arms chained above their head, legs loose on the ground in front of them. Their eyes are closed, and for an instant, Caretaker’s heart stops in fear. But then Whumpee’s head starts to loll forward before being violently pulled back, and at the same time relief makes Caretaker suck in a sharp breath, the thing shining around Whumpee’s neck makes their heart sink through the floor. 

The collar surrounds the soft skin Caretaker’s tasted more than once, marring the perfect curve of their throat. When it yanks their head back, it hits the wall behind them and their eyes snap open. Whumpee stares at the ceiling for a moment before their mouth opens in a scream Caretaker feels in their soul, even if they can’t hear it. They feel it with their whole heart, and when Whumpee starts pulling against the chains, Caretaker thinks they’ll puke.

The video ends with them panting silently through the soundless video, the glint of tears wetting their cheeks. 

And then the elevator stops, and Caretaker barely has two seconds to wipe away their own tears before the doors open. 

When their teammates run toward them, none of them sees the way their eyes shine for the dread it is. 

As they smile and let lie after lie slip through their teeth, the only thing resounding in their mind is Whumpee’s silent screams. And as they deceive and betray, no one seems to notice the way their hands tremble or how they can’t convince their lips to smile no matter how happy they should’ve been to be back with the team. Not when the ten seconds keep playing over and over again inside their mind.

(next)

[whump-a-la-mode]

Nemesis - Choose Your Own Whump 2

With A receiving the most votes on my last post, for this adventure we are going with a drugged Villain whumpee. Sorry about the generic name for this one, I really couldn’t think of anything else ^^

I hope you enjoy, and thanks to everyone for replying to the last post! As always, votes can be sent in through any method you want. Comments, asks, and PMs are all just fine. I’ll see it!

CW//Falling off a building, hostage situations, shapeshifting, medical abuse, extensive talk of sedatives, brief mention of a needle

Please note that the third scene of this piece is from the point of view of a drugged character, and thus the scene has some aspects that could be described as unreality. Please skip this scene if this would make you uncomfortable.

The video was grainy.

It was always grainy. That was the strange thing about it-- everyone carried around miniature computers in their pockets, equipped with tiny cameras that would have rivaled the most powerful devices of years prior. Any civilian could take a 4k quality video on some social media, but the moment anything actually important was happening, technology seemed to regress twenty years.

Hero supposed it didn’t matter. Their memory of the incident was certainly clear as day, better than any camera could ever capture.

And yet...

They clicked a button on the remote, and the clip restarted.

The sides of the screen were blocked out in fuzzy grey-- the video having been taken through the bars of a metal fence. Between them, the camera focused at first on the foot of a brown brick building, before panning upwards, only stopping upon reaching the roof. It took a moment for the visual to adjust, focusing against the glare of the sun overhead.

Two figures, on the building’s roof. Two figures seen so often together, in so many similar videos.

The standoff had taken from dawn till sunset. How Villain had gotten into the building unnoticed had yet to be fully understood, but, regardless of method, they wasted little time in taking hostage a group of professors, eating lunch together. A single one had been released, bringing with them a message:

“Everyone leaves. No one comes in. Everyone stays outside the fence.”

It had seemed like a trap, at first. Of course it had. It wouldn’t be the first time that Villain had played such a trick. After much debating, however, evacuation was deemed to be the best option, and the campus was soon barren.

The hours afterwards had been as long and hot as they had been nerve-wracking. The very thought of following orders from Villain made Hero’s stomach twist, but their orders were incredibly clear: Don’t do anything stupid.

It was an incredibly difficult order to follow.

Establishing a line of communication had been the hardest part. Villain had quickly disconnected any security cameras in the vicinity, alongside confiscating any technology their hostages might have held.

In the end, it was decided that a reporter would be the one to go in. One of the most recognizable faces in the city, and one that was neutral. Not fighting for either side, but representing the citizenry.

The whole plan bet on one fact: That the shapeshifting Hero could pull of the imitation.

It worked. At least, it worked for as long as it needed to. Villain accepted the olive branch, and allowed the supposed reporter to enter unharmed.

Of course, the illusion broke as soon as Hero opened their mouth. No matter how good they were at changing their shape, it did not change their voice. In the brief moment of confusion, the hostages had managed to make their escape.

Leaving only the two nemeses, and the building as their battlefield.

It was hard to remember the fight. They had waged so many battles against one another, they all seemed to blend together, at one point or another. There was broken glass, pushed over tables, exploding equipment, and then-

And then they were on the roof.

Villain was stupid, but they weren’t, well, they weren’t stupid. They may have had the moral compass of a kleptomaniac feline, and the brain cells to match, but they had common sense. A sense of self-preservation.

Forcing them to the edge of the roof... it was supposed to be like pushing them to a corner. Trapping them.

In the video, the two figures danced. Forward, and back, until one took the lead. Until they were up against the edge, with nowhere left to go.

They were supposed to stop. They weren’t supposed to fall.

They stopped their own fall, or at least they tried. They were telekinetic. Of course they did. But they were surprised, or confused, or, or something. They slowed themself down. But they did not stop. The force with which they struck the concrete parking lot below was more than enough to knock them out.

The video ended.

And... that was it. The end. Years and years of battles, some won, some lost, all ended. They should have been happy, and they were! They hated Villain, sincerely and truly hated them.

But no other villain fought like them. No other villain had their tongue, their wit. Their skill. Their fight.

Villain’s defeat should have been epic! The ultimate confrontation of good and evil, of chaos, and order.

Yet, their downfall was a simple trip.

In the corner of Hero’s TV screen, small white text helpfully reported to them just when that video had been recorded.

One year ago.

One year, since that day. Since Villain’s downfall. And now...

Hero’s phone buzzed. A text message. The confirmation of a meeting.

One whole year, and still, Hero’s mind was consumed by their lost nemesis.

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The diner was terribly busy, and yet, when Hacker walked through the door, Hero had no doubts as to their identity.

Despite their rather stereotypical appearance, there was nothing about the person’s manner that would have indicated the sheer amount of time they spent behind a computer screen. They greeted the receptionist, pointed to Hero, and exchanged a few words beyond that. With a smile, then, they parted, and made their way to Hero’s table.

Their manner only seemed strange when they sat down, and Hero noted that the way they smiled seemed to pain them.

“Is this seriously what you people act like?” They hissed through bared teeth. “Can I stop smiling now? Or will they look at me weird?”

“They’re already looking at you weird.”

“They are?”

“You- You don’t need to do that.”

“Oh thank god.” Immediately, their expression fell into one far more analytic. Far less friendly. “I, uh, don’t get out much.”

“Really?” Hero raised a brow incredulously. 

“I’ve got more important things to do than, uh, than going out. Anyways.” They stuck a hand outwards. It was partially covered by a fingerless glove. “I’m Hacker.”

“I figured.” Hero shook the offered hand. “I’m Hero, though I suppose you already know that.”

“You’d think people here would be, uh, a bit more in awe? It’s not everyday you get to eat in the same building as a superhero.”

“Keep your voice down, please.”

“Oh, sorry. Is it, like, a secret? You don’t have a secret identity, do you?”

“No. But when I’m out of costume, I’m not exactly that recognizable. So let’s keep it that way. Kapish?”

“Kapash. But, still, oh my god. This is so cool! A real life hero...”

“Yeah... Yeah. A real hero alright.”

A hero who could hardly focus during battle. A hero who infuriated their team leader more than they aided them.

“Anyways.” Hacker raised their head, a far more natural smile coming onto their face. “I have the... thing.”

“You mentioned that. It’s about Villain, right?”

“Mhm.”

The person across the booth leaned down, prying a laptop from a carrying case and placing it atop the table. It was a bulky thing, and as soon as it was turned on, the shrill sound of fans struggling not to overheat filled Hero’s head. Hacker clicked around a bit. They gripped the edges of the device, as if about to spin it around, before they stopped, frowning.

“It’s been a year now, hasn’t it?” They commented.

“Since Villain was captured. Yes. 374 days.”

“You remember?”

“Yes.”

“You miss them, don’t you?”

It was so direct. Hero couldn’t help but stutter:

“I don’t- Of course I don’t miss them. I hate them.”

Hacker looked up over the laptop screen to give them an incredulous look. It wasn’t a convincing lie.

“I don’t miss them.” Hero stood their ground. “But I want to make sure they’re contained.”

“I just... I don’t know if this is something you want to see. You’re trying to move on, and-”

“Show me it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. If it’s something to do with their containment, I need to know about it. I can’t let them hurt anyone else.”

“Well, that’s not the problem here. If you’re sure.”

With a sigh, Hacker spun the computer around, so that it’s screen faced Hero.

They weren’t sure what they expected. Some kind of... deep web threat? A message from Villain? A copycat? An escape attempt?

But they didn’t get any of that. Instead, the screen displayed a simple PDF. Medical records. At the top, in bold letters and a rather ostentatious logo, the header read:

Specialized Criminal Rehabilitation Unit of Organization

For the most part, the page was Greek to Hero. A slew of ID numbers and attending physicians with far too many acronyms following their names. What did make sense to them was the spreadsheet that made up most of the page, labelled:

Approved Daily Medication Dosage for Patient: Villain

The spreadsheet took up two pages with solid text. Hero did not recognize the medication names, of course, but they did not need to be a doctor to understand the entries written under the column labelled “Medication Purpose.”

Every single data cell, even as they scrolled to the bottom of the document, contained only one word. The same word.

Sedation

“This is...” Hero muttered, furrowing their brow. Scrolling up and down. This had to be wrong, somehow.

“I don’t understand most of it.” Hacker commented sheepishly. “But, uh, I have a few friends with some more medical knowledge than me. They’ve never seen anything like it. It’s more than enough medication to sedate a fucking elephant- sorry, excuse my language.”

“It’s fine.” The confusion in their voice was rapidly melting to fury.

“Even for major surgical procedures... nothing near this level would ever be used.”

“This has to be a mistake.” Hero shook their head. “A mix-up. Maybe it’s like... all the medications the facility ordered. And they just labelled it wrong.”

“Well, if it’s a mistake, they’ve been making the exact same one for an entire year. I’ve got 374 of these files. Newest one just got uploaded a few hours ago.”

“And they’re always the same?”

“With some minor dosage adjustments, but yes. That’s not, um, that’s not all of it.”

Hacker reached over, dragging the computer back so that it faced them again. There was more clicking this time, along with typing at a speed that made Hero’s fingers hurt, just to watch it.

When the laptop was spun back around, this time, it was a video.

A camera feed.

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Villain felt about to choke on their tongue.

It wasn’t a new feeling. More or less, it was the only thing they felt, anymore. That heavy block of muscle in their mouth, threatening at any moment to block throat choke air no air no-

They were losing their words again. Words... wordsssssss... Voices. Voices spoke words. Sometimes, they did. Sometimes they grumbled and muttered and sputtered and murmured like a car murmured. Cars... or was it cats? No, cats didn’t murmur. They purred. What else did they do? Not bark... no, barking too loud for cats. Cat go mew mew, real quiet like.

Cat’s meow, that is a cat’s voice. There were other voices, too. Quiet like cats. Two of them, two voices. They knew those voices, those were the doctors’ voices. The doctors liked to talk a lot. They talked, but they did not see. Or... no. They were not seen. Villain did not see them. They wanted to, but their eyes were broken. The engines in their eyelids would not run anymore, would not open the garage door, Sally!

One of the doctors’ voices got closer. A million miles away, a hand was laid upon Villain’s wrist, flipping over their hand so that their palm faced downward.

“Let’s move it.”

It was a silly thing to say. Nothing moved in this place. Nothing that Villain could see, as their eyes were broken.

“Is the other vein healed enough?”

“It’s going to have to be.”

Silly words... Villain wanted to laugh, but their muscles were firmly locked away behind a padlock.

“Okay.” The doctor sounded so sad. Why were they so sad? Villain’s mouth was full of soil. The doctor was tired. “I’ll get the rest of the medicines.”

“We’re going 30 milligrams up from yesterday on the Propofol.”

“Oh? Why?”

“They opened their eyes, yesterday.”

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Hero felt sick. In the top right corner of the security footage, the same logo from the medical records was displayed. The Specialized Criminal Rehabilitation Unit of Organization. Below it, a subtitle.

“Keeping the city safe.”

Was this safety? It shouldn’t have been. They had known, of course, what had happened to Villain after their capture and very brief hospital stay. It was what happened to all villains. They were sent to the rehab unit.

A therapy program. Helping villains to control their powers and reform their lives. To return them to the straight and narrow. But, now that Hero thought about it...

Villain was the only one who had never been released.

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Thanks so much for reading! Just like last time, there are two options along with every part of this story. Alongside each options is a question, so that you guys can give more specific suggestions if you so wish. The option that receives the most votes will be the choice that our Hero makes!

A.) Tell someone about what is happening - Who should Hero tell? (They are on a small team, as well as part of a larger Organization, for reference.)

B.) Attempt a more direct approach. Visit Villain in the rehab program - Should Hero try to rescue Villain immediately?

[pretty-face-breaker]

Cold, Humourless

Hey guys! I’m back from finals week(s) and here with a followup to this piece. After this, I want things to be linear for a while as the boys finally escape both with Nick’s help and dubious intentions.  

c.w. restrained with ropes, caning, pretty brutal beating, death threats, talk of murder, whumpee thinking he’s going to die, fucky guilt-tripping, possessive whumper, possessive touch, abusive relationship

—

“I’ll admit, you got good at lying to me, but only because I let you.” 

Muddied droplets trickled to the ground from a pipe across the warehouse. The leak was his clock, the puddle of water forming on the ground his indicator of how long it had been going on. Besides his ragged breathing, there wasn’t much else to listen to but if he tried very hard, he could hear angered mumbling behind the door. Eladio, signing his death warrant. 

Hayko lowered his eyes as Nick passed by him again and raised the cane. He tried to suppress the shudder as sweat rolled down his nose and fell to the ground in a perfectly translucent drop - one he was grateful couldn’t show him his reflection. The lower he looked, the worse the pressure on his wrists became. Suspended tight in the air with his toes barely grazing the ground. Shivering in anticipation of the next hit. Setting his teeth to avoid biting his tongue when the pain came, biting and merciless. 

He-... couldn’t remember anything from before. 

How had he found out? 

Does it matter anymore? 

The edges of his vision were darkening, portent, and an answer. Nick struck him in the stomach and he cried out but the noise seemed so much further away than before. Shaking as he felt the thrill against his skin, Hayko thought of how familiar this dance was for them. It was just like old times before he had gotten on his good side, moreover before Nick had realized just how precious his little pet was. 

How many other uses he actually had. 

Just like old times. The thought came affectionately, though tainted with delirium and pain and terror, because it hadn’t been like this for a long time and here they were again, dancing again, and he was suffering beautifully and Nick had to be enjoying it as much. Except now, he wasn’t. The hit came without warning and Hayko threw his head back and whimpered high in his throat as it bruised a deep cut where he felt blood slowly starting to well.

“Three months in, I thought I had beaten the disobedience out of you but you kept proving me wrong, again and again.” He lined up the cane over one of his shoulders and cracked it down, expressionless as he bucked and screamed. “You know, I found it endearing from some point.” Nick leaned in and Hayko flinched, hearing the grinding of teeth.

On instinct though, he looked up. “Never did any of it for y-you.” 

Nick’s eyes were on him in an instant, beneath them boiling something different, colder. Anger. Overwhelmed by the intensity, Hayko looked behind him instead and closed his eyes like he had before Nick had beaten that out of him too. Hoped he could shut out the blistering pain in his back, the pressure on his wrists, hoping he could just disappear.  

 “Hayko,” he purred. “All this time and looking away from me never did you any good.” So miserably, he lifted his head. 

“You fucked up,” Nick hissed, and he meant it. 

Hayko trembled in earnest now, realizing that this wasn’t at all their old dance. A chill bore deep into his core and wiped over the pain. It was too fast and he couldn't pull back, only choking down a scream as the cane hit his chest again and again until he was gasping for air and pulling at the restraints that would creak but wouldn’t give. Tried to hold himself up through it but each one made him reel, the force behind it, and all of a sudden, he recognized that this wasn’t sadism but simply anger. Real anger.

