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littleperilstories · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022: #3 :: A Hair's Breadth from Death

Gun to Temple | “Say goodbye.” | Impaled

Whumpees: Freddie Howell, Fen Bailey-Song

Whumper: Kain Brockhurst

@whumptober-archive / @whumptober

CW: general peril, female/lady AND male whumpees, gun use (warning shot, explicit threats), gore (hand impaled), restraints (handcuffs, duct tape), gag (duct tape), physical violence (hitting/punching, kicking), kidnapping/abduction, death threats

Fen & Freddie

Next instalment: Day 5

I want your sister. And you're going to help me find her. And if you don't cooperate, Miss Bailey-Song, I'm going to blow your pathetic little boyfriend's brains out.

None of this was real. It couldn't be, Freddie rationalized. Things like this did not happen in real life. Things like this only happened in the movies.

Armed goons did not come speeding into alleyways with guns drawn and pointed at two friends walking back to their overpriced rental house after a late night study sesh at the twenty-four hour Starbucks.

Menacing black cars did not block the only escape path at the mouth of the alley.

Strangers did not just start throwing punches, hard ones, blows meant to hurt—maim—leave scars.

People he loved and trusted—whom he thought he knew—did not glide into a fighting stance and start kicking ass, dealing blows right back to their attackers.

Freddie was seeing double, the figures in front of him blurry and unfocused. He could taste blood in his mouth. It was an unfamiliar sensation; he’d never been punched before. The blood was metallic and rancid, on his tongue, and his mind skipped from one confused, irrational thought to another.

What was happening?

Who were these people?

What did they want?

He needed to help Fen.

Where did she learn to fight like that?

She looked so beautiful.

This thought spun in dizzy circles around his head. It, and more than one variation of it, was never far from the forefront of his mind—but it was particularly useless right now. While he was busy spitting blood onto the asphalt and trying to form even one coherent idea, she was going head-to-head with these bastards, limbs flying in graceful arcs. He hadn't even known Fen Bailey-Song, his best friend, could throw a real punch, let alone take on an entire gang.

"Freddie!" Her voice broke through his stupor. "Freddie, run!”

Me, he thought dizzily. She's talking to me. She was telling him to run. While she fought them off. By herself.

He staggered to his feet, the world spinning around him, a cruel and out-of-control merry-go-round.

Her voice broke the air. "No!”

Something—a fist? a foot? he couldn't tell anymore—slammed into his gut, and then a set of arms yanked him upright, one muscled limb snaking around his neck.

I can't breathe.

Freddie gasped for air, a panic like he'd never known tearing through every atom of his body.

"Stop," he rasped—at least, he thought he did. Outside, in the realm of breath, of air, of oxygen, Fen was screaming the same word.

"Stop! Stop it! You're killing him!"

"You want me to stop?” A cool, disturbingly unperturbed voice asked, right next to Freddie's ear.

"Yes!”

"You don't want me to kill him?"

The arm around his neck relaxed, and Freddie sucked air into his lungs, each breath a humiliating wheeze screamed into the night.

“Run, Fen,” he choked out. “Please.”

"Let him go," she snarled, ignoring his pleading. Freddie could focus on her again. She was still tense, surrounded by their attackers, but unhurt.

Something cold pressed against Freddie's temple. "I will. But before I do that, we are going to have a conversation."

Fen released a guttural roar at the sight of the gun pressed to Freddie's head. She seemed about to charge, a look of wild, unbridled wrath upon her face, when the man holding him said, "And if you don't cooperate, Miss Bailey-Song, I'm going to blow your pathetic little boyfriend's brains out."

Fen, beautiful and sweet and gentle Fen, froze. Not his girlfriend, no. But the most important person in Freddie’s life? Yes.

"Hands up," the man said softly. Fen obeyed, her eyes not leaving Freddie's.

"Pat her down."

As two men lurched forward, Freddie came to his senses. "Don't you fucking touch her!" He struggled against the man's grip, even as the chokehold grew tighter again.

"Shut the fuck up," the man growled, and a loud click sounded in his ears.

"Don't!" Fen's hands shot higher into the air. "Freddie, it’s—it’s okay, you don’t need to worry, I promise it’s okay.” She nodded as if that somehow made the words more true. "You'll be okay."

Some small part of him appreciated the lie, even though it was categorically the least true thing had ever been told.

"Do you know who I am?” the man asked calmly as his cronies finished searching Fen’s body for hidden weapons. Her purse, the first thing she’d discarded when the fight began, was on the ground, its contents strewn across the alley floor.

"Kain Brockhurst." She spit out his name as if she'd been sucking snake venom from a wound. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Why, that's easy, dear." The muzzle of the pistol pressed harder into Frieddie's temple. "I want your sister. And you're going to help me find her."

"In your fucking dreams." Fen's eyes flashed like lightning. "Even if I knew where she was, I wouldn't tell you.”

Brockhurst tsked. "What a shame. Here I thought you shared some of your sister's…heroic qualities. Perhaps you'd secretly enjoy seeing this fucker’s brains splattered on the pavement?"

Fen was shaking.

"There's a convenient dumpster just there," Brockhurst said, pulling away the gun just for a moment to gesture with it. "I wouldn't even have to travel far to dump his body."

I am going to die.

Freddie couldn't breathe again, but this time it was his own lungs turning against him.

Fen flew forward, and Freddie closed his eyes, waiting for the bang.

Instead, though, a cry ripped through the air. His eyes flew open again.

It took two men to hold her, and she was fighting fiercely, but they had her overpowered. Her face was contorted with rage.

"If you fucking hurt him, Kain, I'll—"

The force of his body slamming into the ground knocked the very air from Freddie's lungs. He screamed as Brockhurst's foot slammed into his chest.

"Oops," Brockhurst said. "That might have broken a rib. Or several."

Fen was crying. Crying because of me.

But she was strong, stronger than he’d ever realized. She could escape their grip. She could get away.

"Run," he tried to gasp again, "get out of here.”

A gunshot split the air.

"A warning shot," Brockhurst said. Somehow, Freddie was still alive, though he was gasping for breath.

He knew he wouldn't be able to stand.

