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avvail-whumps · 9 months

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the facility: everything you need to know

the facility is seen as a myth. no one really believes that it’s real. rumours spread that prisoners of war are subjected to horrors you can’t even imagine; body modifying experiments, agony that will make you want think death is a mercy.

captured enemies would soon find out it was all but a myth. and none of them would leave to tell the tale.

01. STRUCTURE

the facility is built nine levels deep into the ground. each level has a different purpose and holds prisoners of war based off their importance and danger.

level nine is the deepest level in the facility. this is where the most dangerous prisoners are kept, one being due to the information that they might have, and/or their threat level. they are constantly monitored by the highest amount of apoids. they require the biggest level of security with no leniency to keep them from breaking free and wrecking havoc.

the higher the level goes from level nine, the tamer the prisoners are. they don’t require as much attention, and usually break easily or don’t simply have lots of information. these lower level prisoners from levels 5-1 are generally treated as guinea pigs and often left in a lobotomised state until they die and are disposed of.

each level has:

a refectory.

sleeping facilities for each type of staff member. these sleeping facilities come with their own bathrooms. in level nine, sleeping facilities are individual.

various torture rooms.

small office for personnel staff.

high security cells to store prisoners of war.

an infirmary.

a laboratory for scientists.

02. STAFF

🖤 APOIDS

these are highly trained soliders that guard the facility. they are required to have a weapon on their person at all times, which will usually consist of an assault rifle that’s loaded to use. apoids are required to follow a strict set of rules.

LEVELS 1-9

talking is strictly prohibited. apoids are used for intimidation and control purposes. they cannot interact with patients, scientists or personnel. this can only be broken during emergency circumstances or if the situation absolutely requires it.

they must hide their identity. this means that apoids cannot be seen without their masks. they are also not allowed to give out their real name, or anything regarding their life above the facility. if this protocol is breached, it’s highly shameful and the apoid is swiftly terminated and replaced.

apoids are on a strict rotation. jobs may include guarding cells, torture rooms, escorting scientists or any kind of staff, as well as containing and treating prisoners with a beating if they misbehave. in order to keep apoids from repeating the same jobs and becoming sloppy, they will be on a strict rotation that allows them to do all of them, as well as have time to rest.

no personal relationships. if apoids are following protocol, then it’s obvious that they cannot fraternise with other staff.

LEVEL 9 ONLY

some apoids are given a personal scientist they are are assigned to. this requires them to shadow them wherever they go, and protect them to the best of their ability. their priority is keeping their scientist safe from harm and making sure they are eating and resting regularly to maintain high-level work.

apoids must be ready and prepared to kill prisoners. in the event of a breakout, apoids are required to kill the escaped prisoner under any means necessary. recapture isn’t an option. other than that, apoids must keep their actions as non-lethal as possible when they need prisoners alive for information.

🩶 PERSONNEL

personnel are small in number but they work “behind the scenes” of the facility. they are in charge of monitoring documents regarding prisoners, identity of apoids and scientists. they complete heavy sums of paperwork that are filed in the event a prisoner dies, and have to use scientists notes to log it into the system based off a number of factors (name, date of death, cause of death etc.)

they help when scientists and apoids are transferred to a new level, giving them a run down of what is expected or which prisoner(s)/personal scientist they’re assigned to, and collect the data after each torture room and experiments committed.

they’re very diligent and keep the facility running as smoothly as possible.

🤍 SCIENTISTS

scientists are the ones who are ordered to concoct new experiments for either themselves (for example, if it’s drug based torture, the scientist will implement the drug themselves into the system via needle, gas, etc.) or for when apoids torture the prisoners, which is more common on level 6-7. lower level prisoners usually don’t require torture, and so the scientists will use them as guinea pigs and testing subjects. trained and ruthless interrogators work on levels 8-9 in order to get the most important information.

scientists also follow a few similar rules to apoids:

talking to the prisoner for any other reason other than what’s needed is strictly prohibited. scientists do not engage their patient in conversation. the only time they talk to the prisoner is when they are asking questions for well-being checkups or if it’s for medical reasons.

they cannot have personal relationships. they cannot fraternise with apoids, personnel or any other staff. although their identity isn’t hidden, it’s not an invitation to talk about personal things.

multiple patients. a scientist on the lower levels may take on more than one prisoner. however, level nine requires a scientist to only have one patient for safety reasons. in the event that a scientist dies, they must be replaced quickly to maintain order and scheduling.

scientists are constantly working on creating things to help with interrogations. whether that be cognitive experiments or enhancing certain things, they’re working in laboratories to help with this. some scientists are more cruel than others.

🩷 HIGHER-UPS

closest source to the government. they feed information from the facility to members in power. they aren’t seen as much, but the often come to check up on the quality of work and assess if something needs changing or have to take control of a certain situation. they have the most authorisation than any other staff member that sets foot in the facility, but they never necessarily get their hands on dirty work.

03. LIVING AND RULES

staff are given facilities in order to eat and sleep down in the facility. they live in the facility and do not leave. they are under contract for ten years, and when that runs out, they either expand their contract for another ten years, or leave the facility. once they leave, they cannot return to the facility. they are under a legal bind not to speak to anybody about the facility. if they do, they are immediately found and killed.

due to living underground, staff are required to eat healthily, sleep regularly, and exercise consistently in order to keep themselves as healthy as possible. they are given supplements and vitamins they cannot get from being underground. most apoids are required to have a military background and be healthy when recruited, so it isn’t difficult for a lot of people to commit to these rules.

internal brawling and fighting is not permitted.

relationships are not permitted.

recreational drug use and alcohol consumption is not permitted.

link to the masterlist

main tag list – @suspicious-whumping-egg @sunshiline-writes @rabidrabidme @whumpatize-me-captain @thegirlwholived1213 @reverie1234 @unforgiven235 @morning-star-whump @seaweed-is-cool

#the facility #everything you need to know ... so far #whump #whump writing #whump prep #whump series #whump fic #whumper #whumpee #caretaker #noah and cash #fionn #whumpblr #writing #avvail whumps #oooooo i'm excited to kickstart this #might need to recuperate for a little bit tho 🥲#dividers by cafekitsune

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max-attack-whumps · 10 months

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Person A who works some kind of high-end IT, or other job, that doesn’t require them to be at work all the time. They get home for the weekend to find B sick with the flu (or something else). They take care of them, getting little to no sleep, during the weekend and for most of the next week. Their boss said they didn’t have to be in until Thursday, and luckily B gets better right before Thursday.

A goes into work on about 2 hours of sleep total from that entire week. It starts as a normal day until there’s some kind of emergency. Whatever the job is, A has to continuously work to neutralize the threat while the others find the source of the problem. (Think like, they have to keep an important system running manually until the others can find what went wrong.)

A works off of nothing but willpower and coffee for the next 30 or so hours. They don’t even register their burning eyes or their cramped body until the job is done. They don’t register much of anything past their exhaustion. Everyone congratulates them on their extremely hard work once the emergency is over. A stands, leaning heavily on their desk as their vision swims, and Person C, their coworker and close friend, also stands to congratulate them. C catches A as they sway into their side.

A doesn’t pass out, exactly—C feels their sluggish blinking against their neck where A’s head is still limply resting. But they’re not moving much and are beyond registering anything going on. They don’t have the energy to move or think at the moment. C asks when they last slept, they can usually take an all-nighter pretty well. A mumbles, “what day is it?” C is only more concerned at their slurred words.

“It’s Friday.”

“Friday”

“Yeah, so when did you last sleep?”

“That’s what I said…” A trails off and C realizes, with horror, that they mean last friday. Cue C shaking A awake as much as they can, either dragging them to a break room couch or some other place to rest, or all the way home, with an incoherent, slightly-warm A barely keeping their feet under themselves. C manages to deposit them onto their bed or wherever. You can decide if A is already asleep by the time their head hits the pillow, or if they don’t sleep until C says something like “It’s okay, you can rest now.”