Nick wiped his forehead, just as Hayko prayed he’d gotten enough, and laughed  before his eyes widened and he wound back his arm.

This time, Hayko threw his head back just in time to muffle the pained noise, refusing to hand himself over. He could take a beating from time to time, but he’d only ever apologize if he’d done something to Nick personally. This was far from those times. It wasn’t as personal as it was targeting everybody at once and now, every gun was turned on him. 

Then again, maybe he had wanted it to be that way. 

Nick gripped his jaw hard, digging the dull ends of his nails into the skin. “Don’t ever say you never resisted for me. You resisted plenty. You did it to test how far I would take it and I let you know. over. and over. again.”  

He hit him beat on beat and each time, Hayko’s fists clenched and pulled at the bar his wrists were tied to but it only creaked, never giving. 

 It’s been an hour since it began. 

About eight hours since he had helped Santiago disappear from this life. Eight hours since he had fled these horrors and possibly less than one left before he could leave the horrors too.  

Hayko grimaced and weakly tilted his head up, his tongue suddenly bleeding from fighting the screams. “H-He deserved to get away from you and that fucking-” The hit caught him off guard and he gasped, savoury iron spreading in his mouth. “He’d been trying to get away for months. You didn’t even know-” The slap pulled a whimper from him. 

“Of course I knew, you fucking idiot,” Nick hissed, closer than before. “I know everything about you and that miserable shit. But rest assured, your efforts paid off. I knew you lied because I always do. He’s probably halfway out of the country already but you? You’re here and I get to do whatever I want to you.” 

Hayko blinked away the spots dancing in his vision. “I-I won’t- won’t tell-.” 

“Yes, you will.” Nick fixed his stare on him for a few seconds, until he shifted from whatever terror that look could still incite. “You will, baby, because when Eladio tried to reach him tonight and he didn’t answer, and when they turned up to his doorstep and didn’t find him ready-to-please as he always fucking is, you’re going to give me his location so they can rip him apart.” 

Hayko bared his teeth, feeling a twinge in his chest. “Santiago isn’t-” He got no further before Nick brought another lash down and stunned the words. 

Nick’s voice comes with a cold, cautioning cadence. “Talk again and I’ll cut your throat.” 

He should have killed him when he had the chance. For months, all the nights he lay beside him, an open target, and let him sleep and live to see another day. Somehow, he had him convinced that he wouldn’t kill him and how fucking stupid had he been to believe that? 

How stupid had I been to do something like this and think I would live? Live to do what? This is what I am now. 

And Nick had let his guard down, not because he was careless but because he knew he’d be too weak, too desperate and miserable to even try. He had been there where Nick had needed him to be for months and watched him kill, torture, and break everything he sunk his claws into, and had watched Santiago break at the same time, and done nothing because he was no better than him.

Saving Santiago had been an attempt at repenting. 

I’m still an accomplice.  

Nick spoke through venom, jolting him back to reality. “They’re hunting him now. It probably won’t take long because when they find him, he’ll be cut to ribbons on sight.” He snorts. “Faster fate than I’ll be giving you.”

His heart pounded and then froze all at once. 

The cane hit the ground with a half-hearted clatter and the shadow on Hayko’s face grew as he approached. He let his eyes slip shut, feeling a tear slip down his cheek. 

“What the fuck have you done?” Nick muttered. “You know what they expect me to do now, right? He’s a rat because he ran away and by extension, so are you.”  His face was contorted with disbelief sooner than anger now. “Why, Hayko?” 

Hayko couldn’t respond because the answer wouldn’t mean anything to him. He had done it on a principle only he understood between the two of them and lord knew that didn’t mean a fucking thing to whatever Nick was. 

At the start, he was looking around the empty warehouse in search of a distraction. Now, he looked for a saviour. He dropped his eyes for a moment, still wide with a renewed horror. “Y-you can’t.” He stated it like a fact and realized then how ridiculous it sounded in his mouth. 

Telling a killer that he couldn’t kill. 

“Oh, I can.” Nick reassured with a cold, humourless laugh. 

Hayko didn’t see the next blow coming, not from the cane but from his fists. Nick couldn’t restrain himself as he closed to lunged onto Hayko and piled on the blows, raining hits down onto his face and grabbing him over the shoulder to land one in his stomach just when he thought he could escape to breathe. Skin broke from the rings on the sight of the punches.

“I did everything for you,” he hissed, driving his fist into his stomach.  

“Sto-op-” Nick tore his hair back when Hayko turned away, “Pl-ea-,” breath knocked out as another punch sank into his ribs. “Ple-nngh.” The next hit nearly spun his vision black and he wobbled on the balls of his feet. He had to breathe in gasps through his bruised lip, trying to keep up with the rapidity of the hits, trying to make sense of the world through his swollen eyes but the hits came like a shower. Unceasing.

Nick grabbed his bloodied face rough enough to hurt. “I did everything for you and now they want you dead.”  

He couldn’t even pry his arms in front of him to defend himself. 

When Nick eventually stopped, he hung between wake and consciousness. Everything hurt and it was going to hurt all the while and up to- 

Hayko teetered, trying not to succumb to the restraints that were beginning to numb his wrists. There was a painful shifting in his chest that brought a new wave of agony each time, neurons firing away at the categories of damage and the overwhelming taste of iron sat rich, heavy on his tongue.  

“Wai’, Nic-...” he slurred at finding an opportunity, catatonic, barely there, and uncertain whether this was really it. Whether the past few months had been real. Whether he was really lying when he told him he loved him, and again and again and kissed him and told him he was perfect for him, that he’d never let him go. “Before you k-... Please... don’ let him die. I was just trying to s-” 

Silence. He could faintly hear ragged breaths, hushed by his ear and made a strangled noise in his throat when a hand touched his bare chest and another hooked under his armpit. His thoughts swam with the introduction of the gentle touches until he registered that Nick was holding him up from the pressure on his wrists. He choked with relief. 

“Save him?” he said dismissively. “Idiot.” 

Despite every word out of his mouth nearly seething, Nick did his best to alleviate the pressure on his arms. Even with the effort, his grip still hurt. Hayko winced as his nails dug into the flesh of his arm. “I did everything I could to keep you alive. Do you even know what measures I had to go to, how many people I had to kill just to keep you alive for this long? Can you take a guess of how many fucking liabilities I tied up so I keep you-” 

He wasn’t listening, or couldn’t rather. All he knew was that this was it. Maybe whatever God still watched him, the one he had chosen to abandon years ago, held some mercy for him still to let it be quick when the finishing blow came. The guilt almost choked off his breaths when his mind supplied that he had only saved Santiago to save himself from all of this. It might be for that reason that it wouldn’t be painless. 

I should feel the pain they’re going to put him through if they find him.  

As the restraints were loosened, Hayko moaned in pain, trying to keep his wrists still despite hardly registering his surroundings let alone figuring out what Nick was trying to do to him now. Though the sudden surge of pain as his arms fell finally tipped him over to a scream. 

Nick caught him as he collapsed. “You should have thanked me every day of your miserable life that I got you out of what you put yourself into. I saved you. Don’t ever fucking forget that.” 

Hayko held onto his shoulders, not knowing where else to turn that didn’t hurt. “Tha-nk-” Nick’s scoff cut off the attempt at gratitude.  

“I don’t want it now.” He held him tightly for a moment and his arms jerked from haphazard holding to fully circling his back, pressing him tight into his shirt. Possessive. “No, I want you grovelling at my fucking feet for what I’m about to do to save you for the tenth time already. Even though you don’t deserve a bit of it.” 

A hand grabbed and jerked his hair to turn his eyes upwards, blinking away tears, and Hayko groaned but met Nick more willingly now. Suddenly, it appeared that Nick had fixed his posture, collected himself and his raw anger had been replaced with smugness, almost relief. It was still there though. What set it apart was that it was now eagerly calculating as if…

This had been his plan. 

Nick sighed, shaking his head with thinly veiled pity at the wide eyes, beautifully lost despite his own rage. “Even though you don’t fucking deserve it, I’m going to save you from them too.” He tightened the hold on him, not that he would have been able to move anyway. Hayko felt the outline of a gun in his jacket.  

“Told you I’ll never let you go, right, love?” 

 —

Tagging @doveotions @heathenville @thewhumpstuff @thatsthewhump @adamantem-rose @lonesome--hunter @whumpsorbet @whumpasaurus101 @lektricfergus @downrivergirl914 @burtlederp 

Let me know if you would like to be added or removed!

[whumpingcrow]

Pt.18 "Poor Thing"

CW: noncon (explicit, 18+ please), dubcon, blood mention, injury mention, multiple whumper mention, whumpee in a collar, death mention, captivity whump, panic attack, alcohol, verbal abuse, homophobic slur, creepy/intimate whumper, August is pretty foul in this chapter so general warning for him, slight dehumanization (let me know if I missed anything!)

August didn't want Elias anymore. That had to be what was happening. Why else would he not come looking for him, why else was he allowing him to be used up and abused by all these strangers in this room the entire night? It seemed like each time one person came in and did something to him, they would leave and tell someone else, and it felt like it had stretched on for hours, and still August never came looking for him. He felt dirty, sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, covered in a sheen of sweat and tears and blood and people's disgusting fluids. His shirt was torn in some places, his shorts riding low on his hips, the only thing that remained perfectly intact was the collar around his neck, which someone had tightened further at some point and he couldn't figure out how to loosen again. August didn't want him anymore, so he was giving him up to be used by whoever else wanted to use him. And that was more painful than anything that had been done to him the last hour or two.

When the door opened again, Elias could have let out an anguished scream, tell them to leave him the absolute fuck alone and suck themselves off or use their left hand, but all he had the energy for was a hopeless flinch. He didn't even want to look up, a fire went shooting up his neck and through his jaw when he moved his head. He closed his eyes when the person approaching crouched down in front of him. Maybe if they saw how tired he was, they would take the hint and leave him alone. Instead, he felt a few slender ice cold fingers wrap around his wrist, slowly lifting his hand away from his body.

"I...I can't," he sniffled weakly, his voice wobbly and far away, "please. Please, I can't." He said it without much conviction, all hope that anyone would be able to understand him was long gone, and so his begging had been reduced to tiny, feeble whines, for the most part.

The person let out a soft hushing sound, then something cool and smooth was pressed into his palm. When he got up the courage to open his eyes, he was surprised to see a glass of water being pushed into his hand. He looked up at the person, at the young woman with wild orange hair and a round face that he couldn't find any outright malicious intent behind. She let go of his wrist, then tipped the bottom of the glass until it fell against his lips. He didn't realize how thirsty he was until the cold liquid hit his parched throat, and he guzzled it down gratefully. It tasted better than anything he'd ever had, he felt tears in his eyes at how grateful he was for it.

"Are you hurt?" She finally asked him. Her accent was heavy, her voice low and silvery. He could openly sob at how kind she was speaking to him, and the fact that it was in English.

"Oh," he breathed, his chin dropping to his chest as he relaxed from the stress that was turning his muscles to stone, "p-please can you find...can you help me find August?" He begged.

"I...I can. But are you hurt? You're bleeding." As she said it, she reached out with the skirt of her dress and wiped away some blood from his mouth.

"I'm ok. Th-think I got slapped a couple times." He took a deep, shuddery breath, then all at once realized she wasn't going to hurt him and he felt an overwhelming relief set in, one that tore a broken sob through his throat. "Oh god. Jesus fuck."

"You're alright. Do you have a name?" She sunk back to a sitting position, one that probably would be considered unladylike in her flowing dress, and watched him carefully. He was confused as to why she was sitting at his level, looking right at him, having spent the last few hours with people towering over him or suffocatingly close on top of him. He saw her eyes flick down to his collar, the tag there, but she didn't say Bunny, she only looked back up at him expectantly and waited for him to answer himself. He loved her at that moment.

"It's Elias." He cried, using the back of his hand to wipe the tears and sweat and grime from his cheeks.

"Ok Elias. My name is Camille." She hesitated for a moment, then readjusted her skirt. "Can I get you anything?"

Elias shook his head quickly, sniffing a few times. "Please don't leave me alone in here," he was rushing, pleading, "someone else will find me, please don't leave me here-"

"Ok, ok," she soothed, "I won't." She shifted a little, glancing up at the door nervously. "You...You’re not supposed to be here, are you? You have somewhere else you call home, right?”

Elias blinked at her, beginning to tremble all over. He thought about the truth, that he only came so that he didn't have to see someone die for the second time, someone that he loved more than anything. Suddenly he couldn't breathe, couldn't see anything, hear anything, besides Tyson crying, bleeding, begging him not to leave, as if he had a choice. He wanted nothing more than to be back in his arms, but he also knew August wouldn't just leave it at that, he would come back and hurt them both. He wasn’t worth all the pain and trouble, Tyson deserved better.

"I...I want to go home but it's not s-safe." He covered his face with shaking hands, trying to mute his frightened sobs.

"Why isn't it safe, Elias?" Timidly, she leaned forward, rubbing gently at his arm to try and calm him.

"August will hurt me... he'll hurt me and Tyson if I go back home. It's easier if I just stay here." Even as he said it, rushing the words out like he was afraid August would come and hear him speaking ill of him, his shoulders shook with his cries and he could hardly stay sitting upright.

Now Camille was silent, then she quickly pulled him against her chest and held him close, stroking through his unruly hair. The whines of despair he let out made her chest ache with pity, and she couldn't do enough to comfort him. She was so frightened for him, this was beyond what she was used to seeing, a person being kept in this condition. He was so torn up, so traumatized and haunted, and she didn't really want to think about what had been done to him before she found him. She'd heard others mumbling about a new toy in the other room, had heard “pet” thrown around a few times, but she didn't expect a person. And in this state, she could never live with herself if she just left him here.

"Listen to me," she began, using all of her might to keep her tone calm and even, "I'm going to help you. Where's your home?"

He was so tense and rigid in her arms, she could practically feel the conflict he had about telling her, he wanted to leave but he was so afraid, and she could feel his hopelessness starting to drip off of him and soak through her dress and onto her, too. "In Los Angeles," he breathed, "w-with Tyson Banks."

"Ok. I'll find him, and then I'll come back for you. Ok? Can you wait for me?"

He wept again, forcing himself to nod his head. He could wait, if it meant he could get back to Tyson, get home, he could wait.

She pulled away from him then, telling him that she would leave the room so that he could calm down. He felt better when she promised she would wait just outside the door for him, make sure no one would come in to bother him, and he could come to her if he needed anything.

The room was silent for the few moments that Elias was alone, and he could hear the laughter and loud voices of the drunk people through the walls. He couldn't comprehend how any of them could be having such a good time after seeing him in the state he was in now. He guessed that it was different to them, that it felt good to be the one in control, but he still felt baffled by it.

He didn't have much time to dwell on it before the door was swinging open. August stomped in, throwing a bitter look at Camille, who had foolishly just tried to convince him to stay out of the room. He shut the door behind him hard, then approached Elias with his face set in a frown.

"Where have you been?" He grumbled, taking in Elias’s newly disheveled state. "What happened to you?"

His tone was angry, and Elias realized then that August hadn't known what was happening, that what he allowed all of those people to do to him was wrong, and his lungs burned in newfound anxiety.

"I'm s-so sorry, August!" Elias cried, reaching up to grab at August's shirt to try and steady himself. His apology was desperate, despite how he couldn't force it to be very loud. He pulled himself to his wobbly knees with a huff. "I didn't want to do an-any of it but you told me...you told me I was made to be used and they wouldn't listen to me b-b-but I tried I t-"

"Shut up, Eli," August snapped at him, setting him on the edge of the bed and staring at him hard. Elias tried to sit straight, to not look so god damn used up and ugly, but he didn't think there was much he could do to pull that off, his grime felt heavily visible. August's voice was gravelly when he spoke again. "Who did this to you?" He looked over Elias again, shaking his head disdainfully at him when he was still silent, then snapped, "who the fuck did this?!"

Elias flinched, his eyes squeezing shut so he wouldn't have to see the strike he felt was coming. "I don't know! E-everyone! People just kept coming in and...and then when they left more people... I do-dont know!" He froze when August walked toward him, grabbing his shoulders aggressively as he did.