"Don't hurt him!" Fen’s voice was shrill as Brockhurt coolly inspected the pistol.

"Beg."

Fen stopped thrashing. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Tears blurred Freddie's vision as he watched Brockhurst lean in, bringing his face mere centimetres from Fen's. "I said. Beg. Me. Beg for his life."

"Don't." Freddie's voice was a rasp, a scrape of rusty metal. "Fen, don't—“

"Please." Fen turned her tearful face up towards Brockhurst’s. "Please. I'm begging you. Don't hurt him. Don't kill him. He has nothing to do with this. He barely even knows Bridget. He doesn't know where she is—please, I swear. He doesn't. Neither of us do.”

Freddie heaved in a breath, wet and ragged, and tried to haul himself onto his hands.

One of Brockhurst's henchmen kicked him down again.

"You see, that's the funny thing," Brockhurst said. "I don't need you to know where she is."

Fen's eyes snapped with fury again. "Then why—”

"I just need to give her an incentive to come to me."

Fen flailed against the arms still gripping her. "She won't. She'll never—"

"Oh, she will." Brockherst backed up a few steps, stopped, and then he raised his arm again. The goon over Freddie yanked him upright.

The round void of the muzzle pointed directly between his eyes.

"You will do as I say, Fen Bailey-Song," Brockhurst said quietly, "or I will pull this trigger, and you can say goodbye to your friend forever."

"Fen, don't—"

But she was motionless, save for a slow, tearful nod.

"Fen, don’t—"

The remaining henchman hurled a punch into his stomach, and Freddie doubled over, groaning. A hand grabbed onto his hair and pulled him back up. Brockhurst's aim had not shifted.

"Hands behind your back."

Freddie choked on a sob as she did, and the sickening click of handcuffs rang through the alley.

"Feet together." Fen shifted. One of the men wrapped duct tape around her ankles.

Freddie was screaming. Was he? He couldn't tell This was a nightmare, it just had to be—

"Don't. Fucking. Move." Tears were streaming down Fen's face as the tape was pressed over her lips, wrapped around her head in an inescapable gag.

"Stop it.” Freddie was sobbing. "Stop, leave her alone, stop—”

"What a sweet, obedient little girl." Brockhurst was smirking as he lowered. the gun. "Did Bridget ever tell you my specialty?"

Trembling, gaze burning with fury, Fen shook her head.

"Superior strength,” said Brockhurst smugly. "Incredible accuracy.

A kick to the back of the knees had Freddie kneeling. A backhanded blow sent him sprawling.

Fen was screaming through the tape, eyes round and terrified.

And then a boot was pressing into Freddie’s arm, pinioning him to the ground.

"I’ve decided I won't shoot you in the head today," Brockhurst said. "I have a better use for you. You'll give precious Bridget a message for us, won't you?"

"I don't—" Freddie rasped.

He realized what he was looking at too late.

A piece of paper, stuck through with a gleaming silver knife.

A knife that punctured, no, that shattered through his trapped hand, digging into the very concrete ground beneath him.

The last thing Freddie saw before the world turned to darkness was the love of his life thrashing against the men who were dragging her away, tears staining her cheeks, as she tried to scream his name.

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normaltothemax · 1 year

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Working on setting up a bio for him but I have a new OC!

Archie Howells is a vegan werewolf. He comes from a high society family, is a defense lawyer, but is pretty timid when it comes to his personal life. The courtroom is the place his confidence really shines.

You can all thank @boarish for the idea.

Faceclaim is Freddie Highmore.

#✦ ooc #look at that lil face #what a cutie

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lemon-drop-soda · 7 years

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List of OC names that started in an order but then devolved into nonsense

I hope you guys enjoy an unfiltered list of all the characters I’ve named and kept at least a small tab on for the past few years!

(note: everything in parenthesis is a real/given name, and if there are question marks, that means I either haven’t decided yet or it’s a major plot point in that character’s story)

Yasuhiro (???) Takeshi Masayoshi Yuichi Kazuko Katsuro Osamu Chiyoko Quill (Guillaume) Barrett Ash Potiron Aspen Morpheus (???) Begonia (Greg) Bleu J (Jeremy) Fafnir (Bart) Taranis Viggo Tito Bren Weldon Marcus Nico Keanu Tallula Gilligan Orlando Cassandra Lono Farley Prince Enfys Peony Velius Hypatius Chrysaor Henry Benjamin Davis Shirley Corin Terrence Harper Bernadette Miron Citron Sapor Potsuhiro Ray Sherbet Blaine Warwick Tweedle Pete (Peter) Freddie Jacob Pasha Comet Brito Duncan Liko Jaron Darnell Melanie Zeke Cody Sydney Isaac Mordecai Aello Howell Fay Pip Peace

#lemony text #lemony ocs #I am not tagging this shit

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ao3feed-castiel · 5 years

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Looking for Roleplay Partners

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/32oP43W

by Vine_Sauce_Vinny

Need a roleplay partner? Here I am! I'm familiar with over 40 fandoms, I can play as an OC, I can double, I can switch and my responses are usually quick and often.

If you don't want to roleplay in the comments, find me at:

GaymersRiseUp (Roleplay.Me)

Bella (Roleplayer.Me)

Eye_ofthe_Phoenix (RPNation)

[email protected] (email)