C probably stays with them to make sure they’re still alive, and they eventually notice the sweat on A’s forehead and the flush to their cheeks…

#I just think that getting sick is inevitable after pushing yourself like that #A’s body said let’s crash this mf so they have to get the rest they need #It’s personal preference though #can you tell i know nothing about technology #this specific scenario was stuck in my head #which is why the days and everything are so specific #whumpee #caretaker #whump scenario #whumpblr #exhaustion #sleep deprivation #fever whump #losergeek writing #whump #left B up to interpretation #but the main focus is on A

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sadcatjae · 1 year

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Whumpee who is actually a conditioned cold-blooded villain and a dangerous obedient weapon, discarded like a broken toy, so they live the rest of their lonesome life in agony and delirium. And Caretaker, who actually wants to survive the encounter with “Whumpee”, but also desperately trying to help and save them 🥺🥺🥺

Ahhh yesyesyesyes so much yes that i actually wrote a thing?????? What the--

Erm and it's awkwardly written and has too much lore but i wrote a thing and I'm very happy that I wrote AT ALL so yay! Thank you for your amazing prompt!! And sorry I didn't respond until now ;u; <;3

Also - I knoooow Kasin is like, caring for someone who literally tried to kill him one second ago, but he's a himbo and a Good Boy (tm) and has no idea if Mercy is legit dying or what sooooooo V_V

CW: Mentions of murder/hanging, PTSD/flashbacks, panic attack, dissociation, scarring, mentions of torture, self harm, knife wounds, dehydration.

“You picked a helluva time to sign up, mulch,” is the first thing Senior Officer Tophel says when they meet.

“How do you figure?” Kasin grins, taking the proffered sword and admiring the Blue Guards’ sigil in the glinting silver hilt.

The older man glances over his new recruit’s perfectly pressed uniform and gives a begrudging nod of approval. “Mercy’s coming to Everlost.”

“Mercy?”

“Ain’t you ever heard of Mercy? The Emperor’s Arbiter and Royal Steward. Apparently he got himself exiled. Though for what, I ain’t privy to. All I know is he’s coming here.” Tophel huffs and shakes his head, fingers twisting the ends of his walrus moustache. “Fact that his head’s not on a pike is no small wonder.”

Kasin twists his mouth to the side as he sheathes his new sword. “What did this Mercy do, to warrant such a gruesome end?”

Tophel sweeps up the loose papers on his desk into a neat pile, his expression one of sheer disdain. “No-one visited by Mercy is left intact. That’s all you have to know. Just keep out of his way and if you can’t - aim to kill, because there won’t be anything left by the time he’s done with you.”

The younger man frowns, uncertain how much one civilian can do against an armed guard. Then again, bluebloods in the Imperial City are known to be well versed in combat, having the best training from a young age. Maybe Kasin should err on the side of caution. Just this once.

“I assume you’re telling me about this man for a reason,” Kasin says, raising a brow.

“Looks like we have ourselves a mulch with brains,” Tophel scoffs, sticking his pipe into the corner of his mouth. “It’s what the Captain wants. A simple assignment to watch over our newest resident. No contact, no interference. Just watch. You’ll be on a rotating twelve hour shift with Dazer and you’ll both be assessed for other duties in a month. Any questions, mulch?”

“Why ‘mulch’?” Kasin isn’t stupid, but he asks anyway. Tophel’s greying at his temples. He’s sun weathered and rigid; got a mean, stubborn lock to his jaw. He doesn’t look like he enjoys challenging the status quo - so it’s probably best if Kasin plays his part.

“It’s what you’re gonna be by summer’s end. If you don’t like it, then prove me wrong. Anything else?”

“Am I to disguise myself while on assignment?”

Tophel smiles around his pipe, but it’s more like a leer. “No. Captain wants you in full uniform and full view at all times.”

Mercy’s place of residence could only be described as a hovel. It’s a shack on the edge of the forest, with swathes of spoiled land on either side. The nearest neighbour is the Sudbury Farm to the east and the dumping grounds to the west. The trees here grow black and twisted. By all rights, they shouldn’t be growing at all - but the roots have stubbornly taken hold of the arid land and the branches contort upwards, greedily drinking in every drop of rain and glimmer of sun to feed their wasted bodies.

The biggest and ugliest of these trees grows in front of Mercy’s shack, not thirty feet away. This is where Kasin stations himself, standing in his sky blue uniform, just under the gnarled black branches. He stands out in this desolate landscape, like a vibrant drop of paint on a blank white canvas. The restless movement in the dust-caked windows attests to his bold presence.

Mercy is nervous. Aware. He peeks out the window every few minutes, but never lingers long enough for Kasin to get a proper look.

Mercy is just a flitting shadow. No more than a ghost.

It’s like this for three days. From morning to dusk, Kasin stands under that black tree, dutifully watching those grimy windows. Nervous shadows and obscured motions greet him like clockwork. And then Dazer, the other new recruit, shambles up (long past dusk) to take his shift.

On the fourth day, he arrives to an angry crowd of civilians swarming Dazer with a variety of makeshift weapons in hand.

“We want him gone, Dazer!” One of them shakes his pitchfork at the hassled guard. “I know in my gut that he’s the one stealing my chickens and cured meats!”

Dazer laughs nervously and pats the air. “Now, now, Mister Sudbury. I don’t have any say in his stayin’ or leavin’–”

“I caught him going through my trash!” another shrills, red-faced like her equally enraged comrades. “I don’t care if he’s a toff from the Imperial City, I want him out of my town!”

“Miss Daisy, going through trash isn’t technically against the law–”

“Oh, Jim's told me all about that ghastly beast you're defending. He's killed hundreds of innocent people to sate his perverse cravings, and hides behind His Majesty's goodwill."

Another voice shrieks, "He’s a demon that wears the skin of man!”

The crowd surges in volume and fury, inundating poor Dazer until Kasin finally reaches his side. The townsfolk pause for a moment, recognising this young man who has, in his twenty-five years, garnered a strong reputation in Everlost as a reliable, kind, and moral character.

“If anyone has grievances to be heard, please send a missive to Captain Locke,” Kasin announces over the discontented grumble. “Dazer and I have been ordered to keep watch of the situation. You can be rest assured that nothing will elude our attention - so please. Return to your fields and businesses and homes. Should there be any cause for concern, you will be informed.”

For a moment, Kasin’s reassurances seem to have worked. The townsfolk relax, their makeshift weapons drop to their sides, and they consider his words. But then Sudbury, always the inciter, raises his pitchfork and bullrushes the shack, hollering, “DEATH TO THE DEMON OF MIDOTHAL!”

Two other burly men split off from the re-ignited crowd, following Sudbury to the front door. Before Kasin can even react, they’ve kicked down the flimsy wood and dragged out a hooded figure from the gloomy interior.

One word comes to Kasin’s mind when he lays eyes upon the fearsome Mercy for the very first time.

Fragile.

The figure enshrouded by a tattered grey cloak isn’t by any means frail. In fact, they are imposingly tall and there is evidence of a wiry, athletic figure. However, Mercy stands stooped over like his crooked black trees, hooded head cast down, and his limbs shaking as though it were mid-winter instead of summer.

His bare feet, filthy and as grey as his cloak, stumble every second step. Kasin suspects that if he weren’t being dragged by Sudbury’s men, he would have collapsed not one foot out the door.

Kasin yanks his sheathed sword free from his belt and rushes to Mercy’s side. The latter’s thrown to the dirt, crumpled and silent.

“Stand down Powle, Richard, Bolt.” The young guard points his sheathed sword at the three men in turn. His oaken stare, intense and penetrating. Something in his eyes has them hesitating, their righteous anger withering to dust. “While we may know each other as well as family, I will not hesitate to arrest you should you enact your own justice. This is a land of law. Which means we abide by the law and entrust the administration of justice by the court of law. As a citizen of Everlost, this is the contract you have agreed to.” Kasin pauses, gaze sharpening. “Do you agree?”