"What did they do?" Now his voice was eerily steady and calm, and he sounded bitterly furious, and Elias was shaking in every inch of his body. "What did they do to you?"

Having to think about it again, about the hands and the noises and the bodies and the constant breathlessness made Elias panicky again, and with an anguished sob he became pliable in August's bruising grip, subjecting himself to any punishment August saw fit. "E...everything." He cried, whimpering at how August's fingers pressed harder into the soft skin of his arms. "I'm s-so sorry!"

When August tossed him to the ground, he couldn't help the loud shriek of pain that he let out. He was already so tired and sore, he couldn't even peel himself off of the carpet once he was down. He felt...broken. Pathetic.

"You really are just a stupid fucking idiot, aren't you?!" August shouted at him, his voice erratic and full of poison. Elias had heard him angry before, sure, but he didn't think he'd ever heard this much fury in his words. He must have really messed up. Terror tightened around his lungs when August crouched down and grabbed the collar with both hands, yanking him forward until their faces were intimidatingly close and Elias could smell the alcohol on August's breath. "Does this mean nothing to you?! You are mine, you pathetic little faggot!"

He should apologize, he knew he should beg and plead and say that he was sorry because he was so disgusting and horrid, but he couldn't get any words out, he couldn't even breathe. He was completely paralyzed, aside from the horrible trembling, blown eyes staring into August's face as tears spilled down his cheeks. With hands at his throat and his windpipe uncomfortably crushed, he felt an icy dread, a realization that he wouldn't be saved this time, this time death would take him and keep him, and he was afraid. That girl, Camille, was going to help him, she said. She couldn't help him if he was dead.

"P...please, August," he finally forced out in a whisper, barely audible. "I-I-I’m so s-sorry, August. I'm y-yours, I know tha-that. Ple-please."

People were still laughing just outside. August was breathing heavily, Elias hardly at all, and for a moment, couldn't have been longer than one thud of Elias's wild heartbeat, August looked just as frightened as Elias felt.

Maybe it was how quiet Elias was, how he could barely get the words out, how horribly he was shaking and utterly unable to do anything to fight back or struggle, or maybe a combination of them all; but something about the way Elias was so pitifully shattered made August just...let go of him, dropping him back to the ground with a deep, tired sigh. He stood up, looking down at Elias as he curled into himself and choked out a few feeble whimpers. He stayed down for a few more moments, then he forced himself back up to his feet with a breathless whine, feeling August's interested gaze on him as he stumbled forward. August was waiting for him to topple over, with how run down he looked. He looked just about on his last leg, like a wounded beyond recovery animal that should be put out of his misery. August was starting to hate himself for selfishly keeping him alive in these conditions. Poor thing.

"They hurt you?" August asked, although his voice was only vaguely interested. Elias ignored the question entirely and instead nestled into August’s chest, not even caring that he didn't reciprocate the touch.

"M'sorry," he sighed heavily, closing his eyes, "s-so sorry, August."

With a disgruntled hum, August moved Elias away from him and started to undo the buttons on his shirt, watching him start to squirm, physically overwhelmed by the fear of being touched anymore than he had already been that night. He was silent, didn't have the means to beg August not to, but his body language practically screamed don't do this to me please no more I can't take it.

"Not gonna do anything, Bunny," August assured him, pulling his ruined shirt off of his slender shoulders carefully, "you're filthy, just gonna clean you off." Now that he was looking him over without the haze of anger over his eyes, he could really see how scared he looked, and he was appalled at himself on Elias's behalf. To be used and hurt and defiled by all those strangers, and here August had wanted to take it out on him, make him think it was his fault. Somewhere in his explanation he mentioned how August had said he existed to be used, he was only doing as he was told, how dare August punish him for that? And he couldn't be too sure, but he did sound remorseful with his apology, like he truly believed he was in the wrong, even though August knew he wasn't. Usually he loved when Elias was apologetic like this, but now it seemed to weigh so heavily on him and it was only depressing and bleak, not tragically beautiful like usual.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper with you," he said grudgingly, stroking Elias’s hair back and out of his face. His fingertips caught in a few knots and tugged just a little, and Elias flinched. "I'm just...I'm pretty drunk and I was upset that you'd disappeared."

Elias winced at the apology, like he couldn't handle the idea that August was in the wrong. "I told them I didn't want to. I said that you wouldn't like it, that I shouldn't, they didn't listen to me-"

"Angel," August cut him off, swiping at the tears on his cheek, "Elias, listen to me sweetheart. You're alright, I shouldn't have reacted that way." Elias whined in response, refusal to accept the obviously misplaced apology written all over his face. August could see the distant storm clouds of panic cycling back across Elias's face, in the way his eyebrows twitched and his eyes darted around the room, blinking furiously.

"N-no, I messed up. I messed up and I'm so fucking sorry I'm so sorry August ple-" before he could escalate back into hysteria, August pulled him into a tight embrace, swaying him side to side slowly. Every now and then a tremor made him collapse further into the hug, and he let out a small, pathetic mewl, and August wondered if it hurt to stand. Instead of asking, he just scooped him up into his arms and took him to the bed, holding him to his chest as he sank down to the mattress.

Because of the way he answered, August wasn't sure exactly what all those people had done to him, but it must have taken quite a toll on him, because within 15 minutes he was asleep, melted against the bed and August's chest heavily. August could feel Elias's fingers twitching slightly as he stroked his fingertips over his skin and through his hair melodically, telling himself it was just to make up for all the harshness of the past few hours, pretending he wasn't enjoying holding him so close and touching him so innocently.

He tried to ignore the buzzing of people just outside for a little longer, pretend that all the intolerable people weren't really there, drinking his booze and messing up his house like they hadn’t just put Elias through hell, but he had to slide out from under Elias eventually to get them to leave. He was glad that there were only a handful of stragglers left, all left with no issue. He poured himself another drink and forced himself to tidy up a little, but he couldn't find the motivation in his drunk, distressed state. Instead he went back to the bedroom, shedding his own clothes with exasperated grunts here and there, surprising himself by not spilling the drink in his hand.

He stopped in the doorway of the second guest room, observing Elias sleeping for a few minutes. He was still in the collar, his frail arms wrapped around himself to replace the warmth that left when August did. He wondered if Elias was really sorry, if he really believed he belonged to August, if any of what he said in his panicked or tortured states were true. He wanted it to be, he wanted his twisted pet to be devoted to him only, to need him, to ache for him, that was the point of all of this, wasn't it?

After he polished off his drink, he crawled slowly on top of Elias, watching him stir just a little before settling back into sleep. He kissed his nose gently, then his cheek, watching his lips twitch slightly when he kissed him there, then he let out a soft hum when August kissed his shoulder. His body was clinging onto sleep still, he probably wasn't even aware of the minuscule sounds he was making every time August's lips pressed into his skin. It was when his mouth was against Elias's rib cage, lapping at the rapid thumping of his heart and the uneven rise and fall of his breath, that he finally woke up, his hands dragging along the sheets until his fingers brushed against August's wrist.

"What are you doing?" He grumbled, his nose wrinkling as he forced himself into consciousness. He blinked a few times, looking fearfully up at August.

“I feel awful about what happened,” August mumbled, trailing his thumb down Elias’s sternum teasingly to his naval, “And I bet you none of those bastards even thought about making you feel good, huh? They all took whatever they wanted and didn’t think twice about you, right?”

A light blush caught on his tired face, and Elias had to tilt his head back because when August was looking up at him, so close, eyes hooded with alcohol and lust, it was too damn hard to look at him head on. He let out a soft sigh, too exhausted to beg August not to keep touching him and talking to him that way. "R...right."

"Poor thing. It's a damn shame, for them," he continued, "they don't know how much fun it is to make you feel good." He ran his palm the rest of the way down his stomach until his fingers latched onto the waistband of his shorts, tugging at them lazily.

"August I-" he began, but he was silenced as August reached up to hold his face. There was no use protesting, there never was. And August had been so unbelievably angry earlier, Elias didn't want to risk setting him off. He had to play it safe, he reminded himself, had to survive until Camille came back for him. He took his bottom lip into his mouth, could taste blood from the busted part of his mouth when he did.

"You can sleep if you want, Bunny. You just lay back and relax, let me take care of you." His finger trailed over Elias's throat, just above the tight collar he still had on, watching him quiver at the touch with a grin. Finally, he offered a reluctant nod, turning his head to the side in a sort of surrender.

August was still drunk, so it didn't take long for his touches to go from trying to make Elias feel better to selfishly toying with him. He had said Elias could sleep, but the closest he got to that was closing his eyes tight and pretending he wasn't awake, or there, or alive at all, feeling tears streaming down his cheeks. August didn't care that he was crying, in face at one point he leaned over and kissed a few of the tears away, whispering something of a lewd compliment in his ear.

Elias tried to convince himself that, despite how it felt, August using him like this was different than the others, better in a way. August knew him, there was some type of affection behind it, something besides sick lust. But even though he wanted to believe that, when his eyes were closed, August was just another body, taking what it wanted, making itself feel good at Elias's expense. Elias wondered if that's all he was, too, just on the other end of the spectrum, he was just a body to be used.

At one point, he really did fall asleep, his body too exhausted to stay awake, even more tired out from struggling against August every now and then. He lay under August, head tilted back and brow furrowed slightly, tiny whines and breathless moans were slipping past his partly opened mouth. August pulled off of him soon after that, pulling the blanket over the both of them, holding Elias close against his chest as he slept. Against his better judgement, he left the collar on, listening to Elias's weak gasps as he tried to breathe around it. He'd slip it off later, he just wanted to enjoy it for a little longer. That was his dynamic with Elias, after all, forcing him through pain and discomfort until it was too much, and then more, just for good measure. Through his drunken haze, August felt pride in his work, in how much he'd broken him down. All of the guilt he felt days ago for how much he'd hurt him was gone then, replaced by a warm and fuzzy fondness. He watched his perfectly trained pet sleep for awhile longer, than eventually the booze carried him into a dark and dreamless rest as well.

[starrywhump]

Ok whump idea with a little comfort mixed in, hope y’all enjoy!

CW: consensual nsfw(making out that is quickly over), swearing.

The whumpee rolled over in their bed, throwing their blanket down to their feet. 

 It was too hot, sweat stuck to their hair and face. 

They reached out, blindly grabbing for their phone on their bed side table. The bright light from their device made the whumpee squint.  It was only 10:17. 

A few text notifications shone on the screen, the whumpee ignored them, just as they had every text they had got over the last week.  

They were all the same, some variant of:

Hey how are you doing?

Are you doing ok?

I’m here if you need to talk.

Every single one a reminder of everything the whumpee did not want to think of right now. 

They dropped their phone, nothing on there was going to make them feel any better. 

With a groan they pushed themself off their bed, their body was sore. They were still dressed from the day before, jeans and and a grey sweatshirt. 

The whumpee’s head swam as they stood, they ignored it, walking out into the hall, leaning against the wall to make their way to the living room.

They stumbled over to their couch, collapsing down onto the soft seat.  Next to them lay a half finished bottle of whisky, just where they left it earlier that evening.  It was about 6, they thought, when they had put it down.  The nice calm it had brought them earlier had faded.  Painful memories started to edge back into their mind. 

“What a pretty little thing you are.”

“n-no pl-lease...”

“Oh little thing-”

“NO!” The whumpee yelled, shooting up from the couch.  They panted softly, having to convince themselves they were just in their living room.

Reaching back they grabbed the whisky and opened it quickly.  They took a long drink, relishing the warm burn that radiated through their chest. 

Their head was still too loud.  It was too quiet in their apartment to drown it out.  They had to get out.

**********

“What can I get you?”

“Anything, you chose. Just make it strong,”

The whumpee had never been much of a drinker, not until recently that is.

The bartender nodded, turning to make the whumpee’s drink. 

The whumpee frowned, trying to focus on the clinking of glasses, the music in the bar, anything that could occupy the space in their mind.

The whumpee’s drink was in front of them, they didn’t remember the bartender setting it there. 

They took it and drank it quickly, barely even testing whatever it was.

“That was fast, can I get your next one?”  A handsome stranger settled in the seat next to the whumpee.

The whumpee raised an eyebrow, they didn’t really want to talk, but a distraction would be nice, “I won’t say no to a free drink.”

The stranger waved to the bartender and another bourbon was placed in front of the whumpee. The whumpee didn’t drink it yet, their head was already feeling pretty cloudy.  

“So what brings you here?”

The whumpee raised an eyebrow, “well it’s a bar so alcohol I guess,” The whumpee glossed over the true meaning for their outing. 

The stranger smiled, the whumpee couldn’t help but joining them.  They had a warm air about them that drew the whumpee in.  

“So you’re a smart ass?” The stranger teased.

The whumpee smirked, “On occasion.” 

They felt a rush they had almost forgotten about.  A normal feeling, normal people get.  Just flirting with someone in a bar, not talking about their feelings, not dealing with the shit they have been through.  It was intoxicating. 

The stranger went to introduce themselves, “I’m-”

“Wait,” the whumpee paused downing their bourbon, “I don’t want to know.  Tell me if I’m misreading here but what if instead of small talk,” they turned to look at the stranger, meeting their eyes for the first time, “we went back to your place.”

The stranger’s confident air broke for a moment, a blush colored their face. They nodded, “sounds good to me.” 

**********

A part of the whumpee knew this was a bad idea.  They doubted that sleeping with someone you found in a bar was high up on the list of recommended strategies to cope with trauma.

But it was hard to care while they were pushed up against the back of a front door, enlocked in a passionate kiss with their handsome stranger.  

Being extremely drunk helped to ease any remaining doubts. 

The stranger’s hands roamed the whumpee’s body, skimming under their shirt.

“Can I take this off?”  

The whumpee barely registered the question before they were nodding.  

There shirt went up over their head, lips moved down to their neck, hands moved over their stomach. 

The whumpee gazed forward, letting things be done to them as their newest acquaintance wanted to. 

It didn’t feel as nice as the whumpee remembered, but it was a distraction, and that was good. 

At least it was a normal thing to do, where no one was going to handle them like a child, asking them if they were ok every other minute. 

“Hey are you ok?”

Scratch that last bit.

The whumpee perked up taking a breath, they realized they had basically gone limp in the other’s arms, “yes!  Yes, I’m good,” the whumpee leaned their head forward to capture the strangers lips in another kiss, “keep going.”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to, really,” they looked concerned.

That was the last thing the whumpee wanted, they didn’t need anyone else to pity them. 

“I want to, really, keep going.”

The stranger smiled, they head moved back down to the whumpee’s neck.

The world seemed to blur a bit, it looked darker than before. 

A hand trailed down the whumpee’s arm, the skin felt rougher than before, the hand closed around the whumpee’s wrist.  Their wrist was moved up above their head and pinned there.  

Their heart skipped a beat.  The whumpee told themself that it was in a good way, the way the heart of a normal person would normally skip a beat in this kind of situation.

It was hard to try and excuse away the dread in their stomach as butterflies. 

Their breath was heavy because of the beautiful person currently locked onto their body, that’s what they told themselves.

“You’re crying.”

The movement had stopped, how long their stranger had just been staring at them the whumpee didn’t know.  

Worry was etched into the others face. 

“S-sorry,” the whumpee whispered breathlessly. 

“No, hey don’t be sorry it’s ok.”

Those kind words hurt more than any ones meant to inflict pain.  Tears flowed faster down the whumpee’s cheeks.  They couldn’t catch their breath.  They felt trapped. 

Their blurred vision turned to complete darkness. 

The whumpee tried to blink it away.

Hands moved over them, restraining them in their arms.  Their eyes cleared to see the whumper in front of them, grinning, holding them close. 

“NO!” 

“Are- hey it’s ok, it’s ok,” a soothing voice cut through the darkness. 

The whumpee blinked hard, panting as they tried to understand what was real and what was their brain pulling tricks on them. 

When they opened their eyes again the whumper was mercifully gone.  But the panic wasn’t.

Humiliation washed over them as they met the eyes of their attempted one-night stand. 