Words: 390, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Video Blogging RPF, Team Fortress 2, Overwatch (Video Game), Harvest Moon: Friends of Mineral Town, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, どうぶつの森 | Animal Crossing Series, 9-1-1 (TV), Grey's Anatomy, Station 19 (TV), Queer Eye for the Straight Guy RPF, PAW Patrol, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Night In The Woods (Video Game), Five Nights at Freddy's, Bendy and the Ink Machine, Undertale (Video Game), Cuphead (Video Game), Warriors - Erin Hunter, The Lion King (1994), Bambi (1942), Supernatural, Sherlock (TV), One Day at a Time (TV 2017), Single Parents (TV 2018), Dr. STONE (Anime), Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, The Secret Life of Pets (2016), Descendants (Disney Movies), Wreck-It Ralph (Movies), Big Hero 6 (2014), Friends (TV), SpongeBob SquarePants (Cartoon), DuckTales (Cartoon 2017), Teen Titans (Animated Series), Steven Universe (Cartoon), Gravity Falls, Gremlins (Movies), Twenty One Pilots, Panic! at the Disco, Imagine Dragons (Band), Fall Out Boy, Jonas Brothers, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Walking Dead (TV)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Felix Kjellberg, Mark Fischbach, Sean McLoughlin, Dan Howell, Phil Lester, Scout (Team Fortress 2), Heavy (Team Fortress 2), Medic (Team Fortress 2), Sniper (Team Fortress 2), Spy (Team Fortress 2), Engineer (Team Fortress 2), Soldier (Team Fortress 2), Demoman (Team Fortress 2), Pyro (Team Fortress 2), Enderman (Minecraft), Creeper (Minecraft), Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Spyro the Dragon, Simba (The Lion King), Chase (PAW Patrol), Marshall (PAW Patrol), Judy Hopps, Josh Dun, Tyler Joseph, Brendon Urie, Meredith Grey, Jackson Avery, Teddy Altman (Grey's Anatomy), Owen Hunt, Margaret "Maggie" Pierce, Matt Buckley, Bobby Nash, Athena Grant, Twilight Sparkle (My Little Pony), Starlight Glimmer (My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic), Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural), Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Rick Grimes, Negan (Walking Dead), Carl Grimes, Sonic the Hedgehog, Hana "D.Va" Song, Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Huey Duck

Additional Tags: Roleplay, Fluff and Angst, Romance, Action/Adventure, Drama, Science Fiction, Manga & Anime, Reality TV, Disney Movies, Mild Gore, Explicit Language, Sexual Content, Domestic Fluff, Dominance, Submission, Daddy Kink, ABDL, Master/Pet, Rape Fantasy, Anthropomorphic, Incest, Cuddling & Snuggling, Nightmares, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Anxiety, Eating Disorders, Autism, Insomnia, Abusive Relationships

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/32oP43W

#IFTTT #cas #castiel #spn #supernatural #ao3feed

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littleperilstories · 1 year

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Fen & Freddie: Wherever You Find Love, It Feels Like Christmas

Warnings: a few references to the events of Whumptober's Fen & Freddie, like Fredde's hand getting impaled and Fen being kidnapped and tortured; difficult parental relationship; lying about going to therapy; implied ptsd; weird government shenanigans/getting a tracking implant. honestly it's not really whumpy unless you count Bridget angsting all over the place.

Less serious warning: I wrote this pretty fast and didn't do a whole lot of editing. I've no doubt there are typos and bad sentences. 😂 Enjoy!

Fen & Freddie Masterlist

Word count: 3543 || Approx reading time: 14 mins

Teaser: Bridget hadn’t always hated the holiday season. No, this was a relatively recent phenomenon, born last year—an awful Christmas, the worst she’d ever had and would ever have, she was certain. The one that fell only a month and a half after Fen and her boyfriend got out of the hospital, still trying to recover from everything Kain Brockhurst had done to them.

Bridget pressed her face into the steering wheel, groaning into the metal logo in its centre. The metal letters dug into her forehead, cool and sharp.

Get me off this highway.

Of course she was here, of all places. Of course she was living out the second-worst of holiday clichés: being stuck in gridlocked traffic, crawling along a four-lane highway at a snail’s pace, with no relief or accessible off-ramps in sight.

The only thing she could see to be grateful for was that it wasn’t snowing.

Wailing in frustration as the radio blared the fourth rendition of “Winter Wonderland” she’d heard in her hour-and-a-half -and-still-counting drive, she turned the volume to its lowest level and felt around on the cluttered passenger seat for her phone. Using the device while driving was, of course, illegal, but the car barely counted as “in motion,” and if she had to listen to one more a capella, glee-club style cover of a Christmas song, she was going to purposely ram her car into the one in front of her.

Once her blissfully un-festive playlist was blasting through the speakers, Bridget heaved a sigh of relief.

She hadn’t always hated the holiday season. No, this was a relatively recent phenomenon, born last year—an awful Christmas, the worst she’d ever had and would ever have, she was certain. The one that fell only a month and a half after Fen and her boyfriend got out of the hospital, still trying to recover from everything Kain Brockhurst had done to them.

Fen, her gorgeous, sweet, kind-hearted, innocent sister.

Freddie, the adorable if dopey love-struck idiot who’d gone running after her and nearly died for his courage.

Bridget could only assume last Christmas had been more of a nightmare for them than it had been for her, but she couldn’t know for sure. How would she? Her mother had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she wasn’t welcome in their house for the holiday. Or, in fact, any other day.

Bridget had been entirely prepared for another Christmas alone—no Fen, no Starr, no nothing—but this year, her sister had intervened.

You’re coming for dinner on the 25th, read a text that had lit up Bridget’s phone only a week ago. No ifs, ands, or buts. Bring cookies.

The message and its unspoken implication—I talked to Mom, and she said it’s okay for you to be here—had sent Bridget spiralling into sobs for a good half an hour. She’d been straight-up ugly crying: wailing sobs, face buried in a pillow, nose streaming in a slimy, hideous mess.

Now Bridget glanced at the stack of cookie boxes piled precariously on the back seat, emotions in check, at least for now. She’d meant to bake some treats from scratch, she really had. But that had been before the last-minute plans that had transpired in the days after Fen’s text. A secret encrypted message arrived in her email with a time and place,and she’d enjoyed a few days away from home with the friends who meant the most to her. Then, though, there had been the subsequent phone call from her federal agent, Donna, that resulted in a non-negotiable, unskippable appointment downtown. “I know it’s Christmas. And I don’t care. You missed a check-in, Bridget. You knew what the deal was, and you broke it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bridget’s gaze roamed from the baked goods to the fresh scar on her wrist, barely an inch long, and her stomach contracted.

Well, so what if Donna and the feds could always keep tabs on her, know where she was, for the rest of her life? They were already doing that, anyway. The little procedure yesterday had just made it more official.

But seeing Starr and Jeff for the first time in months had been worth it.