The three men exchange wary glances and begrudgingly respond.

“Aye.”

“Yes.”

“I s’pose it is.”

“Very well,” Kasin says, his stern expression relaxing. Though he does smile, his gaze remain severe. “It is not our place to question His Majesty’s decision to exile this man to our humble town. Nor is it our place to judge this man. Return to your lives and invest your concerns in your own matters. In this drought, there will be many, I’m sure.”

He doesn’t lower his sword until the last fires of outrage are doused. Only reluctant acquiescence remains, and eventually, the crowd disperses in terse clumps. Sudbury and his men are the last to leave, and they don’t do so without parting words. Words that promise later retribution.

“I better report this to Tophel,” Dazer sighs, wiping sweat from his brow. “Thanks for saving my ass, Kasin. I really thought I’d have run old Daisy through for a moment there.”

Kasin sends him a wry smile. “I think she would have run you through first.”

“Eh. You’re probably right.”

Kasin watches Dazer set off in a trot up the dirt road before turning his attention to Mercy.

The hooded figure picks himself up unsteadily, legs quaking from the effort. Now that they are alone, Mercy finally raises his head. There’s a glimmer of pale skin and well defined features - a sharp jawline sweeping into the shadow of the hood, and a pair of cracked, bloodless lips pressed into a tight grimace. Odd marks mar the pallid skin, but it’s difficult to tell from this distance.

Kasin, who had always considered himself to be quite tall, feels a little intimidated by the other’s imposing height. Mercy must stand at least a foot above, and the young guard has to angle his head back a tad to address him.

“Mister Mercy, I presume?” Kasin says, politely. “I must apologise. They aren’t normally this…angry. They are all good people, truly. I promise you this was an anomalous event that will never happen again. You are safe here. I will ensure it.”

Mercy’s lips twitch into a faint sneer. “How.” His voice is hoarse, grating, as though unused for many months.

The guard blinks. “I am an officer of the Blue Guards. It is my duty to ensure your safety as a resident of Everlost. And - as you are well aware by now - I have been ordered to keep watch over you. Along with Officer Dazer. Between the two of us, we will prevent any future aggressions.”

Mercy is silent for a time. Kasin has the distinct feeling that he’s being stared at. So he stares into the shade of the hood, directly where he assumes the other’s eyes are.

Eventually, Mercy turns his head to the side. “You are not watching me for my safety,” he says, impassively.

“I don’t know my Captain’s intent,” Kasin says, evenly. “But I can tell you that I care for the wellbeing of all townsfolk. Exiled or not.” There’s a teasing lilt to the last three words which seems to agitate the other man.

Without another word, Mercy unsteadily returns to his shack. Kasin slips his sheathed sword back into his belt, uncertain whether to follow him or not. His decision is made for him when Mercy trips over the broken pieces of his door and staggers into something with a tremendous crash.

Mercy seethes and kicks the broken cot into the wall. And just like that, he’s lost his bed. His cot was the only comfort he’d bought for himself with the little coin he’d had left. And now it’s gone.

Just like everything else.

‘Exile’ means being exiled in all sense of the word. Meaning, he was exiled not only from his home, his work, his title, but also his land and wealth. Whatever coin he’d had on his person when he was informed of his new status, is all he was allowed to carry into his next life.

The ex-Arbiter clutches his throbbing leg, allowing himself a moment of weakness, before Kasin appears in his doorway like an irritating gnat. He straightens up, every muscle tensing as his abode is so rudely trespassed.

“Ah…your door…” The guard crouches down and picks up a large piece of broken wood. He gives Mercy a guileless smile. “Sorry about that. I’m a pretty good carpenter if you’d like me to fix it up for you.”

“Leave,” is all Mercy can spit out. His heart’s pounding near out of his chest and his hands are shaking, shaking, because this creature is in his house. He’s touching his things. He’s talking to him. He’s smiling, smiling like Mercy’s just another person, just another townsfolk who has a face and a future.

But Kasin isn’t listening. He’s walking further into his house, looking at his meagre possessions, casually commenting on the state of his broken furniture. “I can fix this too - no problem. But is this cot big enough for you? With your height, I’d imagine it’s quite a squeeze every night. Maybe I could extend the end a bit, so that you can stretch out? I have a lot wood back home that’s going to waste. And there’ll be no charge - consider it compensation for today–”

Mercy feels it. The Hollow. It slithers in like a snake, starving for prey, and sending venom straight into his veins. It unfurls, uncoils, until he’s no longer in possession of himself. There’s only the Hollow that knows only consumption. He loses himself to blissful domination and there’s its voice, its cloying voice, which commands him to do what he does best.

The broken halves of the cot drop to his feet in a clatter. Kasin freezes. Hands gone numb. His eyes staring blindly at the swollen, mouldy wall in front of him.

The sharp prick in his back is unmistakable.

“What are you doing, Mister Mercy?” He keeps his tone calm, friendly even, but his insides tumble about like loose rocks.

The prick turns to real pain. He feels his skin snap and flesh give. Blood wells. It’s only an inch, but it’s enough to make Mercy’s intent clear.

“Mister Mercy? Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes.”

Kasin feels a chill run down his spine. That voice is void of emotion. Near inhuman. Is this man really a killer?

“Ah. I apologise. I tend to speak without thinking. It’s a terrible habit, really. Can’t seem to shake it. Look, I'll apologise properly, but you'll need to lower your weapon. Can you do that for me, Mister Mercy?”

“No.”

Kasin’s heart sinks. He pulls in a shallow breath. Tries again. “I understand. You wish to protect yourself, but you must know that I mean you no harm–”

There’s a steely grip on his shoulder which tightens and jerks him around. It plants a blow on his chest, sending him staggering back into the wall. The cot cracks and splinters further under his clumsy feet.

A dagger of beautiful yet simplistic design, pokes a new shallow hole in his stomach. He winces but maintains his smile. Even when he finally lays eyes on Mercy’s face.

The hood must have fallen away at some point, for the mien before him is exposed to his scrutiny. Mercy’s features are sharp and handsome - his eyes shaped like petals, delicate and soft, if not for the flint-like coldness they hold. Not a flicker of recognisable emotion or thought can be seen in these callous eyes, and unlike his name, they speak of no mercy.

Black, greasy hair, matted with dirt and perhaps dried blood, gathers upon his shoulders, overgrown and impossibly tangled. But the most striking feature of Mercy’s visage are the heavy scores etched deep into his flesh.

At first, they appear to be freshly scarred wounds from random slashes of a knife. Reminisce of a clawed attack from a bear. But then, as eyes adjust, one can see a single word taking shape - carved into the entirety of Mercy’s face, from forehead to jaw, in big vicious letters: AMOS.

Amos. As in, Crown Prince Amos, the Emperor’s eldest son.

Bile surges up Kasin’s gullet which he swallows with difficulty. As frightened he is of the knife sticking into his gut, he’s also greatly pained by the man’s scars. What kind of torture had Mercy been subjected to? Kasin suspects that there’s more to see beyond those cruel letters.

A part of him is in disbelief. The Crown Prince is known for his heroic and generous deeds. Many espouse his virtues and compare him to his father, Emperor Midothal who ends wars without ever raising his sword. After all, isn’t Mercy’s exile proof of his forgiving nature? If Mercy is truly a deviant, indulging in his wicked appetite behind the docile mask of Midothal’s loyal Arbiter and Steward, then he by all rights should be sentenced to death. However, His Majesty had instead chosen to spare Mercy’s life and exile him instead. Why would he do such a thing, if he was the type of man to allow this torture?

Kasin licks his dry lips, nervously. Never mind all that, he thinks. There’s a knife pointed at his stomach - that should take first priority. “Mister Mercy,” he begins, slowly, amicably. “I can see that you are not quite yourself. Perhaps a conversation between friends could ease your burdens? How about a shared meal? There's a tavern close by that does a wonderful meat pie. Come, friend. There need be no bloodshed today.”