“You fell down, fainted or- something. Are- are you ok?  I thought it was ok, I’m so sorry if I- if I did something wrong.”

The whumpee tried to listen to their kind words, it was hard to take it in, they couldn’t breathe. 

The hands on them felt suffocating, one on each shoulder.  Their intent was probably just to keep them from collapsing fully to the ground but they were just added on to their trapped feeling. 

“Do- do you want some tea?  Or something?  Water?”

The whumpee didn’t care about tea, just wanted them to stop touching them.  But since they weren’t really sure how to make their voice work right now, they gave a jerky nod, hoping the stranger would leave to get it. 

“Ok- uh I’ll up just get you both, uh stay here, just a sec.”

The hands finally left the whumpee, they felt like they could breathe a little easier. 

Footsteps faded off in a different direction.

The whumpee took deep breaths, trying to convince themselves they were ok. 

In.

Out.

In.

Out

In...

The whumpee’s vision cleared up a bit, they looked around the room they were in.  Focusing on the green flower vase in the corner, the brown door, white walls, they began to calm down.

As soon as the initial panic of the moment had subsided the whumpee was hit with another massive wave of humiliation. 

“Jesus Christ...” they muttered to themselves. 

This was a complete stranger and they just completely freaked out on them.  This was meant to be their first day of normalcy and they had gone and fucked it up, just another reminder that they were never going to be normal.  Couldn’t just enjoy a simple fucking one night stand, no they had to have a full on panic attack.

“Can you do one fucking thing right,” the whumpee scowled, angry at themselves. 

Tears pricked at the side of their eyes, threatening to fall again.  The whumpee quickly wiped them away, there was no way they were crying again no matter how embarrassed they were. 

They looked longingly towards the door, thinking of maybe making a quick exit to try and preserve what little dignity they had left.

“You wanna come, uh... sit on the couch?” their was the whumpee’s stranger, holding a mug in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

The whumpee stood up shakily.

“I... I think I’m just gonna head home, I uh, sorry.  So sorry about uh, all that.”

“No there’s no need to apologize!  I’m the one who should be sorry, I really didn’t mean to do anything that would-”

“You didn’t really, it’s just uh, my own shit.  So um I’m just gonna go-”

The stranger placed their handful of beverages down on the side table by the green vase the whumpee had been paying too much attention to earlier. 

“Aren’t you uh, drunk, and... I mean, are you sure that’s the safest idea?”

“I’m fine, I don’t live too far and I’m not gonna drive. I walked to the bar, I can get back to my house,” it was going to be a pretty long walk but the whumpee couldn’t spend a second longer here. 

“Can I at least call you an uber?” That worried look was back on the stranger’s face.

“Oh no really it’s-”

“Please, I insist, call it my apology for tonight.  Besides I put all this work into this cup of tea, it would be a shame to waste it.”

The whumpee didn’t respond, honestly they would love to be driven home, they were tired and, very drunk.

“Please?” The stranger smiled.

“O-ok, thank you.”

“It’s no problem really!  Want that tea now?”

[whumpwriterforlife]

Really enjoying your work on AO3! I especially love how you included the magic on the first one, and how you show the usefulness and limitations of potions. The support community of Cor and Crowe (and Libertus) is also fantastic. I was wondering if Friendly Fire for Cor (and our glaives 😈) or Big Brother Instinct for Nyx catch your fancy? If not, please at least take my thanks for your delightful stories!

Hi! I'm so happy to hear you've liked my stuff! I'm sorry this took so long but here it is: Friendly Fire with Cor (and Nyx). I hope you like this!

A special thank you to @garbria for helping me come up with this!

Friendly Fire

Blue x's have been completed, pink underlines have been requested.

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV

Characters: Cor Leonis & Nyx Ulric

Whumpee(s): Cor Leonis & Nyx Ulric

Word Count: 1371

Warnings: None

Can also be found on ao3 here

----

Cor dismissed his katana back into the armiger and leaned heavily onto his knees to catch his breath. The hunt had been a success. The Killer Wasps were all dead and Cor had gotten his fill of danger and adrenaline for the day.

He was also certain he had won his bet with Nyx. There had been eleven Killer Wasps and he had taken down six which meant Nyx had lost and now owed him a dinner at a place of his choosing. He already knew where he was taking him.

There was a rustling sound in the bushes that had Cor looking up.

“Nyx?” he called out. He straightened back up, a frown creeping onto his face as Nyx stumbled into sight. The Glaive had his hands on his head and a grimace on his lips, eyes tightly screwed shut. Concern flashed through Cor and he found himself crossing the distance between them, half reaching into the armiger for a potion. “Nyx, what’s wrong?”

Nyx jerked upright and summoned his kukris. There was a wild look in his eyes. Cor stopped, an icy feeling washing over him as he put up his hands in a placating gesture. Something was wrong. “Nyx? It’s me, Cor. The fight is over. The hunt is done.” Nyx growled but the words were lost on Cor. He barely knew the basics of Galahdian but whatever Nyx had said, he wasn’t happy. Cor pressed his lips into a thin line. “Nyx-”

Nyx threw a kukri at him and disappeared in a crackle of magic.

“Fuck!” Cor hissed and pulled his katana out of the armiger. Nyx materialized right before him, making a quick swipe with the kukris. Cor blocked the attack with a strained curse and used his momentum to throw Nyx off balance.

Nyx’s eyes narrowed and he snarled more Galahdian as he backed away from Cor. There was zero recognition in his eyes. Something had to have happened during the fight. Had he been struck by the wasps? Cor knew they could cause confusion but he had never seen a reaction that strong. Smelling salts helped, but Cor had only one flask left. There would be no room for mistakes.

Cor brought his katana up when Nyx came at him again. Their blades clashed together and the impact sent a spike of pain through his shoulder. He hissed, shifting on his feet but Nyx moved faster and delivered a sharp kick to his midsection. Cor staggered back with a grunt. His instinct was to strike back with the katana but he held back. Nyx wasn’t in his right mind. Cor didn’t want to hurt him.

“Nyx, snap out of it!” Cor tried but the Glaive wasn’t listening. He sidestepped a slash from Nyx, avoiding the first kukri but the second tore through his jacket sleeve. His arm burned from a shallow cut but it went ignored. Cor dismissed his katana and twisted on his heels to grab Nyx’s wrist. A hard twist had the Glaive dropping one of the kukris.

It did little to slow Nyx down. He yanked his hand back with enough force to stagger Cor. Cor cursed and attempted to recover his balance.

He wasn’t fast enough.

Nyx threw himself at Cor and a split second later there was a kukri pressed against his throat. He said something in Galahdian once again. Cor tensed and wrapped his left hand around Nyx’s wrist. A strained hiss escaped his lips as the blade dug into his skin and drew a trickle of blood.

“Okay, okay,” Cor said and lifted his right hand in surrender. Nyx huffed and his grip loosened a tiny bit.

That’s when Cor clamped his right hand around Nyx’s arm as well and pulled. Nyx made a surprised noise. Cor slipped under his arm, one hand still tightly wrapped around his wrist as he twisted it behind Nyx’s back and wrenched the kukri out of his grasp. He threw it in the armiger to make sure he wouldn’t get his hands on it again.

He wasn’t expecting Nyx to thrust his head back. It struck him right on the nose and Cor’s eyes watered as he staggered back with a string of curses. Nyx broke free from his grip and spun on his heels to rush at him. His arms wrapped around Cor’s midsection and then they both hit the ground hard.

Cor let out a strangled gasp, his vision flickering dangerously as his head hit the ground. A punch from Nyx snapped his head to the side. He blocked the next one but the punches just kept coming. Cor was wearing down fast, the little injuries adding up. He would need to end this soon, preferably without hurting Nyx.

Cor hooked his leg around Nyx’s. The Glaive’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t have time to do anything before Cor bridged his hips and rolled, reversing their positions. Nyx bared his teeth and tried to strike him again. Cor caught his hands and pinned them to the ground above his head.

“Stop fighting me! I’m not going to hurt you,” Cor told him firmly. He was hoping Nyx still understood him even if he was only speaking Galahdian at the moment. “Calm down.”

Nyx’s response was to spit at him and increase his struggles. Cor didn’t let up.

Eventually Nyx slumped against the ground, having tired himself out. Cor sighed in relief but waited a moment longer just to be sure. He shifted so that he was holding both of Nyx’s wrists with one hand and reached into the armiger with another. Nyx eyed him suspiciously but ultimately offered no resistance. Cor broke the flask over Nyx with bated breath.

At first, nothing seemed to happen.

Then Nyx’s eyes rolled back.

“Shit!” Cor cursed and got off Nyx. He hadn’t expected him to pass out on him, not like that. He searched Nyx’s wrist for a pulse, relieved when he found it. It was strong and steady. The combination of the status effect and the resulting events had probably overwhelmed his body and the curative had pushed him over the edge and knocked him out. Cor had heard of things like that happening, even if it wasn’t all that frequent.

It didn’t take long for Nyx to start coming back around. He groaned, bringing his hands to his face as he woke up. His eyes flickered open a moment later. He was clearly confused as he looked around before spotting Cor.

“Cor?” he asked.

Cor gave him a small smile and heavily sat down next to him. He was really starting to feel the aches and pains from the fight but he was mostly just relieved that Nyx was back to normal. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Nyx frowned a bit as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. “What happened? You look like shit?”

“Thanks, right back at you.” Cor snorted. He then grew more serious. Had Nyx forgotten what had happened? “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I- uh… the killer wasps?” Nyx said. He turned to look at their surroundings. There were few Killer Wasp carcasses around and he noted them with a quiet hum. “Did something happen?”

Cor frowned. Nyx didn’t seem to remember what had happened. He would rather keep it that way. There was nothing Nyx could’ve done to stop it from happening but Cor knew he would feel guilty if he found out

“We took care of them but you got knocked out.” Cor shook his head. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine? Just a little sore,” Nyx told him. He was back at looking at Cor with a thoughtful expression. “Are you okay? You’re bleeding.”

“Ah, yeah.” Cor waved his hand to brush him off. He pulled out two potions from the armiger, breaking one on himself and tossing the other to Nyx. “Don’t worry about it. We need to get back to camp, it’s getting late.”

Nyx didn’t look convinced but when Cor got up and offered him a hand, he took it and let himself be pulled up.

“So who won the bet?” Nyx asked as they started making their way towards their camp.

Cor just flashed him a grin.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

talking is overrated

prompt: garotte

whumpee: marius josipovic

fandom: sneaky pete

hi whats uppp here’s a fic that was Not rushed! it’s very short and i am pretty happy with how it turned out :) i hope you like it!

There’s the sound of a heavy footstep behind him and he’s about to turn around when, quick as anything, some kind of cord is thrown around his neck from the back. Before Marius has the chance to think, what the hell is that?, he’s being kicked in the back and the cord is digging into his throat.

He stumbles forward, the weight of his body pressing his throat still harder into the cord, which is being pulled so tautly by whoever the hell is behind him that it’s keeping him from actually falling to the ground. The cord tightens, wrapping completely around his neck, and his eyes go wide, hands reaching up to pull it away. The pressure is immense and he can’t breathe and his hands are pulling desperately at the cord but there’s nothing for it. This is the worst possible situation - his only weapon is his voice, and he certainly would be talking his way out of this if there were any way to get enough air to do so. As it is, though, he’s choking and getting steadily more lightheaded and he wonders for a brief second whether this cord is strong enough to decapitate him. What a way to die, he thinks, blackness creeping in on his vision, and then the pressure releases. 

He doesn’t realize it at first, there’s still the feeling of the cord against his skin, he’s still struggling to breathe, but then he’s kicked in the back of the knee and he falls flat on his face, no cord around his throat preventing him from impacting the ground. 

He lies there, face pressed to the rough, cold pavement, coughing and sucking in deep gulps of air, stunned and confused and afraid and about a million other things that essentially amount to the sentence, “what the fuck,” wheezed against the ground. 

There’s still a presence above him, but Marius doesn’t have it in him to move. He should, probably, but it’s hard enough just breathing and convincing himself that there isn’t anything wrapped around his throat anymore. 

The presence suddenly gets much closer, and he feels the heat of its voice on the back of his neck. 

“Fuck with us again and your head comes clean off.”

And that’s his earlier question answered. Marius shudders involuntarily, a combination of a reaction to the feel of the guy’s breath on the raw skin of the back of his neck and fear at the threat that’s just been delivered. 

The guy kicks him in the side once, hard, for good measure, and then his footsteps recede, and Marius can feel that he’s alone. 

Slowly, finally, he gets to his feet, watching the man’s silhouette disappear around a corner. He takes a deep breath, coughs, winces, then begins the long walk back to his car.

thanks for reading! i hope you liked it :)

[whumprincess]

Dark Timeline: Burnt Sugar

Word Count: 2361 words

CW: Lady/Female Whumpee, Catgirl Whumpee, Cruel Whumper, Fantasy Whump, Dehumanization, Healing, Branding, Slapping, Swearing, Corrupted Friend, Reference to previous torture (declawing)

The moment Sugar’s hands were freed from her shackles, Eri’s fingers were already firmly wrapped around her frail wrist. 

“LET GO OF ME!” Her voice was shrill as she wildly tried to pull away from her captor, but it was to no avail. He was several feet taller than her, not to mention much stronger. There was a time when she could have bested him using her claws and magic, however even in his arrogance, the king knew this. All it took was for her to land one scratch on his pretty cheek during her capture for him to call for her declawing. After that an anti-magic collar was locked around her neck, effectively taking away her last form of defense. She felt weak, but she would be damned if she just let him do what he wanted!    

Eri’s gaze remained fixed ahead of him as he simply tightened his grasp and jerked the tabaxi along behind him. Each step he took lead them closer to a table on the other side of the dungeon. When he was close enough, he threw her onto the floor with an annoyed huff. He knew better than to under-estimate her agility and gingerly began securing straps around her wrists. This girl didn’t know what was good for her. If she just behaved he wouldn’t be pushed to such extreme measures. Even now, knowing resisting him was futile she continued to defy him. He wished she would use common sense and obey, but part of him knew that was optimistic. After all, even when they travelled together as adventurers, she always did act like a dumb animal.

“You bring this on yourself.” He stated coldly before standing up straight.

She clumsily failed to catch herself on her mutilated hands as she was tossed against the concrete. The impact aggravated her countless other injuries causing her to let out a sharp hiss. She attempted to scramble to her feet, but by then she was already fastened in place, forcing her to maintain her position on her knees.

“Fuck you, Eri-!” She was cut off by a harsh backhand.

“It’s been months and you still haven’t learned to call me Your Majesty.”

“Because that’s stupid!” Another slap on the same cheek and she could already feel the tender beginnings of a bruise.

“You haven’t learned your place…” He slowly started to make his way towards a nearby fireplace.

Her eyes widened when she noticed he wasn’t reaching for the fire poker, his usual weapon of choice.

“I’ve been too lenient with you.” His red eyes burned with malice as he held up a brand. “I’ve let you think you’re human for too long…” He set the rod down on the floor, ensuring the tip was resting in the flames, before making his way back over to the half-feline. “You really were always more like a pet…” He gave her long, snow-white hair a slow, deliberate stroke before crouching down and flicking the bell hanging off her collar, “…right down to always wearing bells all the time.”

“SHUT UP!” Her fangs snapped at Eri’s fingers, but he pulled away just in time. The other side of her face pricked as she sustained yet another smack.  

“Keep that up and I won’t let you speak at all.”

Sugar’s heart skipped a beat at the threat. For about the first month of her imprisonment she was forced to wear a gag to prevent her from spellcasting. As humiliating as her collar was, the day she received it was also the day she was permitted to speak freely again. Everything about this Eri was unfair! Back when they were in the same party, he might’ve been egotistical and pompous, but not cruel… never cruel!

“Come on Eri, this isn’t you!” She tried to appeal to her friend, but he was nowhere to be found as he turned his back to her.