And being back at her parents’ house, seeing Fen smiling and happy and whole, that would be worth it, too. Worth the diabolical traffic, the trek across town—to multiple supermarkets—to buy cookies, the thirty-minute-plus waits in line.

And whatever frosty glare her mom threw at her from across the room, or whatever argument born of blame and bitterness she started over the dinner table—the number one winner for terrible Christmas clichés—seeing Fen smile would be worth that, too.

~~~

Darkness already blanketed the street when Bridget pulled into the driveway behind her mom’s grey SUV. She sucked in a breath as she stepped out, stretching her cramped muscles, and stole a glance toward the yellow glow seeping from behind the curtains. Was everyone already inside and waiting for her? What was the reaction going to be like once she walked through the door? Fen and her dad, she usually saw about once a month. Freddie, only in the pictures Fen posted online. Her mom…

The incision spot on her wrist twinged in protest as she rubbed it nervously. What was she afraid of? What was the worst her mom could do to her? If anyone hurled a turkey leg or a gravy boat at her, what did it matter? One, she’d heal the bump or burn away in no time. Two, she deserved it.

Balancing the mountain of cookie boxes in her arms, Bridget dragged her feet up to the front door and hesitated. Moment of truth…

Before she could knock, Fen whipped the door open.

“You made it!”

Suddenly, Bridget was inside the foyer, her arms were relieved of their burden of baked goods, and Fen was wrapping her in a hug.

“Yeah!” Bridget cringed. She’d meant to sound bright and enthusiastic. Instead, the word came out sounding like she had a severe stomachache and desperately needed the bathroom.

Whispering in her ear, Fen said, “I know you’d still be standing out there if I hadn’t opened the door. Don’t be nervous. It’s gonna be fine.”

The reassurance did not quite have its intended effect; it made Bridget want to throw up. How utterly backwards it seemed for Fen to be comforting her.

“Okay.” Needing to change the subject, Bridget inspected her sister once they’d pulled apart. “You look nice.”

Fen grinned. “I found the sweater secondhand with the tags still on! Can you believe it?” She did a twirl to show off her outfit. She’d gone for an understated Christmas look: a deep, pine-green knit sweater with gold sequined details; a pair of skinny jeans she’d had since high school and which, infuriatingly, still looked incredible; gold stud earrings; and a satin headband printed with gingerbread houses. Bridget was keenly aware of, and a little embarrassed by, the baggy Christmas sweater, patterned with faded candy canes and reindeer, that she’d dug out of a box under her bed that morning before she hit the road. No amount of fabric freshener had been able to quite banish the musty smell clinging to the wool.

“I feel a little underdressed.” A flush crept into her cheeks as soon as the words left her mouth. Had she really said that? Was that really what she was going to complain about? What was wrong with her?

“Don’t be silly.” Fen rolled her eyes. “Freddie matches you. He’s wearing an ugly Christmas sweater, too.”

As if on cue, a figure appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hi, Bridget. M-Merry Christmas.”

Well, there was no enthusiasm in Freddie’s tone. His green eyes were serious. But there didn’t seem to be much bitterness in his face, either. And while the smile he gave her was small—it was still a smile.

It was ridiculous how happy Bridget was to see the enormous snowman splashed across his chest. A stupid amount of relief that she wasn’t the only one wearing a goofy sweater. God, why do I even care? “Hey, Freddie. Nice sweater. Merry Christmas.”

She had to concentrate on that garish snowman, because if she didn't, she’d stare at his hand—once shattered by Kain Brockhurst and then reconstructed by Bridget’s own healing gift—or his face, surely haunted by the horrors Kain had put him through.

“I can take these to the kitchen,” he said, descending the stairs to retrieve the stack of boxes. “See you in a minute.”

Bridget waited until he’d disappeared to speak. “If it’s going to be awkward, I can go. I—I get it.”

Fen grabbed her hand. “Bridget.”

Tears were already prickling the back of Bridget’s eyes, and Fen hadn’t even said anything yet.

“I want you here.”

Bridget squeezed her eyes closed. What had she done to deserve a sister like Fen? Nothing. “You shouldn’t, though. And I know Mom doesn’t. Not really.”

How Fen had found it in her heart to forgive her for what had happened was beyond her understanding. If Bridget had never stolen Kain’s formula, then he never would have kidnapped and tortured her sister. If she’d kept a better eye on Freddie, he never would have snuck out and gotten captured and nearly murdered—poisoned. And if she’d given up the formula as soon as Kain asked for it, or gone to the government earlier, then so much of their pain could have been avoided.

Yet here was Fen, gazing at her with sorrow in her eyes, but no blame. “B…” She choked on the old nickname. No one used it anymore. Not since Kain had ruined it for everyone. “Listen to me. I want you here.”

Bridget flung her arms around her sister. Why did it feel like her heart was cracking down the centre, when her sister was being nothing but kind? “I know. I’m sorry. I want to be here, too. I swear.”

“Good.” Fen wiped a tear from her own eye, sniffing dramatically. “You’re going to make me ruin my mascara. Then you’ll really be sorry.”

Bridget snorted. “When did you get so vain?”

Fen chuckled but didn’t answer. Bridget held onto her hand, not ready to let go of the moment. Not yet.

“Fen…” She swallowed. “Will you tell me, seriously? Are you doing okay?” It was a stupid question, a preposterous question. Maybe even a little disgusting that Bridget needed to ask when she should have just known. But Fen was back in school, and when they met up for brief coffee dates, they never talked about what had happened. Just about papers and exams and commutes and work and other awful, mundane things.

Fen’s gaze softened, turned distant, roving absently over the paintings on the foyer wall. “I… really am.”

Squeezing her sister’s fingers, Bridget said, “For real?”

With a gentle nod, Fen squeezed back. “It… I… It’s taken some time. It has. Taking the winter semester off last year… That was a good idea. I needed that, um, time. And rest. But it was also really good once I went back to school. All the papers keep me busy. I still have bad dreams sometimes, but..” She glanced up the stairs, at the space where Freddie had been standing. “I mean, I think he might have it harder. He still has nightmares, too. And the stutter comes back more often now. You remember when it was really strong in high school?” Bridget nodded. “And, you know, other stuff. He’s a little sad.”