The taller man simply stares at him, hollow eyed, detached. His shaking has dissipated entirely. And his stance is lean and centered. Kasin knows that whoever this is, it’s not the same man from moments ago.

There’s no getting out of this. Not with words alone.

Kasin lets his training kick in. In one fast motion, he simultaneously grabs the blade and Mercy’s wrist, and twists the latter to a painful degree. The knife, he wrenches free and tosses to the side.

There’s no reaction to the sprained wrist. Mercy whips into action, attacking the guard with a flurry of perfectly executed blows. Kasin meets them with his own, and they fight like this for many minutes, neither tiring or relenting to the other. Not once does Kasin pull his sword. It’s not his intention to kill this man after all - despite Tophel’s warning.

Finally, Mercy sweeps Kasin’s legs from under him and pins him to the ground with his foot, pushing his weight into that single crushing point. His other foot pins down the guard’s right hand, preventing him from going for his sword.

Kasin groans and chokes, agony spreading through his upper trunk like spilled lava. “Mer…cy…!” He’s not sure if he’s asking for mercy or calling his name, but it’s fruitless either way.

The man simply isn’t here.

Kasin flails. He strikes. He yanks and pulls and kicks. But Mercy’s like a steel column, unyielding, unmoving.

With every compounding inch of pressure upon Kasin’s chest, the less air he’s able to suck in. His vision begins to darken around the edges. His ribs are on the verge of snapping. He knows he has only a few precious seconds of consciousness left. If he doesn’t do anything - he will die.

So as he squints up at the stony, impassive face looming overhead - he takes one final shot in the dark. “A…mos..!”

The pressure stops. A sliver of air seeps through.

He squeezes the word out again. “Amos–!”

Suddenly, as though struck by a powerful force, Mercy violently recoils. His body crashes into the wall, causing the entire structure to judder. Clawed hands desperately scrabble at his hood, attempting to cover his head - or rather, his face.

Kasin raises himself upright, clutching his aching chest and gasping for air. He feels the creeping fingers of regret upon seeing Mercy’s powerful reaction, but for now, he’s alive - and regret momentarily takes a backseat.

Amos.

Mercy clutches the side of his head, dragging the hood further down. Darkness sweeps him up into its comforting embrace - but he’s yet to feel at all assured.

Pants seep through clenched teeth as he slams his head into the wall, trying to knock the scattered fragments of his mind back into place. The swirling, discordant noise knocks him askew. He’s both here and there and nowhere at all, and it takes every shred of his cognisance to keep from falling apart.

Amos burns.

It burns like he’s sinking into him again. Like he’s back in that place, that dark and enduring place, and he bites down on his hand to keep from crying out. This pain is real. Grounding. But the burn is soul-deep. Impossible to ignore.

“Mister Mercy?”

A voice. Firm. Concerned. It reminds him of the dusk.

“Leave.” He’s enough mind to utter a single word. Not a demand. Not a suggestion. A plea.

Please. Please leave. Leave so I can stop fighting. Leave so I can rest.

“Please.” Another plea. Not his own. “Please, Mister Mercy. Tell me what ails you. Is there anything I can do? Are you in pain?”

“Leave–!” The word cracks midway. Wavers. Mercy claws at the wall, smashes himself into it like he can phase right through. He’s shaking now, and chilled right to the bone despite the summer heat. He can smell metal. Copper. His face burns.

Amos burns.

“Mercy. Tell me what’s wrong.” There’s a hand now, touching his face. Gentle fingers pushing his matted hair to the side. Sunlight sneaks in as his hood’s nudged back. He panics.

He’s touching him. He’s pulling off his hood. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here–

Mercy scrambles to his feet, holding onto the wall for support. He holds out a trembling hand, ready to shove Kasin away should he venture too close. But the guard keeps his distance.

Mercy pants through his panic, his eyes wild and face a shock-white. The world spins, lurches, and his legs buckle and bow. The noise reaches an agonising crescendo, drowning out every scattered thought in his brain.

Kasin steps forward, reaching out, alarmed. This time, Mercy relinquishes. He accepts. He exchanges the wall for the guard and collapses into his sturdy arms. All sense of self-preservation dissipates. He’s purely in survival mode. There’s desperation for an end to this suffering, this chaos, like a primal keen.

Amos burns.

Kasin lowers him to the ground and kneels beside him, keeping a firm grasp of his upper arms. “Keep still. Don’t try to move. Here, have some water.”

A flask’s brought to his lips, but he can’t do more than wet his cracked lips. He’s breathing too hard, too fast, rocking in the guard’s arms like he’s trying to escape his own skin - but he can’t, he’s trapped, so he just rocks.

And all the while, his face burns.

Kasin presses his palm against Mercy’s forehead. It’s a light touch but the latter flinches like he’s been scorched.

“Sorry, sorry–” the guard hastily apologises. “But you’re hot, like you’ve a fever, and you're not sweating. When’s the last time you drank water?”

“Burns…” Mercy rasps, on the edge of delirium.

“What does?”

“Amos…Amos burns…”

Somewhere far away, or maybe not far at all, Mercy hears the trickle of water. Murmured words, not quite for his ears. And then a cool, damp cloth pressed gently upon his forehead. The burn lulls. Subsides. The damp cloth dabs across his brow, to his left temple, down his cheek. In the wake of Kasin’s ministrative touch, Mercy - impossibly - finds relief.

His panicked breath slows, lightens. The noise quietens in his head. Mercy sits there, eyes closed, swaying and trembling, as the young guard, this stranger, dabs his burning wounds. These ugly, jagged scars that laid waste to his flesh. Like a soothing rain dousing the blazing, destructive wildfire, Mercy finds a kind of peace in that touch.

Another’s touch is never good. But this touch…this touch is good.

An anomalous event that will never happen again.

When Mercy finally comes to, Kasin has once more doused the cloth - his handkerchief - with water from his flask. The guard’s propped Mercy against the wall to free his hands, and he’s crouched before him, brows furrowed deeply in concern.

Kasin raises the handkerchief to Mercy’s temple, and stills. Oaken eyes, swirling with deep, unfathomable emotion, lock onto a hazy coal-black stare.

“Mercy? Have you returned to your senses?”

Mercy feels drained. Hollowed out like a gutted animal carcass. He wants nothing more than to curl up on his - broken - cot and sleep the day out of existence.

He grabs Kasin’s wrist and yanks it from his face. The guard loses his balance and falls onto his rear.

“Don’t touch me,” Mercy croaks. Should this guard return with a platoon to have him hanged, then so be it. He’s tired of fighting. “I need…” Mercy pauses. Shivers. He feels raw. Weak. And in truth, he is. It only took a single touch to draw out the Hollow. And a single word to break him. “I need you to leave.”

For once, the young guard doesn’t protest. He simply nods, climbs to his feet, and brushes himself off. He leaves his flask and handkerchief on the only standing piece of furniture in the shack - a rickety table salvaged from the dumping ground.

“Try to drink some water,” Kasin says, quietly. “I’ll be outside, keeping watch, so call out if you need anything. I'll...keep your dagger safe. For the moment. A fair exchange, I think, for almost taking my life.” He turns to leave. A pause in the doorway. “I am sorry about what I said. I shouldn't have...I didn't realise you would--" He bites his tongue. Smiles tightly. "I’ll fix you a new door and bring it by tomorrow.” And then he’s gone, off to take up his usual post under the gnarled black tree, with the dagger tucked securely in his belt.

Mercy doesn’t move. He just stares at the naked doorway, lost in the memory of another doorless cell, and the utter incomprehension of simply leaving.

Part 2

#whump #whump writing #whump prompt #villain whump #hero caretaker #villain whumpee #hero x villain #psychological conditioning #mercy is short for mercury btw #kasin doesnt know anything about trauma or panic attacks or mental health things #all he knows is how to fix doors and water the exiled assassin #lord help us all #likely be another part but only after ive updated everything else lol #its 4am so there will be many mistakes #asksadcatjae

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rainbowsandwhumperflies · 5 months

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tw for vomit and tooth whump

Apparently your teeth are kinda easy to erode? If you've never heard of "mountain dew teeth" it's when you drink too much mountain dew and even if you brush teeth really well, your teeth just start wearing away.