“Of course it’s me!” He violently seized the prepared brand and stomped his way back to the pathetic girl. He held the scorching hot metal just above her right hand, delaying the agony. He couldn’t help but derive satisfaction from the way her entire body writhed to move away from him; the way she uselessly pulled back her wrists over and over again, serving nothing other than to make them raw and red against her restraints; the way her mismatched blue and grey eyes begged him for mercy without a hint of defiance. Yes, this was how it was meant to be, he was certain of it. He was superior to her in every way and if she was capable of this level of fear he could train her to never leave his side. “And this is you.”

A mangled screech escaped Sugar’s throat as her entire body began to convulse. The tears she had tried to hold back spilled onto her face, stinging her already sore cheeks. She was reduced to a wreck of incomprehensible sobs as she tried to withdraw her abused hand, only managing to burn a different area.

“Tsk, that won’t do.” Eri lifted the metal off her skin and leaned down to inspect the now imperfect feather design. “You’ve ruined it, what do you have to say for yourself?” He stared at her severely, but it was no use. She was too caught up in the pain to even hear him. “Inexcusable.” He exhaled before putting his hand on top of her burned one.

In an instant, there was a cool, soothing sensation washing over her singed skin. Her tears turned from ones of pain to those of relief as she opened her eyes to look at Eri. She gave him a small, hopeful smile; thankful that he returned to his senses.

“I said, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“H-Huh?”

“The brand, you ruined it.”

“I… W-what?” She looked down to her hand, noticing that the mark had vanished. “I-It’s…”

“Yes, I’ve removed it because you refused to stay still.”

“I- I don’t get it…”

Eri sighed before grabbing the brand again and bringing it back to the fireplace to reheat. “Of course you don’t, you stupid cat.” He tapped his boot impatiently, “You do realize it needs to be perfect, don’t you?”

She blinked in confusion before frantically shaking her head, “N-No! I-I don’t need it at all!”

“Of course you do!” he growled. “How else will you remember you’re my pet?”

“Eri, that’s crazy!”

Outraged by her continued insubordination, he hastily returned the reignited brand to her flesh. Her screams echoed throughout the chamber as he pressed the metal down firmer than before. Even amidst her struggling her hand was pinned to the table; he would not permit her to spoil his handiwork again. This time he was irritated with all her racket, she always had to make so much damn noise. There was no way she wasn’t over-reacting, of course she wanted to make him feel guilty for doing what’s necessary, when it should be her apologizing for making everything so difficult!

Recklessly he tossed aside the brand in order to appraise his results. He roughly grabbed her hand and turned it in all directions, “This one’s crooked!”

The explosion of heat that was reintroduced to her hand was worse than before as it was compounded with the crushing pressure of unrelenting iron. She choked on her own tears, unable to voice any of the pleading thoughts racing through her head. His careless fingers pulled her blistering skin in such a way she thought it might fall off. She could do nothing but howl for an unforgiving king and lost friend.

She knew better than to trust the comfort that soon followed this torment, but she tried to leverage her opportunity nonetheless. “P-please…” She whispered, not fully recovered yet, “N-no more…”

“It’s too late for that.” He sneered, already preparing to repeat the process. “I can’t trust you.”

“B-But you can!” She exclaimed, eager to try and convince him. “I-I want to help you! I want nothing more than-” She cut herself off… asking for her friend back would only make him angrier, but she knew he was in there somewhere! “Than for you to be okay!”

“I AM MORE THAN OKAY!” He bellowed, leaving the tool in the fire while he grabbed a fistful of her hair. Effortlessly, he wrenched her gaze upwards, “I am the King- your King! I have everything I have ever wanted! It’s you- you’re my problem!”

She couldn’t stop tears from forming as she stared at a face so contorted by rage, she could barely recognize it. “Then w-why…” She paused to find her voice. “Why do you keep me around?! It’s not worth it! Just let me go!”

“You’re right.” He unhanded her with a look of disgust before seizing the brand for a third time. He rotated it slowly in his grip. “You’re not worth it…”

Eri approached with a calculating precision that was somehow more terrifying than his unbridled ire. With each of his excruciatingly slow steps, she couldn’t help but try to pull her hands away. She hated the small whimpers that fell out of her mouth with each fraught attempt; the rough leather of her bonds only biting harder into her already aching wrists. By the time he was looming over her, she shut her eyes, forcing tears out as she anticipated pain. However, a deceptively gentle finger urged her chin upwards. Against, her better judgement, she listened to the persistent song of hope lulling her that she would see a familiar companion. She was filled with regret when the only thing glowing hotter than the metal in his hands was the wickedness in his eyes.

“…yet.” He took his time lowering the brand to the back of her hand, finding the way she squirmed both amusing and curious. As much as he enjoyed witnessing her show of fear, did he not make himself clear that the mark needed to be flawless? Something wasn’t getting through to her… That’s when he realized: if he were dealing with any intelligent person they would hold still, but that wasn’t the case with this poor creature. Abruptly changing his course of action, he held the metal up to her face, “Ruin this one and I’ll brand your cheek instead.”

The stern threat coupled with the overwhelming stench of iron made her nauseous and lightheaded. She reflexively pulled back to escape the heat wafting onto her already hot cheek and whined when it chased after her.  

“Understand?”

His condescending question made her want nothing more than to mess up this stupid design, so he would be wasting his precious kingly time. Her spite must’ve been apparent though, because before she knew it, she could feel her skin start to burn from the proximity of the brand.

“Understand?”  

Unable to contain her panic, she acknowledged him with a feverish, “M-mhm!” Eri was never one to back down on his word and this version of him wasn’t partial to providing mercy, as evident by her missing knuckles.

“Good.” He removed the weapon and reached out towards her with his free hand. Her flinching made him chuckle as he tenderly caressed the soft fur of her leopard ears. Letting his touch wander, he twirled a lock of her hair around his index finger. He was very much enjoying this moment of obedience; that was until he noticed her scowl. He gave a heavy sigh… still so much work to be done. “Now then, pet…” He firmly reminded the tabaxi of her place as he drew back, her strands of hair gracefully tumbling off him. “Hold still for your King.”

Sugar shot him a hateful glare as she tried to still her quivering hands. The healing he provided after the previous couple attempts made it possible for her to remain conscious, but her body remembered the impending anguish. She pushed down as hard as she could against the table, bracing for impact. Her frenzied heartbeat rang throughout her ears as the white-hot iron dangled above her awaiting flesh.

“Ready?”

“Fuck you, Eri.”

He brought down the brand with the entirety of his wrath and she wailed with the entirety of her grief. Her stomach churned from the weight of it all as a rush of wooziness promised to take away the scalding pain. Noticing her skin pale the king viciously pulled at her tresses.

“Your Majesty.”

Sugar could only respond with despairing cries as her eyelids fluttered open.

“Say it.”

The hellfire searing deep into her skin urged her to speak. It dragged those revolting words from the bottom of her strained throat to the tip of her tongue. Among her weeping she hoarsely begged, “Y-Your M-majesty…”

“Louder!”

The bones in her hands began to crack as he applied more force with his demand. “YOUR MAJESTY!” Her desperation filled the room as she looked up at him with flooded eyes.

“Better.” He haphazardly threw aside the brand while roughly releasing his hold on her hair. He leaned down to examine his latest work, but her persistent trembling was interfering. “I told you to hold still.”

Sugar gasped for breath through her uncontrollable sobbing. She tried with every ounce of her power to cease shaking, but only managed to further upset herself when she was unsuccessful. “I-I c-can’t!”

“Useless.” Eri remarked, immobilizing her hand by trapping her fingers underneath his palm against the table. He scrutinized the feather pattern and, despite her incessant bawling, managed to reach a conclusion, “It’s perfect”. He stood up to regard the suffering girl with distain, “Now you won’t forget who owns you.”

She wanted nothing more than to tell him she would never be his no matter what he did to her, but her wrecked body wouldn’t allow it. Every time she attempted, nothing but sputters came out. Through hazy vision she watched as Eri gave her one final scowl before turning to leave the dungeon. Exhaustion prevented her from trying to get the last word in as her heavy lids began to close. “I won’t lose…” she told herself as she rested her head on the table keeping her bound.

[my-whumpy-little-heart]

Tied to a table troupe rating/rant GO I am enabling you

Nemi how dare you expose me like this you’re fantastic. Sorry this took so long.

No | rather not | I dunno | I guess | Sure | Yes | FUCK yes | Oh god you don’t even know | AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Listen, if there’s any trope that I love just as much or maybe even more than permanent marks it’s being restrained against a table. Wanna know why?

1) They’re! So! Fucking! Vulnerable!!!!!!

Being tied down to a table leaves a whumpee so open and vulnerable. There’s no way to curl up or make themselves smaller or protect any part of their body that isn’t being pressed against the table. You can restrain them with hands by their side or pulled up above their head, or limbs stretched far apart or 

They don’t have a full range of vision either. Depending on how well you restrain your whumpee’s head, they’ve got a maximum of full side to side vision and possibly some brief looks above their head if they can handle the vertigo inducing feeling of tipping your head back nearly upside down to get some extra perspective. but with enough restraint, you can take that away from them, and even their side view if you’re adamant about it. 

Just force the whumpee to stare upward, only seeing the whumper when they’re close enough, and not having a clear idea of what’s gonna happen to them. They’re so open and vulnerable to whatever is going on, and not knowing what to expect makes them even more so!

And of course, if you gag or muzzle them that adds a whole other level. They can’t even have a conversation where the whumper is condescending and vague about their questions of what the hell is going on, and just have to watch in wordless silence (or muffled shouting, whichever suits your fancy) as the whumper mills around before finally standing to face them, taking action on whatever their plans are.

There’s a lot more to go on from here, but I’m putting a cut because this got a little long! Head below for more excited table content.

2) Hi Hello Yes That’s Absolutely Terrifying In My Personal Opinion

Listen I think I just need an entire section to talk about this sensation. Being tied to a table is an inherently inferior position to someone else, because everyone around you can loom over, look down on you, and no matter how much they get down on your level you still feel lower than them. You have absolutely zero control over what they do and that in and of itself is so scary!

Even being tied to the table with nobody around is bad. There’s really no easy hope of escape from that, assuming it’s done well so there’s no wiggling out from under the bonds, and the whumpee is just left to. sit there. and imagine what in the world they’re tied down like this for. because tied down completely flat is such a unique, particular situation. And it’s not easy to convince yourself that someone would choose that exact position without a specific plan in mind.

So much room for terror to brew, the cold of the table to seep into their bones, and the nature of the position they’re stuck in to really sink in.

3) Med!whump (content warning that this section will be all about medical based whump, and fixating on ‘lab rat’ type whumpees! skip to number four if that’s something you’re not comfortable with!)

Ohohohoo yes, medical whump has a special place in my heart, and the trope of being restrained against a table has a lot to do with that! 

Day after day, a whumpee is taken out of their cell and used for experimental purposes. There are different places they’re taken within the lab, but all the worst things happen on the table. 

One of my favorite parts is the compliance, or lack thereof. Someone new to the facility seeing that table for the first time, being coaxed up on it through their fear by threats of the awful things they’ve already been through. Trembling against it at having to hold still, even as they’re tied down so tightly that it’s uncomfortable. And then watching the whumper in their element, preparing different implements that they can’t quite catch a glimpse of until they set a folding table with everything readied right near the whumpee’s head. 

What’s on there? What ideas does it give the whumpee? How long are they left to lay there, stewing in their fear before anything even happens to them?

But let’s also imagine every time after that. The first experience on the table was so horrific that the next time they’re brought there, even if they’ve learned to be obedient, they panic. They fight every step of the way, throwing themself back against the whumper’s hold. And they were probably prepared for the whumpee’s resistance, whether that was by restraining them further, bringing an assistant to help them, sedating them partially beforehand, etc. And so they wrestle the whumpee up on there, forcing them down, maybe having to bash their head against the table so they go limp for a second...

Oh, and either way please don’t forget the blinding light directly overhead that makes it painful to keep their eyes open, but shutting them hardly does anything to block it out. It’s disorienting and will probably give them a headache, but it’s all worth it so the whumper can properly see what they’re doing (and also be silhouetted by the light so the whumpee can’t see their face as well to read them)

4) Seriously, They Can’t Fucking Move

That’s it. That’s the entire point. Whumpees throwing their entire weight against the straps and not being able to go anywhere. Not being able to adjust and shift their weight, forced to lay the exact same way against the table for hours on end, probably getting uncomfortable with the pressure and hard surface. Good stuff!

5) Some tropes go best in pairs!

Take a knife (or your bare hand if you’re looking to freak them out and not immediately hurt!) and trace it across the whumpee’s exposed body, not even cutting at first. running it across planes of skin they can’t see, leaving prickling shivers in its wake while they wait tensely for the pain. The whumper telling them to just relax, tensing up is gonna just hurt them more, but they can’t relax when the knife moves so unexpectedly, running over wherever it pleases.

Choke a whumpee against the table! They’re being so good and holding so still that it’s nearly irresistible to just wrap hands just above the strap or collar holding them down to the table and tighten, cutting their breath off completely while they have no power to stop you. They pull against the restraints as hard as they can but they won’t be able to claw at the hands keeping the breath from their lungs.

Oh, and instead of pressing them into the table, you could always push them off it too! I’m talking twist a hand in the whumpee’s hair and pull their head forward against the neck restraint until they’re choking on whatever breaths they draw and then slam their head back down against the table. 

Electrocute the whumpee on a table. Kneel above them and beat the whumpee on a table. Interrogate the whumpee on a table. Brand the whumpee on a table. Cane the whumpee on a table. Waterboard the whumpee on a table. jUST TIE YOUR WHUMPEE TO THE TABLE AND GET WHUMPING ALREADY IS THIS TOO MUCH TO ASK-

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Enough, Always: Izzy

CW: Newly adult child of whumper and whumpee, whumper in prison, references to romantic/intimate whump, referenced child emotional abuse, verbal abuse, brief gendered appearance insults with single line of brief homophobia at end, plus final crowning moment of badass for Izzy.

Izzy’s mother Savannah Marcoset has been locked in prison on a life sentence without parole for eleven years for abducting Izzy’s father Jax, keeping him captive, and forcing him into a horrifying facsimile of domestic bliss - and Izzy last saw her in person fourteen years ago, when her father escaped with her and her infant brother in one desperate final bid for freedom.

Newly eighteen and feeling the need for some kind of closure in one of the foundational aspects of her identity, Izzy decides to visit America - and pay a visit to her incarcerated mother. 

During the visit, she learns that Savvie Marcoset, in the end, couldn’t change - but Izzy fucking Gallagher did.

For the first time with her mother, Izzy finds her voice.

Jax Gallagher (referenced) belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with permission.

---

“Is this how you dress now?” Her mother’s voice is sharp-edged and still familiar, even fourteen years since Izzy last spoke to her face to face. It’s funny, how she barely remembered it, but as soon as she hears it, her heart starts to race, and it’s the feeling of her heart beating wings inside her chest. It’s the way other people might remember the sense of a warm hand to forehead, checking for illness, or laughter, or praise.

It’s a voice like a fever, a rush of chill down her spine and through her arms and thighs. Is it familiar from real memories, or because Izzy has heard it in interviews and documentaries and recordings, during her nights spent researching the woman who makes up half her genetics and absolutely none of her life?

She almost gets up and leaves right then. 

Almost. 

But Izzy Gallagher fought for this trip, had declared herself able and willing to do this, had more importantly convinced her father she needed to do this. She can’t just give up because it didn’t start well.

Even if he wouldn’t judge her, or at least he wouldn’t show it, Izzy Gallagher sets her shoulders and declares herself her father’s stubborn strong daughter, and not her mother’s weak and frightened one.

She steels herself against the instinctive uncertainty, the rush of anxious shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have tried. Instead, she gives her mother a faint smile as a plastic-and-metal chair is pulled out and she sits down across the small round table, just enough space there isn’t any danger of accidental - or, hopefully, purposeful - touch. 

The walls are beige, the top of the table is a wood so pale it might as well be. There are bars on the window that lets in a pale and faded winter sun. There are some others, nearby, people younger or older than she sitting at other round tables, seeing mothers, wives, aunts, sisters. Izzy wonders if all of them are scared, or if none of them are. If it’s only her who has to remember how to breathe, in her mother’s presence.