As she finished speaking, a faintly stricken look crossed Fen’s face. “Don’t repeat any of that, okay? Like, I know it wasn’t… bad or anything… but don’t mention it. Please. I’m trusting you.”

“I promise,” Bridget said, halting a shudder as it attempted to travel down her body. Her gut was churning; she could only imagine the nightmares Freddie had been left with. “Is he talking to someone?”

Fen nodded. “We both are. We all are, actually.”

Bridget blinked. “Mom?”

“Yup.”

The thought of trying to explain the context—the comic-book-fodder drama—to someone unfamiliar with Kain Brockhurst and the lab that had turned him into what he was now made Bridget dizzy. The thought of their mother talking to a therapist nearly knocked her to the floor.

Fen raised her eyebrows. “Did you make any appointments yet?” She tapped her foot against the floor.

“In the New Year, actually.” Bridget kept her voice light, hoping Fen wouldn't detect the lie.

Her sister’s eyes narrowed, and Bridget knew she hadn’t gotten away with it, but Fen didn’t press the matter. “Good…” She paused. “Yeah. Good. Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”

Their dad was by the kitchen table, dancing along to “Jingle Bell Rock,” which seemed to be causing difficulties as he poured himself a glass of eggnog. Bridget smiled. The sloshing against the side of the glass and over its rim wasn’t deterring Dave Bailey from his dance at all.

“Hey, Dad,” Bridget said, giggling despite the knot in her stomach.

He nearly dropped the carton. “Bridget! I didn’t hear the door!” He flung his arms around her, pulling her in tight. “I’ve missed you, kiddo.”

I've missed you too, Dad.

“Don’t stay away so long next time.” He brushed a piece of hair out of her face, then grinned and gestured toward the eggnog. “You want some?”

Only if you’re adding some rum to it. She opted not to say that out loud.

“I’ll get you a glass,” Freddie said. He’d just reappeared, but he ducked away again, heading for the cupboard.

“Where’s Mom?” Bridget’s voice was flat, and she hated herself for it. Mrs. Fiona Song was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh… you know. Doing Christmas things. Running around.” Her dad accepted the glass Freddie handed him and began to pour.

Avoiding me.

“I have something for everyone,” Fen said before Bridget could accidentally verbalize her thought. “Ready?”

Even Freddie’s eyebrows drifted upwards. Apparently, whatever Fen was about to bring out, it was a surprise to him, too.

A grin swept across Bridget’s face as Fen grabbed a glittery, oversized red stocking that had been resting in a corner of the room. “Dad first!” From within, she pulled the ugliest, gaudiest Santa hat ever to exist, complete with a jingling bell at its tip.

Dave burst into laughter. “Wow! It’s what I’ve always wanted.” He accepted the gift with a flourish and tugged it over his ears, snorting when it just barely fit.

“Freddie next.” Fen’s cheeks pinkened as he crossed the room to stand next to her, his fingers grazing hers. He also received a Santa hat in his outstretched hand, this one bright green. Her next words were an almost-conspiratorial whisper, meant for him but audible to everyone. “It matches your eyes.”

Freddie’s face turned bright red as he leaned down to let Fen crown him with the ridiculous hat. “I love it.” He was smiling, though the flush still stained his skin all the way to his neck as he brushed his lips against Fen’s. “It’s p-perfect.”

Had it been anyone else, any other time, Bridget would have been rolling her eyes and pretending to gag. PDA, even when it was subtle, was so not her thing.

But with these two, it was hard to get annoyed.

Eyes alight, Fen turned to Bridget. “Your turn.” Excitement radiated from every inch of her, from her beaming face and bouncing feet. “Here you go!”

Bridget braced herself for her own Santa hat. What awful, hard-on-the-eyes colour had her sister chosen for her?

Her breath caught in her chest. It wasn’t a goofy hat that Fen pulled from her stocking. The gift in her hands was a satin headband, adorned with gingerbread houses—a perfect twin to the one she was wearing in her dark hair.

A lump grew in Bridget’s throat. “Thank… thank you.” Was she whispering? She hadn’t meant to. “It’s… It’s so….” She swallowed. “It matches yours.”

“Put it on!” Fen gave her a gentle nudge with her hip. “I wanna see what it looks like.”

With trembling fingers, Bridget tugged her hair out of its messy ponytail, gave it a half-hearted finger comb, and slipped the headband behind her ears. “I’m sure it looks cuter on you.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Fen said. “It looks awesome. Doesn’t it, Freddie?”

The corners of Freddie’s mouth quirked upward, and Bridget appreciated his answer even though it was clear what his true opinion was. “It looks great on b-both of you.”

Soft, slippered footsteps scritched across the floor in the hallway, heralding the arrival Bridget had been waiting for yet dreading. Every muscle in her body, relaxed and easy for a solid three and a half minutes, tensed again.

“Hi, Mom.” She’d forgotten to take the tag off the end of the headband, and it was cutting into her skin, stinging and itching at once. May as well be the one to make an effort. “Merry…”

God, she felt stupid, in this ridiculous Christmas sweater and this silly gingerbread headband, and it was hot in here, and when she glanced away, it was Freddie’s hand on her sister’s arm that caught her gaze, the shiny pinkish-white scar in the centre of his hand and the horrific memories that accompanied it—

“... Christmas.” Every drop of moisture was gone from her mouth.

Fiona stood in the doorway, still half in the hall. “Hi, Bridget.”

Bridget held her breath.

Slowly, as if she were approaching an undetonated mine, her mother inched closer. “Glad you made it safely.” A long pause. “How was traffic?”

Spinning, rumbling fractures rumbled beneath Bridget’s feet, resonating from the earth’s crust. This is really happening. She’s actually talking to me. Her mother wasn’t kicking her out. Wasn’t throwing a frying pan at her face. Wasn’t even shouting.

“It was, um, awful.” A nervous giggle slipped out of her, and the honest answer came out before she could think of something less true but more positive. “I thought I’d be on the highway forever.”

“Typical holiday traffic.” Her mother shifted her weight, shuffling in place for a few moments before she turned to the oven. “I should check the turkey.”

“Wait!” Fen bolted across the room. “You still need yours!”