Anyway, this can also happen if you have bad acid reflux, or if you vomit a lot. This is because your stomach acid is pretty acidic and will literally wear away your bones if it comes up too much. (mt dew is also pretty acidic, and more common)

So yeah. Does your whumpee get access to the right quality of food? (Different types of food can affect acid reflux a lot. Frequent vomiting is a whole other problem.) And the right quality of dental care?

#i'm actually a huge nerd about this #i had a dentist appointment recently and they absolutely terrify me so i had to learn everything i could about it before going #but one of the things i didn't learn until i was there was acid reflux!#which apparently i have. pretty bad. i didn't even know but my dentist took one look at my teeth and was like 'do you have digestive issues #so yeah. there's that #rainbow's whump #whump #whump writing #whumpee #rainbow's prompts #whump prompt #whump scenario #also listen istg i will post drabbles soon instead of uncoordinated thoughts #i actually have real edited oc content coming at some point! just gotta get brain energy to type it

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sunshiline-writes · 7 months

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A Rose Amidst Thorns #7: Anger Arrives

Oh boy, this chapter is ROUGH. PLEASE HEED WARNINGS THAT I POST BC THIS IS A WILD ONE. -- Miguel finishes his punishment and Solomon stands up to Xavier after seeing what has been made of his ward. CW: Whumper POV, deaf whumpee, defiant whumpee, ableist language, suggestive comments and actions but nothing super sexual actually happens, broken bones, nailed to the wall, removing nails from hands, Xavier being a CREEP, sadistic whumper, intimate whumper, threats, fingerfucking a hand hole (I am so sorry), whumpee is referred to as a kid but is an adult, dissassociation, blink and you miss it mention of disordered eating, Xavier doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself, uhhhh I think that's it.. but like... let me know if I missed anything -- Previous | Masterlist | Next

Xavier was not one to stay angry for very long. He released his anger once and it was done. This time however, he’d been holding onto the anger for a long time. Three years against Miguel, against Henrietta. It festered and bubbled and destroyed him. Now he would destroy them from the bottom of their souls, break them up, and then put them back together again. Xavier loved putting people back together. Molding them, shaping them. Humans were so malleable once they were broken down to their core functions.

Lately it seemed though, that Miguel was constantly needing to be broken down, shapened, and broken down again. Miguel was someone who took a little more finesse than what he was used to. Perhaps it was because he started young. Or perhaps it was because Miguel was just that stubborn. Whatever the case, it made Xavier’s blood boil.

When he made his way back into the barn, the anger was still there. Xavier walked directly up to the boy and sighed, taking in the sight. Blood ran down his arms, dripping from his elbows. His white undershirt was soaked in blood and covered in dirt. Every muscle in his body was wound tightly. He was still on the tips of his toes, trying not to hang from the nails in his hands, his calves shaking. Sweat dripped down the sides of his face. It was his hands though, they looked the worst. His right one, the one he had broken, was swollen, purple and misshapen. It was so swollen he almost couldn’t see where the nail had been embedded in the middle of his hand. Xavier smiled to himself, admitting that he admired his handiwork. Miguel’s head rested on the harsh wood, the bridle still in his mouth, teeth clenched down on it. A good distraction, Xavier assumed, from the pain of everywhere else.

Slowly, he ran a hand over the bit, halfway in his mouth, pressing a finger against his tongue, this caused Miguel to open his eyes, breathing hitching. His eyes were cloudy with pain. Xavier pressed down harder on Miguel's tongue, just to see him squirm before retreating his hand. Miguel dipped his head low, staring at his boots.

Xavier watched him. An old memory of when he first met the boy flashed in his mind. Scared and hiding behind his father, having to be dragged away kicking and screaming from his family. It didn’t matter. Fighting never got him anywhere. Another memory of the boy holding the gun, pointed straight at him. Xavier wasn’t afraid then, but the anger flashed hot in his stomach now. The kid had always been a pain.

Reaching out, Xavier wrapped a hand around Miguel's throat, forcing Miguel's head up, grinning from ear to ear. The boy looked up at him. He was met not with pain or even a blank expression like Xavier had originally suspected. Instead he was met with an icy glare. A smile tugged at the corner of Xavier’s lips.

“Do you hate me Miguel?” he asked, enunciating, speaking slowly so he could read.

Miguel’s glare faded and he gritted his teeth on the metal bit in his mouth, the sound vibrating through the boy's throat and Xavier laughed. Pressing his head against Miguels forehead. The boy winced as he pressed his head farther into the wall behind him trying to get away. But he couldn’t get away. There was nowhere to go. His family was gone and no one wanted a defective person working for them. Xavier didn’t want him at first. But after the first time that the boy pointed a gun at him, Xavier knew that breaking him would be a fight well earned. It had been fun and interesting to see what broke the boy down, slowly, bit by bit. Sometimes it was successful, other times less so.

This was one of those times that it was a strange mix of the two. Xavier gave Miguels throat a little squeeze. “I asked a question..” he said, stepping back slightly.

Miguel nodded his head slightly, movement restricted by the bridle.

“Oh Miguel.. You don’t have to lie. I saw the way you looked at me. You don’t hate me, you fear me.” Miguel’s eyes were wide, tears starting to stream down his face. “I like you like this. Afraid, in pain, you’re so much less of a problem like this,” a choked sob came from the boy beneath him. Miguel shook his head and closed his eyes. Xavier could hear the way Miguel’s teeth grinded against the metal in his mouth. His grin widened. It was like hearing a real horse chew on the bit. The thought amused him.

Xavier squeezed again, a choking sound came from the boy but he still didn’t open his eyes. Stubborn mule. His hand retreated from his throat and instead went to his back pocket where the bandana hung loosely. He took it out. It was annoying how much he fought him. Fought what was about to happen, as if he could stop it. Well, if he wasn’t going to open his eyes to listen to him, he didn’t need them right now anyway. Xavier had thought about it before, permanently blinding Miguel, but always decided against it. There was no use in keeping around a blind and deaf person, not unless they wanted what was an equivalent to a corpse stumbling around. The blindfold usually did the job anyway.

Instead his palm connected with Miguel’s face, the slap loud but not nearly enough to make a lasting mark. However, it was enough for Miguel to open his eyes with a groan as he slipped and hung by the nails in his hands for a second. Another whimper escaped him and Xavier grinned.

“If you won’t look at me, if you won’t listen, I think you deserve the blindfold,” he stated simply. Dangling the blindfold in front of Miguels face, who was now breathing more heavily than before and shaking harder. He could almost see how he normally responded, the index and middle finger pressing onto the thumb. The simple ‘no’ sign. It was the first sign he ever learned. The first word he saw Miguel speak to his parents. “Shhhh,” he cooed, starting to wrap the black bandana around his eyes, tighter than he assumed was comfortable, and tied it around the back of his head, the knot tangling in his hair. It wasn’t about his comfort anyway, he ignored the way his stomach dropped at the way Miguel whimpered and shifted his stance slightly. Scared and unable to guage his surroundings. It was his favorite punishment for Miguel at times. It happened less often now. But he always loved the way his body tensed and he strained to understand what was happening to him. The stress of not knowing what was happening, it was exhausting to Miguel. Made his light go out faster. It was why it was a favorite of Xaviers. It was also the fact that Miguel just looked so good blindfolded and shaking like this. He trailed his fingers up Miguels Adams apple, pressing into the soft flesh under his jaw. Xavier dragged his fingers up to the side of his jaw and traced the outline of it. Cupping the boy's cheek, he kissed his forehead again. Sighing softly. “I’ll take you down now. Just a few more things..” he whispered, he knew that the boy could not hear him, couldn’t even tell that he was talking, but sometimes talking outloud helped with the thought process. Xavier left for a moment to grab the hammer. He thought for a moment about hitting his broken hand again with it, but at the look of it, it did not need to be more broken. It would be hard enough dealing with it the way it was.