She can do this. She told him she could do this.

“Um.” Izzy looks down at herself - just a band shirt and faded jeans worn with holes, her still-knobby knees showing through, the boots a birthday gift from Nana she’d thought would help her crunch through the grayish snow in the parking lot, a light hooded sweater over it all - and then up again. Her mother’s eyes are still wide-set in her face, which is less rounded as time has passed. 

Those eyes are still overbright, and very blue.

It’s been so long since Savannah Marcoset saw her eldest child, and Izzy can’t ever remember having been the focus of her mother’s all-consuming interest before. It feels like standing in the eye of a storm, where everything is still but the air carries weight, electricity, and threat. 

“Mostly,” Izzy says, finally. “Mostly this is how I dress. I mean, I couldn’t wear gray, could I? They wouldn’t let me leave.” She tries to sound lighthearted, then winces. Bad joke.

Her mother, in what looks almost like flat gray scrubs, with a high-cut V-neck and a waist without a drawstring, smiles back, apparently unoffended. There’s a shift - subtle as a cat moving onto its back paws in grass, eyes focused on a nearby bird. Izzy has always been sensitive to changes in the tension of a room, and her own eyes - hazel leaning towards brown, her father’s eyes through and through - move to a nearby guard, reassuring herself with his presence.

Savannah Marcoset is firmly locked in prison for life, with handcuffs and ankle-cuffs that ensure she can’t make herself a threat here, and still the soft nearly-buzzed hair at the back of Izzy’s neck stands up, and she feels like she is being inspected, a bit of bacteria in some scientist’s microscope.

“I had hoped for a little more color, is all,” Her mother says, tilting her head to the side, giving an impish little smile. “As you can imagine, there isn’t exactly a surplus of art here. You look lovely, Isabella.”

Izzy swallows against a lump in her throat. Absurdly, she feels outnumbered, one-to-one. “I, yeah. Thanks.” She tries for a responding smile, maybe half-successful at it. “You have-... you have art classes here, I read.”

“You read up on me.” Her mother’s expression changes a little, opens up. She sits up a little straighter, then, and there’s a flash of still-white teeth in her smile, now. “You know about me. I would have thought you wouldn’t be allowed to know a thing.”

“I’m, um.” Izzy’s hands fold in her lap, and she rubs over the shredded white threads along a hole that’s worn over one thigh, the softness of a patch of fabric she’d sewn herself beneath. “I’m eighteen now, so. I get to pick what I know, more or less.”

“You’re eighteen?” Her mother’s surprise is genuine, and she glances sideways at the clock as though it will become a calendar, back to Izzy. “When did that happen?”

Why that question hurts, she doesn’t know - but it does. It’s not like Savannah Marcoset has anything to do here but remember, and yet-... she didn’t.

“About three weeks ago, actually,” Izzy says, and hears herself sounding embarrassed, like she should have not grown up at all, if that wasn’t what Savvie wanted, or expected. Like the turn of the Earth is her fault, something she did on purpose just to spite Savvie by stealing time. 

“Oh. Well.” Savvie folds her hands with a soft rattle as the cuffs knock into the shiny, sealed tabletop. She leans over, and Izzy can see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, now, the hint of them around her lips. Her jawline seems stronger, more carved, she is a statue version of a parent that Izzy remembers as a kind of terrifying whirlwind. Her hair is less overwhelming, the deep brown graying at the temples, pulled back simply against the nape of her neck. It isn’t so long, as it once was. Savvie pauses, waits for Izzy to look her in the eyes. “Happy birthday, Isabella.”

The name is wrong - it’s always been wrong - but Izzy smiles, anyway. “Thanks. Eighteen is a bit weird, it doesn’t feel any different than seventeen did, but-”

“My no-contact orders were signed here, in the US,” Savvie says, interrupting her, thinking this through. “So you, what, had to be eighteen to come see me? Have you wanted to before?” She leans forward, and Izzy leans back, feeling her back press into the chair behind her, letting her right hand drop to rub at the seam of her jeans on the outside of one thigh. Her heart beats harder. “Did he keep you from seeing me?”

He.

“No,” Izzy says, and her voice is thin at first, but she clears her throat and the second try is stronger. “No, he didn’t. He would have, if I’d have wanted to, before. I just didn’t ‘til now. We’re, um-... we’re doing an American holiday, more or less.”

Shit. She shouldn’t have said-

“‘We’?” Savvie’s expression brightens, with real interest now. Her eyes pin Izzy like a butterfly to a display case, jam tiny needles through her wings, hold her fast. “He’s here? Jax is here?”

“He’s not,” Izzy lies, smooth as silk, without hesitating. She’d planned for this question, prepared for this. She’d sat up til two in the morning prepping for the ways her mother might try to talk about her father, and more importantly, the ways that Izzy wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She’d just been hoping to hide it better for longer. “He didn’t come with m-me here. It’s just me, Mom, and some friends.”

Savvie clicks her tongue against her teeth. “He didn’t think I was too dangerous, for you to speak to?”

She can’t help her slight, sardonic laugh at that. “You’re in prison, Mom.” It feels weird, to hear herself say Mom out loud, as though that was ever what Savvie had been. She was four the last time she said Mommy to Savvie’s face, and even then it had been an apology Izzy can barely remember now, her own sense of a small voice saying, I’m sorry, Mommy, I won’t do it anymore, but she can’t remember what she’d done to get in trouble.

Breathe, probably.

“You’re in prison,” She repeats, and her heartbeat settles a little, reassuring herself with the words spoken out loud, made real. “You’re the least dangerous you’ve ever been, to us.”

Savvie sits back, less pleased now. “I was never dangerous. Did he tell you I was dangerous to you? I never was. That was a lie he made up, so they would help take you and your brother away from me. I only ever wanted us to be a family, Isabella.”

“Mom.” Izzy’s voice wavers, and Savvie might smile a little at the sound, but if she does, it’s because she sees the wrong reason for the waver, or… maybe she enjoys the annoyance, the anger, as much as she would fear. “We both know that’s not true, none of that is true.”

“I wanted a family,” Savvie says, in a low voice, not quite a whisper. Regretful, mournful. She trails a fingernail along the top of the table, and Izzy tenses at the scrape of it. Barely audible but it grates on her nerves nonetheless. She swallows, presses her lips together, tries not to watch it move.

Fails.

Savvie’s nails aren’t painted - in Izzy’s blurry remaining memories of her, Savvie’s nails are always painted colors - but they shine, perfectly filed edges moving, catching a hint of light. 

“Your dad,” Savvie says, in that same mournful, grieving tone, “didn’t want you at all. Did you know that? He never did. He hated the very idea of you, and your brother. He thinks I don't know that he cried over the concept of you. No… you were never wanted by anyone but me, until he realized he could steal you to hurt me. He could always be cold that way. He took you and hoped I would-”

“Stop.” Izzy struggles to say it. Even now, with therapy a constant foundation of her life and a stronger one than her mother’s terrifying rage, it’s hard to make herself say the word. She has to fight to make it audible, but it’s still clearly surprising - Savvie goes silent, watching her with those unnerving wide blue eyes. “Please-... stop. I, I know how he felt. You can’t-... you can’t rewrite history, Mom. I know… I know how it was, or I know enough.”

“It’s the truth, Isabella.” Her mother’s expression is so earnestly sincere. Izzy licks at her lips, suddenly dry and chapped, and thinks that if there were a lie-detector test, her mother would pass it, stone-cold. No way to tell she didn’t believe her own words. She might, actually, believe the story as it leaves her mouth, believe it so utterly she can lie without even knowing she’s doing it. “That’s all I ever wanted to do, is have the chance to tell you the truth. But he got that no-contact order and made sure you would only ever know how he saw it.” Savvie smiles with wistful regret, every inch the mother mourning her lost children. 

Izzy knows better. 

Jamie, her little brother, fifteen and with no memory of his mother at all, might fall for this. She's a stranger to him. But Izzy remembers the hours locked alone in the dark, and the sound of her father screaming in pain. 

She swallows trying not to think too much about that memory. “It’s not about-... there aren’t two sides, Mom. This isn't like any other divorce. You held him prisoner.” She’s falling into a trap, and she can feel it but she can’t stop herself. Her mother hasn’t tried to so much as reach for her - it wouldn’t be allowed, the guard would step forward if she did - but Izzy still feels like she has been pinned, claws sliding into her shoulders and a heavy weight holding her to her seat. A bird that didn’t see the threat in time to take flight. "You-... held us all-"

“Well, now he’s made sure I’m a prisoner, hasn’t he? Must be nice, to pin all your problems on the Big Bad Witch in prison who can no longer defend herself. But, of course, everything is always my fault.” Savvie shrugs as she cuts Izzy off, almost idly. 

"Mom, he has-..." Izzy feels unmoored. Drifting, like this can't be real, this conversation. This can't be real. "You abducted him, you-"

"Everyone has problems, sweetie." Savvie's head tilts a little more, eyes moving over Izzy’s face with an awful, palpable weight. “Don't try to make it a competition." Something gentles, then. The hard planes of her mother's face soften. "You know, you look like him.”

Izzy warms, a little, at that. She shouldn't and she knows it, but still, she does. She smiles, slightly lopsided, and raises one hand to touch the silver rings in the shell of her left ear, two of them right next to each other, one for Jax and one for her brother Jamie. “I hope so,” she admits. “I’ve always wanted to.”

The moment of gentleness in her mother’s expression slips away, replaced by a brittle frigid chill that washes over Izzy, a wave that breaks against her. 

Oh, no. I cared more about him than her. Even now, fourteen years on, she still shivers in an old fear.

“He is handsome,” Savvie says, tapping her fingernails again, scraping them along the table. The sound is starting to grate on Izzy’s nerves. “He always was, even in the earliest days. He never knew it, I don’t think. I tried to tell him.”

He didn’t want to hear it from you.

“He hears it enough now,” Izzy says, and her heart goes cold with dread as she realizes she’s nearly given away something much, much worse to say than accidentally admitting her dad came on the trip with her.

Damn it, Izzy, don't let her know about Kieran. 

Savvie doesn’t seem to notice the clue. She just keeps tapping. “Do you play music, Isabella? I wondered if either of you would have talent, in the end.”

It’s an abrupt change of subject, and Izzy doesn’t see it for the trap it is. 

“I play-... um. I can play some things,” Izzy hedges, shifting uncomfortably from the simple truth that she can play almost anything, if she hears it a couple of times, remembers note-for-note the songs on the radio or the forbidden ones she still hides in playlists buried in playlists, the soft strains of violin that draw her but she would never admit to. “I’m-... in a band, actually.”

Savvie’s eyes are back on hers, then, that unnerving total focus. “What do you play in that band? Is it a real band, or just noise?”

Izzy rubs at the back of her neck, flushing in embarrassment. “Um. I guess it’s about fifty-fifty noise and real. I play bass guitar, actually.” 

She’d read somewhere that bass guitar was easy, and figured if she played that, no one would realize the music was inherent in her, demanding expression. She could say she wanted to be in the band because of her father, who had been in one once upon a time, too. She wouldn’t have to admit that the music didn’t come from Jax, but from Savvie’s blood in her veins. She could pretend, with the bass guitar, to be worse at it than she really was without ruining the songs. 

Her mother snorts, derisive. “Anyone can play that,” She says, waving one hand in dismissal - but the other has to come with it, and it’s a reminder that, no matter how Izzy feels in the moment, there is no real danger here. “That hardly counts. Can you play a real instrument?”

“It is a real instrument.”

“Hardly.” Savvie looks disappointed, and it’s weird - she hasn’t seen her face-to-face since she was four, and she hasn’t said a word to her in that time, and still… the disappointment hurts, a little. “You weren’t allowed to do music, were you? He forbade you, because of me.”

“No, he absolutely didn’t.” It’s Izzy’s turn to lean forward, her hands closing into fists in her lap now, an old habit from childhood she’s mostly broken but it comes back, now, as her irritation rises in eternal defense of Jax. “He’s always supported whatever I wanted to do-”

“Because he doesn’t care enough to make sure you’re doing something worthwhile.” Her mother’s sigh cracks open a dark door inside her, it’s familiar even to her fading memories. It’s a sigh she knows from birth. Before Izzy can respond again, she changes the subject, deft as a dancer. “What are you doing for school, then? Are you going to go to college?”

Izzy blinks, thrown off track. “Um. Yes, I do plan on it, I’ll be going to university next autumn-”

“You’ve got the accent, too. Guess they’ve painted over everything they didn’t like, didn’t they?”

“Wh-what?” Her heart stops as her mother’s voice is sharp again. Her fists tighten, pressing down into her thighs until they nearly ache. “What’d you-”

“You look like him, dress like the dime-store version of him - honestly, Isabella, look at you, you look… grimy. You even talk like him. What is this, trying to look like the daughter he might have actually wanted? Is that it?”

Izzy swallows, sitting back again, thumping into the back of the chair. Someone nearby is crying, soft, muffled sobs. Someone else is whispering, in vicious intensity, in fury. The guards are impassive. There’s no sign they even hear Savvie speaking at all. “It’s just who I am-”

“No, it isn’t. I saw your name, Isabella Gallagher. You were born a Marcoset, but he was happy when he changed it, wasn’t he?” Savvie’s eyes won’t let her look away. She feels completely captured, the center of Savannah Marcoset’s world, the most terrifying place on Earth, somewhere Izzy has never once been. “I asked you a question, Isabella. He was happy to have you change your name, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She’s not sure why she answers. The anxious shivering inside of her is stronger than it should be. Her voice is a whisper, a rush of air with only a hint of sound. “But it was-... my idea-”

“I’m sure he let you think that. I feel sorry for you, you know. I really do. He must care for James so much more than he does you, don’t you think? My beautiful son wasn’t old enough to even speak to me, but you… you’re a reminder, aren’t you? Oh…" Savvie's lips purse, in a sort of smug smile. "Oh, you are. God, what torture it must be for him to be around you."

She’s supposed to be stupid. Izzy has watched all the documentaries that mention the case, she read an awful unauthorized true crime book she found in a thrift shop once that just had a little teensy chapter on Savvie buried between other femme fatales. She’s done her research, to understand the woman she was going to meet as best she could.

Savannah Marcoset is supposed to be… well, stupid.

Izzy wasn’t prepared for cunning not being the same thing as smart. And she didn’t think through what eleven years in prison, with almost nothing to do but think, and no chance of leaving ever for the rest of her life, might do to hone her mother’s ability to wound. That Savvie might have taken a blunt instrument and whittled it into a blade.

“I-I’m not-”

“You are.” Savvie hums, and the tapping of her nails is going to drive Izzy up the fucking wall. “Even just being alive, you are. And your hair, well…” Savvie’s eyes go up to Izzy’s hair, the same deep chocolate brown as Savannah’s own, a shock of curly brown that falls over her forehead and against one side, nearly shaved on the other side and along the back. “You can cut it, but it’s still my hair. You walk around a living reminder of what he stole from me, just to hurt me, what he didn’t even want. You were never wanted, Isabella. That’s why your birth is part of my crimes, don’t you think? You and James both. You’re a crime I committed against him, right?”

“A crime-” Her voice cracks, but if she sounds uncertain, it’s only her nerves, her inability to stand up for herself sometimes. It’s not fear. She is not afraid of this woman, and she doesn’t believe her. 

Okay, a little afraid.

But she doesn’t believe her, she doesn’t. She knows better, because she knows how hard her father has worked to build the life around her, the one she’s living now. She knows how many times he has held her after nightmares - hers and his both. She knows he could have left her and James behind, but he didn’t.

Every chance he had to set them down, he chose to hold them instead. 

Most of all, she knows the way her father has carefully, day by day and year by year, taught her that love is not the same thing as danger.

Her shoulders square, and her back straightens. “You keep saying that, b-but… there’s a difference between not wanting someone who will be hurt to, to be there to be hurt, and caring about someone. There’s-... you can’t see the difference, is all, but I can. I know-” She swallows. “I know how it looks like when he loves someone, and you don’t.”