“My what?” Their mom was stiff, her voice hard, but her gaze softened when she looked over at her younger daughter. Who, despite everything, was smiling. Laughing. Giving out silly gifts as if, a year ago, she hadn’t been bucking off the ropes of trauma that had tried so hard to tie her down.

“Your present, obviously.” Fen reached into her stocking and whipped out the last item. Bridget choked. It was the most ridiculous one of all.

“Oh, Fen, really?”

Fen ignored the weak protest in her mother’s voice and slipped the headband, decorated with sequined antlers, onto Fiona’s head. “You look beautiful.”

Bridget bit her lip, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry, and waited for their mom to sigh and tug the antlers off. “They look good, Mom.”

“They’ll get in the way when I lean down to get the bird,” Fiona said, looking a little helpless.

“I’ll check it,” Freddie said, his voice quiet, his mouth still turned slightly up. And in what was perhaps a Christmas miracle, Fiona didn’t argue with him or rip the silly headband off her head.

“Well,” said their dad with a wicked grin, turning on the heat beneath the steamer pot that housed a mountain or broccoli, “if Freddie’s handling the food, let’s go see what movies are on the TV.”

Freddie shot him a baleful look at the implication that he was now in charge of the entire Christmas dinner.

“Yeah,” said Fen, her eyes sparkling, “thanks, honey, for volunteering. See you later. Maybe the Grinch is on.”

“Hilarious.” But when Freddie stood upon straight again, waving steam away from his face, he was smiling. “How’s this?” He pulled the roasting pan’s lid free. “How’s it looking, in your expert opinion?”

Fiona peered over the pan, examining the skin with a discerning eye. “Few more minutes. What about the Brussels sprouts? They doing okay?”

Freddie returned the turkey to the oven and pulled out the vegetables. “They look good to me.”

Not even wincing from the heat when her fingertips plucked a glistening sprout from the tray, Fiona took a bite. “Perfect.”

And it was, Bridget realized. Not the stupid Brussels sprouts—she hated the damn things—but this. This Christmas. Her mother being stiff and standoffish, but actually looking at her. Freddie stuttering and keeping his distance, but wearing forgiveness in his gaze. Her dad cracking jokes and downing eggnog that might or might not have had a few glugs of rum stirred in. Fen pulling out her phone and dragging everyone to the Christmas tree for a truly embarrassing set of selfies.

Bridget grinned as the iPhone light flashed. Even with the ever-present knot in her belly and brand-new tracking chip in her arm, this Christmas was already a hundred times better than last year’s.

“Glad you came after all?” Fen whispered in her ear, handing off the phone to Freddie so he could hold it in his longer arms to get everyone in the picture.

Blinking away tears, Bridget nodded. “Yeah. I really am.”

“I know I already said it, but…” Fen bit her lip, her eyes also shimmering. “Merry Christmas, B. I love you.”

“Merry Christmas.” Bridget wrapped her arms around her little sister. “I love you, too.”

#fen and freddie #fen & freddie #oc fen bailey song #oc bridget bailey song #oc Freddie Howell #christmas #christmas story #does it really count as whump?#recovery #healing #lps-writes #lps-christmas

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littleperilstories · 2 years

Text

Whumptober 2022: #12 :: What Could Go Wrong?

Whumptober Masterpost “Mayday, mayday!” | Cave In | Rusty Nail

Whumpee: Fen Bailey-Song

Whumper: Kain Brockhurst

@whumptober-archive / @whumptober

CW: kidnapping/abduction, restraints (handcuffs), gag (ballgag), mention of death, needles/injection

Fen & Freddie

Roughly follows from Day 6 (Bridget's POV) and Day 7 (Fen's POV) and precedes Day 30 (Freddie's POV) and Day 10 (Fen's POV); a few days into Fen's captivity

Hesitantly, Starr unlocked their phone and handed it to Freddie. Their eyes skimmed the picture messages before the phone made it into his hands, and what they saw made them shudder.

Freddie couldn’t sit around any longer.

Days had passed. He’d sent his parents a few text messages—even called his mom once. They had no idea he wasn’t at the house he lived at in the city with Fen and a few other students during the semester. They didn’t know he’d almost died. They didn’t know he’d nearly been murdered by a mutant-genetically-enhanced-superpowered-whatever-you-wanted-to-call-it psychopath.

They knew that Fen was missing, though.

Because Bridget and Fen’s mom and dad were receiving pictures and videos from Kain Brockhurst, too. And they’d been minutes away from calling the police—but Bridget had gotten there in time.

Freddie was going to lose his mind.

He didn’t understand why Bridget wouldn’t go to the authorities, why she’d stopped her own mother and father from involving the people who might actually get Fen out of the hellhole Brockhurst had put her in.

A few dings sounded throughout the hideout. Most of Bridget’s team—apparently, the way Starr had explained it, they were the ones who had been on the anti-Brockhurst side when the company split—were leaving their phones on silent these days. It didn’t stop their screens from flashing awake, brightly coloured notifications bearing yet another slew of sickening media files none of them wanted to see.

Starr was working on a computer a few seats away, their eyes trained on the screen, when their phone blinked to life. They paled as the light caught their attention.

Click-tap-click-tap-tap-tap went their keyboard. Freddie felt frozen as he watched Starr desperately try to ignore the waiting message.

Jeffersen, though, could never resist, even though he’d been brought to tears more than once. Freddie moved his gaze to Jeff. Watched him close his eyes in horror after he looked.

“Is it pictures or video?” Freddie swallowed the taste of vomit as it hit the back of his tongue.

Jeff put his phone back down. “Pictures.”

“I want to see.”

Starr glanced up from their computer. “Don’t do that to yourself, kiddo.”

If it had been anyone else calling him “kiddo,” Freddie might have completely lost it. But Starr never said it patronizingly. In their voice, it sounded genuinely affectionate. Today, that voice was also brimming with sympathy—and with warning.

“I want to see it.”

Somewhere down the hall, a scream of rage.

Bridget.

Hesitantly, Starr unlocked their phone and handed it to Freddie. Their eyes skimmed the picture messages before the phone made it into his hands, and what they saw made them shudder.

Freddie swallowed.