It was hard to find where the nail had gone in, the hand was so swollen. But he found the area quickly and with an amount of gentleness that surprised himself, he used the claw of the hammer to pry the nail out. Miguel screamed as the nail left his hand and it was left dangling by the cuff Xavier had put on earlier. The boy groaned and shuddered lightly as he used the claw to pull the nail from his other hand. Then he let the boy hang from the cuffs.

Miguel was sobbing, barely holding himself up, head bowed. Xavier stared at him, just watching for a moment. How sad it was, that the boy had been reduced to this sobbing, whimpering thing. When he had first arrived at the ranch, he was all fire and all bite. Now he was a good little dog, hanging by broken hands. He took the boy down from the nails on the wall, positioning him on the floor.

“Good, good, you’re so good for me Miguel,” he cooed gently, running a hand in his hair as the man beneath him withered on the ground. He took a deep breath and pressed his forehead against Miguels, kissing the tip of his nose. Pulling back, smiling at the thing below him. That is, until he was hit with a sudden wetness on his cheek. Did he just.. spit on him?

“What the fuck?” He wiped the wetness off his cheek, looking down at the smiling expression on Miguel. “You never learn do you? Never. Fucking. Learn.” Every word was punctuated by Xavier forcing his hands above his head, straddling him, and then panting. “I give you clothes, shelter, a job. I make you fucking useful, and you still never learn. You’ll never learn. I should really just kill you. It would be a load off my mind. But..” one of his hands that held onto Miguels wrists, let it go, his other hand still held firm. With his free hand, he pressed a finger into the hole in the hand that wasn’t broken. The one that he could still hurt. “Does this hurt Miguel?” Miguel opened his mouth and the bit was pressed further into his mouth, making him choke. Xavier pressed his finger deeper in and finally, he heard what he wanted to hear as Miguel screamed again, choking on air. Coughing and sputtering on his own spit. Xavier pressed harder into the wound, slick with blood, now he was so deep into his hand that he couldn’t see his first knuckle. Still he pressed harder and further, until he could feel the dirt on the other side of his hand and he stopped when his second knuckle disappeared into the wound. He marveled that Miguel was even still awake. But he was kicking and screaming under him. Miguels knee slammed into Xavier’s back slightly and that only made Xavier angrier. His finger curled into the wound and he pulled slightly, feeling bone and tendons shift. There was a certain giddiness that he felt over it. Miguels hand clenched and he turned his face, screaming again.

The boy would not stop screaming. That didn’t bother Xavier, not really, it was what he wanted. There was a point after Xavier pulled his finger back and then pushed back in that Miguel stopped screaming. Instead opting to groan and sob quietly. Yes.. yes he was getting it now. The silence that Xavier often asked for. He was so close to being good again for him. He pulled his finger out so only the tip of it rested against the wound, then plunged it back in, curling it again.

“This is different from what I usually do. I think the difference is welcome though,” he said with a laugh. Then he continued to finger the wound, still not satisfied as the boy eventually stopped groaning and the only sound that came from him were quiet whimpers. Too weak to even try to fight back. Even Xavier was panting by the time he even thought about retracting his finger. He curled and pulled at the wound, widening the hole slightly, one last time before he looked up.

“What are you.. doing?” Solomon asked, voice tense, expression hard.

“Having a little fun,” Xavier responded cooly, despite the cold shiver that went down his spine. The anger that radiated off Solomon could be felt throughout the barn. It was thick in the air.

“You’re done now,” Solomon said, it was not a request. He was telling him that he was done.

“I am now?”

“Yes, you are. Uncuff him, take that bridle off and get your damn finger out of his wound. You’re going to cause an infection.”

Xavier sat there for a moment longer before licking his lips. He did follow the orders from Solomon though, retracting the finger and uncuffing the boy. Then he removed the blindfold and the horse bit. The boy was panting under him, eyes closed still and face stained with tears. Xavier gently stroked his face, tapping his eyelid gently.

When Miguel opened his eyes, his expression was different. Good that was exactly what he wanted. His eyes were full of pain and of fear. “Good. You did good,” and when Xavier kissed his forehead one more time, Miguel did not flinch. Then he stood up, using the bandana that was damp with tears to wipe the blood from his hands. “All yours Solomon,” he said to the man with a smirk.

*** Solomon was not an angry man. Not usually. But at the moment, it wouldn’t take much for him to snap Xavier’s neck in two. Especially after that smirk. It was the smirk that made him see red. He clenched his fists, clenched his teeth and waited for Xavier to pass him and leave the barn before he rushed to Miguel.

Gently he picked up the boys torso and held the limp body close. “You’re okay Miguel. You’re okay. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispered softly, taking the boy's hands, covered in blood and grime. He looked them over. Purple, red, swollen. It was awful. He’d seen worse, but his right hand was something that he could never repair wholly. There was a chance that Miguel would lose all feeling in that hand alone. His left hand had a hole through it that would have “Oh god,” he whispered. Solomon shook his head and gently looked at the boy's face, he seemed to be staring far away. Not even registering Solomon's appearance, or the fact that Xavier had left.

“Miguel, look at me. You have to look at me,” he said to him, gently cupping his cheek and moving his face so that he looked at him. If Solomon didn’t know better, he would have guessed that the boy was dead. But he was still breathing. He blinked at him slowly and tears came to his eyes again. “There you are. You’re safe. You’re safe..”

Then Miguel was sobbing, curling into Solomon's chest, hands unmoving. He buried his face into Solomon's shirt, in the space between his shoulder and chest. “Shhh.. Shhh,” he begged quietly, one hand holding Miguel's head for support. Miguel pulled his face away, eyes glazed with pain. Hands twitching. “No no… don’t try to move them. I have to carry you now okay?” Solomon told him, the hand on the back of his head slid to his back, and his other arm cradling Miguel's knees. Then he lifted, staggering to his feet.

Miguel was surprisingly light and Solomon made a mental note that after he gave the morphine, he’d make Miguel eat something. Miguel cried out when his hands shifted onto his stomach, curling tighter. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” As he walked to the house, Solomon thought of Henrietta. He wanted to blame her. It would be so easy too. But blame never did anyone any good. The only blame that was deserved was Xaviers. He was the one that hurt them, he was the one that threatened them all into compliance, hurt them when they didn’t abide. It was all his fault. Every single piece of this was his fault. Solomon glanced down at Miguel who’s eyes were closed, his body was trembling.

Miguel was going to need a splint, antibiotics, pain control.. There was so much that Miguel needed right now. Solomon couldn’t possibly do everything all at once. Or maybe he could. If he could get the morphine at just the right dose to let him fall asleep… Yes that was what he would start with. The morphine.

Solomon walked up the steps of the house, walking through the open door. Then he immediately took Miguel to his room. Solomon’s room was small, only a bed, dresser and bed stand was in it. He never saw a reason to add anything else. He laid Miguel into the bed, letting Miguel curl in on himself for the moment. While Miguel made himself comfortable, Solomon grabbed his medical bag under the bed. Shuffling through it for a moment, he grabbed the morphine bottle and the needle he needed. He filled it to what he thought was sufficient enough, and he didn’t tell Miguel when he injected the needle into his shoulder. He just did so, stroking his hair until Miguel's breathing evened out and he stopped trembling.

“Will he be okay?” came the voice from the doorway as Solomon manuevered Miguel to lay on his back as gently as possible.

“Leave,” Solomon said, gently taking Miguel’s hands in his. “Now.”

“You’re in a mood right now so I'll let that go..” Xavier said, leaning against the doorway. “It was a simple question.” “No. He is not okay. You took his hands,” Solomon said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. From Xavier’s smirk, he wasn’t doing a very good job at that.

“So?”