“Hm.” Savvie’s fascination flags, a little, at that. Her stare is unnerving, unblinking, but Izzy feels the anger coming off of her, hidden and still plain as day. “Changing the subject, I see. So much of you is just a walking reminder. You’re just a tragedy on two legs, aren’t you, Isabella?”

Part of Izzy thinks wryly, how long ago did you think of that and how long have you been waiting for someone to say it to? but the rest of her can’t find the breath to say it out loud. “You can’t make my life worse than it is, Mom. Not anymore. I didn’t come h-here for this, I came here for-”

I came here to see if you could see me, even now, or only a reflection of what you can’t have. I guess I have my answer. 

Savvie hasn’t stopped talking. “What of you is even yourself, Isabella? Are you just… trying not to be me? Do you not want him to think of me?” Her smile widens. Flash of teeth. For a second, just one brief second, Izzy sees fangs. “Oh, sweetie. You can’t ever change that, no matter what you do. I was important. I ruined his life, remember? There was a whole court case about it. Two, really. It’s why I’m here. Because I’m the Big Bad Wolf, or so I’m told.” She snorts. “You should have worn red, Isabella. Or something.”

“Or something,” Izzy whispers, looking down at her hands, at her knuckles gone white, her fists. The round clock is ticking on the wall, and it’s only an hour. She told herself she could last for an hour, when she walked in here. She told herself she could make it, and she would.

“Isabella-”

“You didn’t, by the way.” Where the words come from, she’s not sure. But they come out sure, and strong. "You didn't ruin his life. It’s better, it’s good.”

“Oh? Is it?” Savvie feigns disinterest, but she’s so bright and sparkling, pulling Izzy in. “What about it is so good, Isabella? What does my husband do, in his whole new life without me? What can he do? Show me how I’m wrong.” Savvie’s presence is heavy, it takes up too much space, feels like Izzy is pressed against the wall, suffocating. How did they live like this, surrounded by her on all sides, all the time? How had Jax ever survived so long alone with her? 

Her voice trembles more than she wants it to when she speaks. “What?”

“You say I’m wrong - about him, about you.” Savvie is a shark, and Izzy is blood in the water. She seems bigger, suddenly, or maybe Izzy is smaller. Younger. Has too much hair for her age and a frilly dress she hates and she has to be good, and so quiet, and do exactly what she is told or her father will be hurt, and it will be her fault, because it’s always, always her fault-

Savvie’s voice is not quite a whisper. “Tell me, Isabella, all these things I am so wrong about. Even if you believe his side of the story, he’s all I thought about, the only thing that mattered, right? So I know him better than anyone else, don’t I? And you’re mine. I know everything about you, without even trying."

“You don’t-... know anything about me.” Izzy knows she’s getting quieter, and knows as she retreats, her mother presses forward, thrilled to play a game she hasn’t played in… in eleven years, more or less. “And you don’t know a single thing about him.”

“I know every fucking scar on his body.” Izzy’s stomach flips, but Savvie is leaning forward again, and the blue of her eyes is overtaking everything else around them. Plain beige walls and plain table and plain bars over plain windows can’t compete. The gray of everyone’s prison outfits, her own black-and-slightly-less-black, none of it is a good enough distraction, enough to tear her away. “That’s what I know. You’re sweet, Isabella, and it’s lovely of you to try and be the dutiful little daughter all over again. But I know things you don’t, I always have. I know I still do. He hasn’t told you half of it, and he won’t.” 

It’s a strike, a feint and then a jab, and if this were a real fight Izzy would be ready for it, but words are so much harder to defend against. “I was a little kid, I didn’t need to know it, I didn’t want to. I don’t need to know-”

“You had colic, for a month or so.” Savvie cuts her off, raising her voice a little. One of the guards behind her shifts, might look at them from behind the dark of his glasses at the volume. “When you were little. Cried like a banshee, day and night, no reason. I could hear you in my practice room. Still think you know everything?”

“This isn’t-... I don’t know why you’re telling me this."

“I had my responsibilities, sweetie. I mean, I was a new mother, but I was still a person. I didn’t need to change all that much, really. Jax spent half his time trying to keep me away from you, your own mother, and the other half trying to shut you up.”

“You could be-... he said you were up-upset, sometimes, um, you c-could be-”

“Violent? Never. I was tired, maybe - we both were. Jax has never slept well."

Because of you.

"Oh, here we go. One of my favorites of his little insults… does he say I was unstable? I’m sure I’ve heard it all. Probably in court, no less, he very much enjoyed getting on stage to put on his little show. Taking the jury around and around in circles acting like I never did anything kind for you.” Her eyes move back to Izzy’s hair, shaking her head slightly, one lip curling upward in a sneer. “I certainly would have been kind enough not to let you make yourself look like that.”

“Mom-”

“Shut up, Isabella. I am talking to you, and I am not done yet.”

Izzy’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking together, her nails digging into her palms. Her eyes flicker to the guard, trying to catch him, but no, she’s going to last the whole hour, she promised herself she could do it, she promised. 

Besides, it's… sort of harder than she thought, to look away when Savvie is talking.

“We ended up getting my, well, Isaac’s servant Hannah to help with you. Because of the colic. He asked for her, really. I was prepared to bring in someone else, but Jax had his demands, and when he really wanted something, well.” She shrugs, calmly, casually. She is talking about a reality that never existed, moving all the pieces around until the past suits her and not the court documents. Until her story is the one circling Izzy’s head, and not the story she knows has to actually be true. “How could I refuse?”

“He asked-... but when he wanted-”

“What did I just say?”

“Mom, I need to-”

“Let. Me. Finish.”

“N-No, I don’t want to hear this-”

“You know what he started to do? Once we had Hannah around, a few days a week? When the steward began to come as well? Do you know what the number one change your father made to his life was, once that happened?”

“Mom, please. Please don’t do this.” Her voice is nearly gone, and Savvie leaps.

“He started getting the hell away from you.” Savvie throws her head back and laughs, loud enough to make people look over at them. Izzy wonders, face burning in embarrassment, what they see. Do they know who Savvie is? Is she really famous, here, like Izzy thinks she is? Does everyone know they’re watching Savannah Marcoset push her daughter under the water and watch her struggle to breathe?

But… the words hurt. He got the hell away from you. “He did-... he did what?”

“Fucking escaped you. He thinks I didn’t notice. Everyone always thinks I don’t notice, didn’t know things. Your father - my Jax - thinks I’m a fucking idiot, I get that now. But I saw that, him handing you off to Hannah or the steward and get as far away from you as he could without-” Savvie lifts her hands to tap at the side of her neck with a slight, almost dreamy smile. “Everyone says I’m the bad mom, the bad parent, but I’m not the only one who shoved you aside every chance I got.” Savvie hums, almost idly. She’s playing, Izzy thinks dimly. Cat with a ball of yarn. Somehow the words hurt a little less when the realization comes. “That’s the thing, though, isn’t it, Bella-”

“Izzy,” She whispers, but her mother doesn’t hear her, or doesn’t care.

“You know you are, fundamentally, his fucking nightmare. Your father sat up there before judge and jury and told everyone that I only had you so I could control him just a little bit more. Did you see that, in the documentaries you watched? Did you hear about it? Did he tell you that you only existed to be a weapon, that you're just a pretty little tool in my toolbox?"

She doesn’t want to answer any of those questions, and keeps her eyes down, focuses on the knuckles of her hands. How they sit over her lap so nicely, if you ignore that they are fists. Her face still burns bright red, and her eyes are hot with tears she blinks rapidly away before her mother can see them fall.

“He’ll say I didn’t love you.” Savvie’s expression is chilled, disdainful. “But your father had whole days he could barely stand to touch you. He had days he couldn’t even look at you. You ran around after him begging for, what, for someone to pat you on the head and say you were good just as you are? No wonder he couldn’t give you that.”

“He did give me that, over and over-... how you’re saying it isn’t how it happened, you’re not remembering what actually happened, Mom-”

“I think, deep down, you know it’s because no matter what you do with your hair, or your clothes, he is always going to look at you and see me. That’s the fear, isn’t it? That you're me, or you will be. That’s why you’re here, why you flew all the way across the fucking Atlantic to pay Mommy a visit. You wanted to see how much of you is me. How much of me is in you. How much of a fuck he can even give, in the end, for my daughter." She laughs again, and Izzy flinches. "He must hate you, deep down, and part of you knows it. Am I right?”

Izzy can’t answer at first, and her mother clicks her tongue, falsely sympathetic.

“Oh, sweetie. It’s okay. I can’t do a fucking thing to you, or him, or anyone now. But I’m glad you came to see me. I'm glad to see that you're just the same, easy to break as ever. You'll end up with exactly the love you deserve, Bella. Won't you?"

Izzy's eyes are blurred, struggling to focus. What rises in her isn’t fear, or doubt, or even sadness. It’s anger, the same simmering slow burn that that comes whenever someone tries to push her and her father down, when they have to force their way back up. "N-no-"

"Yes. You'll get what you were born for, one way or another. Don't worry, sweetie. You're not like me at all. You're just… a mirror, and the reflection isn't even a good one." Savvie laughs, cold and cruel, delighting in the pain on her daughter's face. "Here I was worried you’d be angry, but I don’t think you can be. Is that too much like me, too?”

“No, I’m… I get a-angry sometimes, I can… it’s not like that-”

“Not like what? Speak up, Bella. Stop mumbling, you were always a mumbler. Most children shout, you know.”

“Most children don’t get locked in closets if they do.” Izzy is still whispering at the start, but the words come more strongly as she works her way through them, eyelashes heavy with tears she tries to pretend don’t exist. “Most-... most kids can throw a fit without their dad getting hurt, and most kids get to leave the h-house sometimes, and if I-... if he couldn’t-... it was because of you, not because of m-me.” 

“Tell yourself that.”

“I do. I do tell myself that. I only have to tell myself that because of you, and you-... you just wanted to be his whole life and the only thing in it and you’re n-not, and this isn’t even about hurting me, is it? All of this-... telling me about, about him-...”

She can remember it, can’t she? Faint traces remain, of asking for Jax and being told by her Aunt Hannah that he needed some time, of asking and having her Papa Stewart give her a hug instead, of asking and asking and then learning not to ask…

“You aren’t telling me this to hurt me. You’re telling me this to hurt him.” Izzy raises her eyes, aware of the bright red blotches on her cheeks, aware of the tear tracks, aware of her hands in fists and the zinging anger in her that simmers underneath her fear. “You want me to take this out into the-... into the world, back to Dad, and tell him what you said because it’ll hurt him to hear that you said it, and you’ve been in prison for eleven years and missed most of my life and nearly all of my little brother’s - who you haven’t asked me a single fucking question about, by the w-way - and all you can think about, even now, is the… the one who got away from you.”

The balance shifts, some of the glittering brightness fades from Savvie’s eyes, the fascinated sadism seeps out of her expression. “Isabella-”

“Izzy. I’m called Izzy. And you know that, because you’ve known it ever since the trial. And maybe I was-... was hard, for him, when I was a baby and I can’t fix that or make it any better, it’s all already happened and I’ve had to learn not to feel guilty about it since I was four years old, but of the two of you, only one has ever bothered to give any solitary fucks about who I am! I came here to see if you could-... if you could change, or rethink, or even just, just feel something about me, and all you can feel is the parts of me that are him!”

“Isabella-”

“You shut up! You do it, now, and you listen to what I have to say! I was sc-scared, all the time, because of you, not him. He was the one who came to let me out, and he was the one who held me when I was scared, and even if he didn’t want to be near me, he still tried! You don’t-... you don’t get to change the story and make it not what it was, Mom, I know what it was.”

“You know what he told you it was.”

“No. I know what it actually really was. There is no other alternative world where you’re the good guy, or better than he was! Maybe I was a hard baby to l-love, because of whose baby I am, and I-I carry that forever… that I'm not the kid he would've wanted to have... but he tried, and if he didn’t love me at first, at least he tried until he learned how! But… but I know he did. I know he loved me, and Jamie, so much that he did the scariest thing he could imagine by running with us and having to hope we could make it to Grandpa before you could catch us again. I think you don’t know him at all, and you’re going to die in prison still not knowing, and that’s why you’re doing this now. It is killing you that you could lock us up and put that thing on his neck and keep us trapped and you still don’t know any of us at all.”

“I made every single scar-”

“Scars aren’t who someone is! They’re just marks of you being shitty to him! They don’t say who he is now, or how his mind works, or how fucking brilliant he is at being a dad! You know some marks on his skin, but I know who he is when he’s safe, and strong, and happy, and you will never know that man. You won’t ever know what he looks like really in love, and I do, and it is absolutely nothing like he looked around you!"

Her eyes flare. “Bella, what are you talking about, in love? With who? Who would-”

“I came here to see if-... if any part of me really is you, and it’s not, because all the parts of me that matter are from him and Grandpa and Papa Stewart and Nana and my aunties and none of the important bits are yours at all! No one loves you, because you can’t love anyone, but I can, and he can, and Jamie can. You are never ever going to see him again… and I’m going to walk out that door and give him a fucking hug."

She shoves her chair back, making a metallic screech along the floor that makes her mother wince, adrenaline pumping through her veins. It’s a kind of fight, this, she’d been pinned to the mat and fought her way back to standing in the end. 

“I am proud of him, for all he’s done to make an even better life for Jamie and me, and I am proud of him for finding Kieran, after you - and Kie’s a better bonus dad by a million years than you ever were a mom - and… and he’s proud of me. He’s proud of the person I am and not just the person he thought I was supposed to be. That’s more important than, than anything, is that he and I-... we can be proud of each other, and you can’t be proud of anything but yourself.”

Savvie looks startled, now, struggling to regain the surety she’d felt before. She can’t stand or the guard will come, and so she stays seated, and looks up at Izzy, no taller than her father but wiry still. “I think we’re done here,” Savvie says coldly. “You’re clearly too swept up in your father to be worth talking to.”

“Maybe,” Izzy shrugs, shoves her hands in her hoodie pockets, finds the comfortable weight of her phone, switched off for during the visit like the guards had asked. Wonders if her dad, sitting in the rental in the parking lot, has started pacing yet. If he’s watching the clock, waiting for her text to come through, bouncing his foot like he does sometimes. If he’s pretending to read or texting Kieran or if he’s just staring at the squat building that stretches wide on either side, waiting for her to come out. “Did I disappoint you, then? How I am, just me?”

“Oh, sweetie.” Savvie shakes her head, ruefully. Her expression shifts into mournfulness, just a few seconds too late for it to be convincing. “I had high hopes for you. But he ruined you, in the end. Absolutely ruined you.”

“That’s… that’s probably good. I don’t think I’ll come back, Mom. But I might-... I might write a letter.” Why she throws the offer out, she doesn’t know, only… only some part of her will always, always want to keep hoping that this will change.

Savvie’s eyebrows raise. “I might answer it. Can you fix your hair, if you ever come again? And wear something… nicer than this?”

Izzy blinks, rolling her eyes back to look up at her hairline, down to look at her shirt and jeans, and then back to her mother. “Why? Because it’s shorter than you want it to be? Because you don’t like my clothes?”

“Because you look like a lesbian, Isabella.”

Izzy blinks, too thrown to find the words at first, and then she shrugs, rubbing her thumb along the side of her phone in her pocket, her palms aching where her nails had dug in so deeply, over very old scars. She can’t quite help her smile. “Oh. Well, fuck, Mom, my girlfriend will be shocked when she hears you feel that way.”

“Your what?”

Izzy turns and walks away, past the other tables with crying or hurting people, or people who look like they want very badly to hug and can’t, and she doesn’t look back.

The door clangs open and slams shut behind her, the hallway stretching out ahead, and she walks down two sets of stairs and around a corner before she sees the big heavy doors that lead out into the world, the huge parking lot warmed by sunlight with no trees to break the glare of it. She gives the guards manning the checkpoint a little wave of one hand, pushing the door open, and moves into the glaring, brilliant light, turning to face the corner where her father has been waiting by the rental.

He’s definitely been pacing.

She smiles and heads towards him, giving him a big wave. He’s moving towards her before her hand is even fully in the air.

If her mother’s words are designed to shatter, her father’s love - starting with his desperate attempts to protect her, his whispered be brave for me, Izzy as they boarded a train, written across every single day of her life - is a foundation too strong to be broken.