The photos Brockhurst had sent were toned down today compared to the ones he’d been sending. The day before, the message had been a single video: Fen, arm stretched high above her head, feet dangling off the floor, crying out in pain around a ballgag. Out of frame, someone was adjusting the chain connected to her handcuffs, lowering her body and pulling her up at will as the metal cuffs dug into her wrists. The day before that, it had been a series of short videos detailing the process as he and his cronies strapped her to a table and then injected her with something that made her scream.

Everyone had heard Bridget throwing up after the video arrived. She hadn’t come out of the bathroom for almost an hour.

Today, though, was just a series of images. Fen, sitting at a table, cuffs still locked onto bruised wrists, her head in her hands. Curled on the floor with her knees against her chest. Wiping tear-filled eyes. Glaring at the camera lens with hatred on her face.

What are we still doing here?

Whatever the formula was, it couldn’t be worth all this.

Bridget wouldn’t tell him what it was, what it did. She just insisted that Brockhurst couldn’t get his hands on it again and that there had to be another way.

Unable to speak, Freddie handed Starr their phone back. They took it without comment, glanced at the pictures again, and stood up, disappearing into the hall. Jeffersen followed.

“We have to do something, B.” Starr didn’t try to keep their voice down.

“You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not fucking dying right now?”

“We know where he is. We should go get her.”

“That’s what he wants. What he’s expecting. We need a better plan.”

It took Freddie a few seconds to realize what Starr had said. We know where he is.

His muscles carried him before he quite knew what he was doing. Starr had left their computer screen on and unlocked. For a moment, Freddie wasn’t sure what he was looking at, then it struck him that it was an open doc filled with long scientific words he did not understand—but it wasn’t the only tab open.

Hands shaking, he navigated between the tabs.

On the third one he tried, the address jumped out at him. Pictures. Details of where each security camera was.

I am not supposed to know any of this.

Even Starr, who was the kindest and most patient with him, had refused to tell him more than necessary about Brockhurst, his history, and the lab they had all worked at. “You don’t want to be a part of this,” they kept saying. Bridget could barely look at Freddie, but when she did speak to him, she said much the same. So did Jeff.

So if any of them knew that he was creeping into the data Starr had collected for the team…

With a quick glance at the door, praying no one was about to walk in and catch him snooping, Freddie snapped a picture of the screen with his phone and returned to the original doc.

If Bridget wanted to wait for the perfect moment and the perfect plan, fine.

Freddie would just have to go get Fen on his own.

Closing his eyes, he imagined telling her his plan, imagined what she’d say if she knew what he was going to do. “‘What could go wrong?’” He could almost hear her echo of his overconfident rhetorical question, dripping with sarcasm. “Only everything, Freddie.” She would wink and toss her hair. Maybe playfully punch his arm. “This just might be the dumbest idea you’ve ever had, actually.”

But he couldn’t sit around in the hideout anymore. Not while she was suffering.

He’d been willing to die there on the pavement in the alley if it meant that she might somehow live. Well, she’d lived, and so had he.

Two weeks ago, if someone had asked if there was anyone he was willing to lay down his life for, he wouldn’t have been sure. But he knew now.

I’m coming for you, Fen. I’m going to get you out of there.

And if he didn’t—then he would die trying.

#whumptober2022 #no.12 #what could go wrong?#oc #originalcontent #original content #fic #lady whump #female whump #female whumpee #oc Fen Bailey-Song #oc Freddie Howell #whump #whump writing #original story #whump story #original writing #day 12 #whumptober

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littleperilstories · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022: #19 :: Enough is Enough

Whumptober Masterpost

Knees Buckling | Repeatedly Passing Out | Head Lolling

Whumpee: Freddie Howell

Caretaker/Whumpee: Fen Bailey-Song

Whumper: Kain Brockhurst

@whumptober-archive / @whumptober

CW: kidnapping/abduction, restraints (rope), gag (cloth/scarf), whipping, blood/injury, verbal threats

Fen & Freddie

Follows from Day 10

She wasn't sure what was real anymore: reality seemed to have no foothold here in the lawless realm of Brockhurst's sick, twisted authority. Had she really just watched her best friend be whipped before her very eyes? Was that really Frederic Howell in front of her, limp and unconscious, arms still trapped high above his head?

For a while, no one would untie her. Fen strained against the rope, her arms nothing more than bloody nightmares now. She could not take her eyes off Freddie.

Surely she had fallen into some crevice between worlds, torn through the veil of truth and unreality.

When it had been just her, the awful things Brockhurst had ordered had simply been more hurts in a list, ticks in the boxes of Life's Struggles. Unfair things, horrific ones, but things she knew she was strong enough to endure.

Yet now that it was Freddie, something had cracked inside her soul.

Someone approached with footsteps slow and steady. Fen didn't pull her gaze from Freddie's lolling head, from his bloody mess of a back.

“Whoa.” Brockhurst trailed his fingers through the shredded skin on her arms. They burned. “Take it easy there, kiddo. You're not going to have any skin left if you're not careful.”

She ignored him, and he did not cut the ropes. “Let's call your sister, shall we?”

Had he already sent the video of Freddie? Of Fen screaming at the top of her lungs as they tortured him?

Brockhurst’s fingers petted her hair as the ringing of his video call filled the room.L, stopping only when he tugged away the scarf, pulling the cloth from her mouth.

“Tell her, sweetheart. Tell her what she needs to do for me. For you.”

Fen wanted to shake her head, to scream and curse at him until her throat was raw. But she was spent. Hollow.

“How did you get your hands on him, you sick—”

Brockhurst chuckled and cut her off. “What are you blaming me for? You should have kept him on a tighter leash. He just showed up here. Stupid fucking kid.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Kain?”

The ringing and the voices seemed to have roused Freddie somewhat, and he raised his head weakly, his dim, bleary gaze meeting Fen's. He opened his mouth as it to speak, but whatever he wanted to say was drowned out by the slither of Brockhurst's voice.