“So, he can’t..” Solomon almost said communicate but that wouldn’t prove anything to Xavier. In fact, Xavier would probably laugh at that. Solomon could hear the snarky comment about how Miguel didn’t talk anyway. He didn’t need to communicate to work. All things he’d said before. So instead he tried a different route, “he can’t work. You destroyed his hands and he can’t work for the foreseeable future. He can’t grab the saddles or the leads for the horses. Let alone carry things with these hands for months at the very least.” As he spoke, Solomon cleaned out the wounds, disinfecting them with care so he didn’t cause so much pain as to wake the sleeping figure on the bed. “You put him out of commission as your saddle boy,” Solomon finished. Glancing up at Xavier. Xavier seemed to be contemplating his words for a moment, expression pensive, before it warped into a grin. “He has other uses.”

“No,” came the automatic reply.

Xavier let out a snort. “Get your mind out of the mud Solomon. I was going to suggest simple house work.”

“You’re disgusting,” Solomon said, returning his attention to Miguel’s hand as he set up the splint. Every touch of the boy's right hand made Miguel whimper and groan in his sleep. Pain shot through Solomon's chest and he shoved it down. He could deal with that later. He could try and understand this later. For now he had to focus on the here and now. Like right now, there was a new tension in the room. Xavier pushed himself from leaning against the doorframe. “Watch your words Solomon. I never had to hurt you before, don’t give me a reason to do so now. I know plenty of ways to hurt you without rendering you unable to do your job.”

Solomon finished the splint, gently placing Miguel’s hand down on the bed. Then he stood from his chair and stood up looking Xavier in the eye. “Here is what is going to happen. I don’t want you or Jesse touching him until I say. He needs to heal and if you or Jesse slow down that progress I will do unspeakable things. I am a doctor but I will not hesitate to use my knowledge to cause pain, instead of relieving it,” he watched Xaviers blank expression shift slightly, “do you understand me Xavier?”

The silence felt like it was eating him inside, but he did not falter before Xavier smiled again. “Ah, so you didn’t lose that backbone I admired so much back in the day.”

“Do you understand me Xavier?”

Xavier waved his hand in a dismissive fashion and glanced back at Miguel on the bed. “Yeah yeah. I understand you. No touching until he’s all healed up right?”

“Correct.”

“Understood doctor.” Xavier said with a chuckle, “he’ll have to make up for all the work he missed later. But it’ll never get this bad again. He took the punishment well and I’m sure you and Etta will make up for it too, yes?”

Solomon thought for a moment before nodding. “Yes. We can do that.”

“Good, good. Very good Solomon. I’ll let you continue your work then,” Xavier grabbed one of Solomon's braids and gave it a playful tug. It made Solomon's skin crawl. Like he had just touched a part of his soul. Which he technically did, but.. Solomon tried hard not to think about it. Xavier grinned, letting go of his hair, turning around and leaving.

Solomon collapsed into the chair next to the bed.

“I’m so sorry Miguel. I’ll get you out of here soon. I promise,” he said to the sleeping figure, rubbing a thumb along Miguel's forearm.

This time, this time he meant it.

This would be a promise that he was going to keep. Even if it killed him. Even if he had to sacrifice everything. Miguel and Henrietta deserved better than this. They deserved freedom. Solomon was going to do everything in his power to get them there. He just had to be patient and not let the anger in.

But the anger was already here. No, he just had to control it now.

He could do that.

Solomon had to do that.

For them. __

Taglist:

@demondamage @burntcoffeewhump @for-the-love-of-angst @just-a-silly-little-whumper @tictac-murder-spaghettii @crash-bump-bring-the-whump @whumpifi

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#whumpblr #whump #whump blog #sunshine writes whump #poc whump #deaf whumpee #defiant whumpee #gore #nails #broken bones #referenced abelism #nsfwhump #sadistic whumper #intimate whumper #threats #complicated character dynamics #I know I haven't tagged everything but im tired and really wanted to post this #general warning for fucked up shit ig

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honeycollectswhump · 9 months

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Things End | People Change – Staining Touch

this is shameless friendfiction of my dear friend @whumpcloud's story Things End | People Change, featuring poorest little meow meow vincent, my beloved. go check it out if you haven't already !!!

CW: guilt, so so much self-blame and self-deprication, references to past torture and also past SA undertones (vincent is going through it)

Clary has brought him something new, something to slowly fill out the empty space of the basement that is not his but as close as it gets.

It’s a mirror, almost two-thirds of his height, strange and wobbly and cause of a weird noise Vincent cannot categorize into his existing knowledge when it is bent. Arguably, it is doing a very bad job of being a mirror, besides the fact that it is floppy and almost entertainingly noisy before being put up on the wall, because it distorts his reflection at the edges, pulling him into comical shapes like dough if he moves.

But most importantly, most off-puttingly is the fact that it portrays his reflection at all.

At first, he can do nothing but stare.

In a little under two hundred years, all Vincent has seen of himself was through the eyes of others and those never regarded him too kindly. Not that he didn’t share that sentiment.

He knows what he can see, from the brown of his hair to the shape of his body, he knows what little is left that connects him to Henry, like the green of his eyes, and he knows what separates him, like the scar that sits right under them, as if mocking.

And now that he can see his eyes again, for the first time in what feels like an eternity, for the first time in two human lifespans, which is distinctly one more than he had any right to, he can’t look at what remains of Henry without seeing what remains of Lyfelde.

That man, he…

Vincent swallows. If it could, his undead heart would be beating faster –skipping like a rabbit– with each step that thought takes.

…He loved to leave marks.

Not for some desperate desire to be remembered in an ever-changing world, but instead with the same expectations as couples that carve their initials in the bark of a tree, curious to see the way the tree tries and fails to heal the cuts, to see how they will twist with time.

Vincent is no stranger to cuts, to initials carved into his delicate flesh, to being torn open for amusement and to satiate careless curiosity, even though they will never show on his skin, no matter how he twists and turns to get a good look at himself in the mirror.

Lyfelde however never needed force to leave evidence of himself, even if he can proudly wear the title of the last permanent remainder of Vincent’s weak mortality long gone by, and at his hands no less.

After years and years of captivity, of relentless, giddy torture, Vincent couldn’t point out individual marks of memory, couldn’t remember the incisions, the lacerations, the breaks, only the aftermath, the pain ripping at the edges of his sanity.

But when Vincent closes his eyes, when he imagines his being as he sees himself, there are stains on his chest, in the shape of a freezing claw, long delicate fingers decorated with rings much older than Vincent ever hopes to be.

There is one right over his heart, claiming it rightfully as Lyfelde’s, honouring the hard work he put into tearing him apart just to shape him into a–

Into a toy.

He is collared –like a pet–, marked by two hands wrapping around his throat and squeezing, a brute display of strength Vincent thought could keep him safe.

Even now, after all of these years, his mind produces the image of his hands clearer than the face that is already blurred beyond recognition by time. Neither time nor the Hunters could beat Lyfelde’s touch out of Vincent’s memories.

Vincent stretches, looking over his shoulder, pointedly ignoring the way his ribs protrude through sickly ashen skin. Even the thought that this is a far cry from his jutting ribcage in captivity, the corpselike result of starvation, turns sour with the sacrifice of those that feed him.

He is tainted, he knows, from comfort twisted to form a blade –a stake– and embraces that should have been kind and understanding, that Vincent now can’t even bring himself to call “warm”.

He wonders –briefly– if, behind his back, in the security of Vincent’s blindness, Lyfelde’s expressions would have betrayed his intentions. If there was a way a trick of light and precognition could have warned him, if he had just seen it, seen the signs that should have been so glaringly obvious.

Still, at the cost of himself, he had found comfort and solace in the deathly cold touch, and that should have been warning enough.

Almost obsessively, his gaze scans over his own marred, unmarred skin, even as it is stretched and squished by the metal-mirror, now that he finally has the chance to, after decades of nothing. Some quiet, drowned-out part of him whispers back that this is why he avoided anything similar for so long, that the evasion of his own reflection was not only by force of his vampirism but by some self-preserving instinct.