Her mother, Izzy thinks, can’t understand love like that.

But Izzy does.

And it's more than enough.

Always.

---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

[hurting-fictional-people]

Betrayal Story - Part 6

Hii look at what I finally finished! sorry for taking so long to post this guys, I don't even have an explanation lol... I have something else already half written for the boys so hopefully I won't take so long to update the story again 🙃 anyways, I hope y'all like it <3

tagging @thelazywitchphotographer @swift-perseides @whump-it-like-its-hot @sunflower1000 @msrandonstuff @fromtheo-withlove @boxofsilence @lionhxartx @sometouchofmadness @paleassprince @livingforthewhump @1becky1 @shameful-indulgence @whatwhumpcomments @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @starnight-whump @writingbackwards @noodlesandkareokee @mylifeisonthebookshelf @nightwhumpee

CW: forced sedation, manhandling, drugged whumpee, needle mention, aftermath of branding/burning

Part 1 here, continued from here

-

Liam can’t move. Every time he does, his arms do too and the mere brush of burned skin against pristine bandages is enough to get him on the verge of tears.

The room he’s kept in is too barren, too small to provide any kind of distraction from the constant pulse of pain – too much and never abating. No one listens or cares when he begs for medication, for anything to ease the agony. The doctor comes in to see him, give him antibiotics and check if there’s no infection, but barely looks at Liam when he whimpers under gloved hands.

The first time he takes a glance at the twisted skin underneath the wound dressing, a breathy, hysterical laugh slips out, quickly followed by a silent gasp as Chase’s initials weigh on his arms. He was always his, in the end, wasn’t he? Even after being betrayed and stabbed and kidnapped, he could never get the agent off his mind. Now he’ll be on Liam’s body as well.

It takes all of his willpower not to rip the dressings off once the doctor and nurses leave, just to stare at the hideous thing his arms are now.

But in the silent room, with nothing to do but think and despair, Liam can’t stop looking at the bandages.

He doesn’t know how long he spends staring at it – at the white itchy gauze, and the burns that hurt underneath it. At the C and the R he knows are forever burned on his skin. Like fucking cattle, marked with his owner’s name. Like the stupid boy who thought he could give his heart away to the beautiful, mysterious man that smiled at him. If nothing else, it is a good reminder of how big of a fool Liam is. If he lives long enough for it to be useful, that is. If Jonah doesn’t decide he’s had enough of Liam soon.

Horror floods him at the thought, and when his heart speeds up, Liam can’t hold it any longer. He pulls off the bandages in one swift movement, holding his breath when a wave of fire licks his arms. It doesn’t stop him from ripping out the second bandage though.

His hands tremble on his lap as Liam stares at the skin above his wrists, red with blood and raw skin disfigured into letters. It looks just as ugly as it feels.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until a tear drips on his thigh. And then another and one more, until he’s openly sobbing, chest heaving and stomach twisting.

Lost in tears and the sight of burned skin that sinks into his heart and burns everything there too, Liam only realizes there are people in the room when a hand grabs his forearm.

“What did you do? I just bandaged that,” the nurse complains.

This time, this one time, he moves. Liam yanks his arm away from their grasp and stumbles out of the bed, away from the nurse that stares at him with wide eyes and a startled frown.

“D-d-don’t touch me,” he hisses, holding his hands as close to his chest as he can, and hissing again when sore skin rubs against his shirt. “Stay the fuck away!”

But instead of moving back or so much as talking to him, the nurse calls for the guards and starts walking in his direction.

Liam takes a step backward and presses his back against the wall, wild eyes searching for an escape, a weapon, anything, but salvation is nowhere near. “Please, don’t. Leave me alone.”

When the guards open the door and enter the room, Liam slides to the ground, as small as he can make himself, elbows on his knees, arms protecting his head.

“Get off!” he screams when hands grab at him, and thrashes in the hold. His foot connects with soft flesh, his knee with someone’s chin, but there are too many men. Too many hands for too little strength, no matter how desperately Liam fights.

They drag him through the floor as Liam writhes with every last bit of stamina he has, panic driving him to fight like he wishes he could every time he’s hurt.

A different kind of pain blooms as he squirms uselessly in unforgiving grips – one deeper, familiar, warmer. Liam still doesn’t stop.

“Fuck, he reopened the stab wound,” someone shouts over the cacophony of pain and panicked struggling. “Hold him down, now!”

Liam is pushed to the floor, and when someone squeezes both his arms to keep him there, right over the exposed burns, the world turns red, and a scream tears its way out of his throat.

“No, no, no, get off!” he sobs, kicking out even when a needle sinks into his arm. “n-n-nggh off, get, get o-off,” he tries again, but the world is already slipping through his fingers. He kicks out and thrashes as best as he can, but it isn’t enough. There are stronger bodies over him and the movement is barely there at all.

As much as Liam tries to keep his eyes open, they weigh too heavy, the drugs stronger than he is.

What isn’t?

Liam’s body relaxes against his will, slumps under harsh hands and angry stares, and all he can do is whimper when they drag his limp body to the bed.

-

Chase moves through life like a ghost, only a shell of helplessness and worry, and for the first time, his team notices. He hasn’t slept in days, not with Liam’s face twisted in agony ready to wake him up each time he closes his eyes. Has barely eaten, no appetite left when all he can think about is the boy he loves being hurt on his account.

How can he be free when Liam is locked up? How can he be the one who isn’t hurting when he is the only one who ever deserved it?

“Come on, I know that there’s something wrong,” Zoey says, crossing her arms.

If he could simply flee, he would, but with the hacker standing right in front of him, Chase knows it isn’t worth it. Even if he did leave, she wouldn’t stop trying to get the truth out of him. So Chase sighs and looks down at the blond woman who looks ready to commit murder.

“We all know it. You look like shit. What’s going on?”

It takes all of his strength to plaster a smirk on his lips and lean against the wall with a casual tilt of his head. “You guys worry too much. I’m fine, Zo. Probably could do with a little more sleep, but who couldn’t?”

As convincing as he hopes he sounds, Zoey doesn’t seem at all impressed by his acting. If anything, her frown deepens. “I know you, Chase. And you know me, so you know you can trust me. You look even worse than you did after that mission with the newspaper boy.”

Newspaper boy. If that was all Liam meant for him, maybe Chase’s heart wouldn’t be this tattered.

“Zoey. I am okay, I p– I promise.”

I never lied to you, he had said to Liam as he bled out in Chase’s arms. I betrayed you, yes, but not once did I lie. Stay alive and I’ll prove it to you.

But that was just another lie, wasn’t it? Liam is as alive as ever, and all Chase’s done is cause him more pain than any of them ever imagined possible. All he’s proven is his failure to keep Liam safe.

What is another lie when he’s already filled with them? Maybe that’s all he was always meant to be, all he will ever be – a betrayer. A traitor. A liar.

With a casual shrug that makes his stomach twist, Chase sidesteps his teammate. Before he can move farther away though, she grabs his arm and pulls him back.

“You are good at lying, but I can see the way your eyes have gone dull. I’m not going to force you to say it, but when you get tired of pretending to be fine, I’ll be here. Okay?” When Chase doesn’t answer, she takes a deep breath and nods. Zoey leaves him standing there, feeling dirty and raw, something stirring inside his chest and begging him to tell her everything.

Chase opens his mouth, the truth one breath away, and takes a step towards Zoey’s back. And then his phone buzzes, and reality comes crashing back as he looks at the screen and she disappears down the corridor.

Wanna see him?

It’s the first message he’s gotten from Jonah in days, and Chase holds his breath and freezes for a second at the words.

He’s rushing to his car even before his mind has caught up with his legs.

He’s standing in front of Jonah’s building in a matter of minutes, heart racing but mind weirdly quiet. Static silence, fear building up.

Jonah waits for him in the lobby this time, leaning against the open door of the elevator with a smile on his lips.

“Chase! Long time no see.”

“Where is he?”

“Straight to the point, huh. Boring as ever,” Jonah rolls his eyes. “I was feeling generous today, thought you might want to say hello. I’m not sure our dear boy will answer you, but you can try for yourself I guess.”

“What the fuck did you do?” Chase hisses as Jonah nods for him to get inside and presses the button.

“Nothing bad. He was just fussing about the pain, so my nurses gave him have a little something to relax.”

Chase steps into the elevator, two guards close behind, and fears he’ll shatter his jaw from how hard he’s clenching it.

“He also doesn’t really like his new… adornments, I don’t think. Ripped the bandages earlier today, wet the whole bed with tears.”

Jonah’s voice is light as he says it, the tone one would use to talk about something meaningless, something that doesn’t make Chase sink his nails into his palms and hold his breath. The man’s eyes are the telltale, shining with dark glee, and Chase can see the way Jonah follows his every movement like a predator, reveling at the little cracks in his unruffled façade.

“So when I offered him something to calm down, he didn’t even think before accepting,” he continues.

The doors slide open before any of them can say anything else. A small mercy.

The walk to Liam’s room is as quick as it is infinite. They stop in front of the door so incredibly soon, yet so painfully late.

“Be nice to him, I think he’s going through a phase,” Jonah chuckles as he nods for one of his men to unlock the door. “And don’t forget that this is your fault, dear.”

He barely realizes he’s entered the room until the lock clicks behind him. And then Chase’s eyes find Liam, and the world stops on its tracks, just like it always does when they are in the same room together.

He’s lying on his back, arms open and hands hanging off the bed, bandages covering the skin from Liam’s elbows to his wrists. His eyes are open, but unfocused, slow blinks that lead to nowhere even when Chase takes the first step towards him. His chest rises and falls slowly, rhythmically, a shallow blow of air through parted lips, and despite everything, Chase is happy that Liam isn’t in pain.

It is only when he stops beside the bed that Liam’s head lolls on the pillow, a sunflower looking for the sun even though no real light can reach him here. Still, he looks, and half-lidded eyes roam around the room before finally stopping on Chase’s face.

“Hey,” Chase says, curling one hand into a fist while the other clutches the edge of the bed.

“Mmgh,” Liam slurs with a shuddering breath and a crease on his forehead before trying again. “I, mm, I’m not, n-uh not feeling… well.”

“How can I help?” Chase’s voice is hoarse and low, pained, but Liam hears it. He hears it and he whimpers, shaking his head no.

Make it stop, his mouth forms, but doesn’t voice.

I can’t, Chase wants to scream, I’d give anything to make it all stop but I can’t. Instead, he softens his voice and tries to smile. “What if I do something to distract you? I… I was told you are under some strong drugs.”

Green eyes blink at him, and Chase is happy there are only the two of them in the room. He might actually lose it and punch Jonah square in the face if the man was here.

“How about I tell you a story? You’ve always liked them.”

Liam swallows, eyes darting around the room again, and even though Chase knows he isn’t listening, not really, he sits on the edge of the bed and starts talking.

“It’s about a boy who thought he could change the world, but instead changed the person who was sent to stop him.”

“Sou-sounds like a shit story,” Liam mumbles.

“Depends on how you look at it. Or who’s the one telling it, I guess.”

There’s a pause, and Liam sighs softly before talking again.

“Are you… are, are you really… here?”

The words slam into his chest, shattering anything left in there, and though Chase holds himself firmly still and keeps his face carefully free from anything but tenderness, something collapses inside of him. Maybe it’s his heart. It feels like it, and he wants to cry, to grab Liam and leave, but he can’t, and Liam strains to focus on his eyes, so Chase smiles like there isn’t burning agony rippling through him.

“Do you want me to be?”

“I, I don’t, I don’t know.” It is only a murmur, but Chase knows he’ll hear its echo in his nightmares for a long time – the uncertainty, the fear, the sadness. The helplessness.

I’m here. I would be here forever if I could.

But the words are only that – words. He can’t be here forever, nor erase all the pain he’s caused and continues to cause. So Chase picks up the pieces of his heart and pretends it doesn’t hurt to smirk and brush Liam’s hair away from his forehead like he used to do so long ago.

If he can’t take Liam away from this nightmare, the least he can do is pretend it is a dream.

“Then you should stop dreaming about me.”

“Ca-can’t,” Liam frowns, staring at the hand Chase just touched him with. “Will, will you leave? Again?”

“Only if you want me to.”

Liam looks up again, and something is missing in those eyes. A spark of life that was still there the last time they saw each other, but isn’t now. As Chase searches for the hope he always loved in the depths of Liam’s gaze, what he finds instead is sadness.

“Don’t go,” Liam breathes. “I, I, my h-head, it it it feels weird, Chase.”

“I know, love,” Chase says calmly, nothing of the wild desperation that rages inside of him seeping through the words. Not when Liam is this lost, this vulnerable. Not when it is the first time he has called Chase by his name after the betrayal. “It’ll pass.”

“I’m scared,” he murmurs, shifting on the bed. “But, I, I don’t remember… why.”

“You are okay, Liam. I promise. You’ll be okay.”

Liam closes his eyes and shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is only a whisper, gone even before he finishes. “I don’t believe you.”

Chase bites on his lip and creases his forehead, but none of it shows when he takes Liam’s hand in his own and gives it a little squeeze.

“I know. That’s okay too.”

But Liam isn’t there anymore to hear it. His body sags on the bed, taken away by the drugs, and Chase is left alone in Liam’s cell, watching the boy he’d kill and die for fall asleep. As he does, all Chase can think about is that he needs to get Liam out of here. Somehow, he needs to get him away, no matter the cost of it.

An hour goes by, and though it is one of the worst hours of Chase’s life, is it the first time he doesn’t feel like a part of his heart is bleeding in days. Not when he can see the bleeding part right in front of him.

He wants to wake Liam up, to hear his voice while he can, before he’s forced to leave again. But there’s peace on his face as he sleeps, and Chase can’t take him back to reality when he looks like he used to, like he could wake up at any moment and kiss Chase with a smile.

And then the door opens, and the memories vanish as Chase reluctantly gets up. As soon as he does though, Liam stirs on the bed, frail hand reaching out and grabbing Chase’s wrist before he can move away.

“You promised me… a… um, a story.”

Liam’s eyes open for a moment before closing again, but he doesn’t let go. Chase shoots one look at the guards waiting by the door and knows that nothing good will happen if he waits. He has to play nice if he wants to get Liam out.

Chase looks down at Liam again, and when he finds half-lidded eyes struggling to stay open, he can’t stop his voice from breaking mid-sentence.

“It’ll have to stay for another time, okay? I’ll see you soon, love.”

Liam’s eyes flutter back closed with a soft sigh. His voice is soft as the tears that sting Chase’s eyes when he speaks. “You al–, you always leave in real life too.”

Chase can’t find an answer before he is dragged out of the room by a firm grip he knows better than to fight. He yanks his arm away as soon as the door locks him and Liam on different sides, and hears the words rattling around his head while he is lead to sit in Jonah’s office to hear what the man wants next. All the way back to his house.

He doesn’t think when he calls Zoey. All he hears is Liam.

All he can see is Liam’s lost gaze, the life fading out of his eyes. All he knows is that if he lets him in Jonah’s claws one more second without doing anything, he might actually, truly, crumble down until he can’t pull himself back up.

He is sitting on his couch, hands over his face and elbows on his knees just like they have been since he got home, when his friend opens the door.

“Oh, Chase,” she breathes as soon as she sees his face and sits beside him. “What happened?”

He doesn’t get to crumble down. Not when it’s Liam the one being hurt. The one branded and tortured and kidnapped and betrayed. Still, when Zoey’s gentle arms wrap around him, he hugs her back.

“It’s Liam,” he says, fighting to get the words out through his heaving breaths, trying to force his mind to put them together long enough for someone else to know it too because he can’t do this on his own. He thought he could, he thought he was enough, but he isn’t and he needs to get Liam out, no matter what, no matter how, he has to, he has to before the light goes out in that beautiful green gaze. “He, I, he’s caught and it’s my fault and I thought I could keep him safe but I can’t and now–“

“Chase, breathe,” she commands, and he answers. It’s all he knows how to do, isn’t it? Answer orders. Look at what happens when he’s left on his own. “Let’s start from the begging.”

So Chase does.

(next)