“Your sister is here,” he said to Bridget, smirking into the camera. As if it was some kind of surprise that Fen was still in his clutches. “Why don't you listen to what she has to say on the matter?”

Fen flicked her gaze back to Brockhurst's phone, catching the movement of his hand as he switched from the front-facing camera to the main one.

“Fen, I'm so sorry—”

A glance back at Freddie revealed that he had fallen limp again, passed out and hanging, his chin against his chest. Fen swallowed.

“Just bring it, Bridget.”

Brockhurst was grinning, a smarmy and self-satisfied oil slick across his face.

Fen didn't bother to choke back her tears. “Let him have his stupid fucking goddamn formula. I don't care anymore. Get me out of here. Get Freddie out of here.”

She closed her eyes and saw every moment of the last few days flash in her mind. Every shove, every restraint, every crushing grip that left bruises on her skin. Every humiliation and every scream.

Everyone had a breaking point.

She opened her eyes and found that Freddie had awoken again. He still seemed only barely conscious.

“Fen,” she heard him whisper.

“Get us out of here,” she repeated. “Do you hear me?” Anger was spilling out now. She’d tried, she’d tried so hard to be noble and understanding, but here she was, still suffering, arms scraped raw, voice screamed hoarse. Freddie's back a mangled patchwork of flayed skin and drying blood.

“We didn't do anything to deserve this. We shouldn't be here.” A sob escaped her throat. “Just give him what he wants.”

You're fucking weak, a voice inside her head sneered. After all, if Bridget said she couldn't give Brockhurst the formula, then she had to have a reason.

But B wasn't here to bear witness to the horror, to watch Freddie pass out with an agonized moan on his lips yet again.

“Let me see him,” Fen said to Brickhurst. “Let me help him. Please.”

In response, he swung around to show Bridget the aftermath of the brutal whipping. To let her see the way sluggish rivulets of blood still dripped from his back toward the floor.

B was sobbing.

“I'll call you in the morning,” Brockhurst said, “to arrange our meeting.” The beep of the call ending held a note of finality of it that Fen had never heard before.

“Let me out,” she said as she watched him slip the phone into his pocket. "Let me—let me clean him up.”

She forced herself not to flinch as he took her chin in his hands, tilting it upwards. Deep brown eyes that might have been soulful and kind, in another life, perhaps, bored into hers.

“Can I trust you not to do anything stupid?”

Fen nodded. Somewhere inside her, fury flared and burned, but it was tenuous, a spark drifting precariously close to the gentle ripples of a pond. Tiny. Exhausted. Alone.

“If you try to run,” Brockhurst said, “or if you do anything other than get your pathetic weasel of a boyfriend down and cleaned up, I'll break both your ankles and split his skull open. Got it?”

Another sob burst out of her, mewling and terrified. I can't do this. I can't go on like this.

“Oh, don't cry, sweetheart.” Her chin had dipped as the sobbing overtook her, and he forced it skyward again. “It's simple. If you behave, I won't have to resort to such barbaric measures. Right?" She nodded, and his other hand clipped the side of her face. “Right?”

“Right,” Fen whispered. Hadn’t she just said it herself? Just give him what he wants.

Brockhurst smiled. “So promise you'll be a good little girl and you won't do anything foolish.”

Fen swallowed. “I promise.” He pulled his fingers from their grip on her chin.

“Good.”

She winced when he untied the rope on her arms. Across the room, two of his lackeys watched her, as if they expected her to leap to her feet and attack him. She glared at them. One of them had the decency to avert his gaze. The other stared right back.

Her limbs tingled, blood rushing back into her toes and fingers, as she threw herself across the room. “Freddie!” His eyes fluttered open.

“Fen.” He tried to collect himself, to stand up without pulling on the rope, but his legs trembled and buckled. “Fen, I—”

“I know.” She stroked his cheek, realizing this was the first time since Brockhurst abducted her that she was in physical contact with someone who wasn't trying to hurt her or tie her up. “It's all right.”

“I'm—I'm sorry—”

His eyes started to roll back in his head.

“No! Freddie, Freddie, listen. Please stay awake.” Her voice cracked. “Freddie, please.”

Behind her, Kain Brockhurst was laughing.

“I can't let you down if you're just going to fall on me.” Fen bit her lip. “Please—”

His green eyes opened again.

“I don't want them to hurt you,” he whispered.

“What? I—” Was he confused? Did he understand what was going on? “No one's hurting me. They—he knows I'm letting you down.” It was a fucked-up thing to say, to even think, that she needed Brockhurst’s permission to help her friend after he was whipped to a bloody pulp.

“I'd do it again,” he said, “if it meant it wasn't you.”

Don't cry, Fen willed herself, feeling her heart break. Don't fucking cry.

“I'm going to let you down now,” she managed. “Don't fall on me. Please.”

He choked out a pained laugh. It faded. though, as his attention fell on her raw, red-stained arms “They did that to you?”

“I guess,” she said, grimacing as the end of the rope brushed against the scrapes. They’d bound her to the chair, but her own struggles had opened her skin. “Don't worry about that right now, okay? Just concentrate on staying awake.”

He cried out as she released his arms, knees immediately giving out beneath him. He hit the floor, making good on his unspoken promise not to knock her over.

“I know it hurts,” she whispered, kneeling next to him. His arms trembled beneath him. “It’ll be okay. I swear.”

The words fell hollow between them.

“Can you stand up?”

He was shaking his head even before she’d finished speaking.

“Try.” Fen was keenly aware of Brockhurst’s gaze burning into her back. “Please. Lean against me.”

Her body shuddered as it took on his weight. He was trying, she could him straining to keep his balance, but he was leaning on her still. Heavily.

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this,” she murmured, slowly guiding him away from the splatters of blood on the floor. “I’m so sorry.”

Kain Brockhurst was still there, watching with interest. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

“Get out of my way,” Fen snapped.

She expected another slap, some kind of consequence, but Brockhurst simply stepped aside.

“You take good care of him, now,” he said smoothly, and a scrape of horror ran down Fen’s spine. There was a promise in his words, and she did not want to find out what it was.

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