It’s excruciating in a way that is dangerously addicting, a sizzling fire that he cannot look away from. Pain for the sake of pain for the sake of entertainment.

Curiosity and her twin sister punishment.

If he dares to let his eyes drop lower, his hips will carry two hand-shaped brands of intimacy and trust that were only ever one-sided, burned into his skin deeper than any silver and scratch marks betraying the attempts to rid himself of the ever-present poison seeping from every pore.

They condemned him to be both poisoned and poison at the same time, always a victim and always a monster and always rightfully so.

Vincent swipes the mirror from the wall, heaving, watching it fall to the ground, deafening but too slow. He wants to fall to his knees, begging and ripping the metal to shreds, ripping his own reflection to shreds so that he will never have to look at it again. … So that it will never be looked at again.

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pigeonwhumps · 2 years

Text

Wulfric returns

Out of the Frying Pan masterlist

Whumptober masterlist

Day 21: FAMOUS LAST WORDS | coughing up blood | "you're safe now" | "take me instead"

Taglist: @annablogsposts

After five years of relative peace, Elis' whumper returns.

3.3k

CWs: conditioned whumpee, past abuse, attempted murder

Elis ducks into an alcove at the sound of footsteps and voices. He’s not supposed to be in this corridor, not now, but he is and he’s just thinking of running when the voices come into hearing range and he freezes. There’s King Leofric, yes, there’s always the King, it’s his castle after all, but his companion sends a shiver down Elis’ spine. At the sight of him Elis lets out a small whimper, hastily-stifled, fighting not to drop to his knees and bow as he once had to do.

“I was sorry to hear about the loss of your ward.”

“Yes, it was unfortunate. He was... powerful. I was saddened by his loss. But it was five years ago now.”

“Nevertheless, is there anything I can do? I wasn’t able to be there for you at the time, but I’m here now.”

“No, no. Just your company is good enough. Although I find myself under greater threat over the past few years, since I lost him.”

“Perhaps some protection?”

“Well, if you insist.”

“Of course, my friend.” Neither of them are looking his way but Elis presses himself closer to the wall anyway, squeezing his eyes shut, desperate not to be seen. “Now, let us discuss...”

The conversation dies away after the two turn a corner away from him, but Elis doesn’t move. He can’t.

Lord Wulfric’s back.

It feels like hours later and yet no time at all when someone shakes Elis out of his daze.

“Elis? Elis can you hear me?”

Elis opens his eyes to see a man with long brown hair and a painted black band across his face crouched in front of him, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Sæwin?”

“Oh thank the gods. What happened? You were completely out of it.”

“Wulfric,” he whispers, every muscle tensing at the name. Sæwin frowns.

“Lord Wulfric? He’s visiting, yes, but... what’s he got to do with you?”

“He’s the one who made me fight and kill and I didn’t want to but he made me and I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Elis. You don’t need to apologise. Can you get up, do you think?”

“I–” Elis looks around, noticing their surroundings for the first time. He’s on the floor of the alcove, sitting on his heels, everything locked up tight. “I think so.”

Sæwin holds out a hand and Elis flinches slightly, then places his own hand in the physician’s and lets Sæwin pull him to his feet. He wobbles as his muscles unlock.

“Easy, Elis, I’ve got you. Let’s get you home.”

Elis pulls away before they start walking, it’s weak for him to lean on someone and they’re not allowed to be weak, it’s bad to be weak, he’ll be punished if he’s weak, but Sæwin catches his hand and squeezes it.

“You’re drifting again.”

“Sorry, sir.” Elis blinks away the illusion of the estate, feeling a warm, calloused palm. It’s Sæwin beside them. Sæwin Sæwin Sæwin. No-one else.

“It’s all right.”

They make their way through the castle and the bustling citadel to the townhouse, Elis struggling to keep his head high despite wanting to duck down and hide. Col says he should take pride in himself despite everything he’s done.

Elis pulls off his boots as a large black cat trots up to him and winds around his legs, purring loudly. He scratches her on the head, marvelling at how much she’s grown over the last few years. Mabel fit into the palm of his hand when they took her in, but not anymore. He picks her up and drapes her front paws over his shoulder, supporting her with his left hand.

“Hello Mabes. You been a good girl today?”

“Col?” Sæwin calls. “Are you home?”

Col appears at the end of the hallway, wiping his hands on his apron, the red colour of his hair ribbon matching the painted band on his face. A knight’s band, as opposed to Sæwin’s black physician’s one. Elis tries to keep the facts in his mind to distract himself from his thoughts. “I was just baking, since we gave the servants a holiday. Can’t you smell it?”

“I can smell burning,” remarks Sæwin. Col makes a face, before striding forward and giving him a quick peck on the lips.

“Why are you back so early? Not that I’m complaining, but I thought you were both working today.”

At this reminder Elis gasps. “The messages!”

“It’s all right, I have the bag here. I’ll deliver them on my way back to the castle.”

“Thank you.”

Sæwin nods. “As to what happened, Lord Wulfric is a worse man than we thought.”

Elis shudders and Col turns to him, looking him over, concerned. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”

Elis swallows. No no he’s not all right but he can’t just say that, he’s not allowed to be emotional.

“Breathe, Elis. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

He holds Mabel tightly, her thick fur grounding him. “Wulfric hurt me. Not now I don’t mean now, before.”

Col’s eyes darken and Elis flinches. “Was Wulfric the one who tried to turn you into a weapon?” Elis nods. “That bastard.”

“Col, you can’t kill him,” says Sæwin dryly. Col scowls.

“I know that. Do you have a plan then?”

“I want to bandage Elis’ brand and then I need to get back to work. If that’s all right with you, Elis.” Elis nods. He needs to hide it, he can’t risk Wulfric or his entourage seeing it, and he doesn’t like bandages no but he likes even less what will happen if Wulfric realises who he is.

What he is.

A monster. A killer. Wulfric’s trained killer, and Wulfric will recognise him and beat him or lock him in the basement or force him to–

Something touches his arm and he jumps, raising his arms to shield himself. Something heavy falls off him with a meow.

“Sweetheart. Elis. Breathe. You’re safe. It’s just Col and Sæwin and Mabel with you.” Elis looks up into Wulfric’s concerned face.

No, Col’s. Elis shakes his head to clear it. Wulfric would be angry, not concerned, it’s Col. Col Col Col.

“You back with us?” Elis blinks a yes. “Good. That’s good. Can you stand?”

Oh. Elis didn’t even notice he was on the floor again. He tries to push himself upright but his mind rebels, in fear of punishment. He blinks twice.

“All right. I’ll carry you. You’re safe, sweetheart. Safe.”

Col rubs his back and he gasps, movement coming back in a rush. He loops his arms around Col’s neck, clinging on, burying his head in Col’s shoulder, because he’s allowed to do that now, with Col and Sæwin, he doesn’t have to be strong and alone anymore.

Col carries him into the kitchen and sets him down on a chair while Sæwin fetches some bandages. “Tunic up then.” Elis lifts his tunic and holds it around his shoulders as Sæwin crouches in front of him, winding the thick white bandages around his torso, up and up until they cover the brand thoroughly, fairly tight so they don’t show but not too tight, the slightly rough linen very familiar. “There you go. That covers the brand. More than just that actually, but we don’t want anyone catching a glimpse at the edge of it and getting suspicious.”

Elis nods. “Thank you.”

Sæwin smiles and gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “You’re welcome. I need to get back to work, will you be all right?”

Elis nods and Col, catching this from over by the stove, says lightly, “We’ll be fine, love. Get out of here.”

“Not until I’ve tried some of that honey I can smell. You must have some to spare.”

Col grins wickedly and eats a small spoonful out of the pot, smearing a little on his lips as he does so. “Sorry, that was the last bit. De-licious.”

“Oh is that so?” Sæwin chases Col around the kitchen, finally backing him against the sink, and Elis watches with a smile as he kisses the living daylights out of Col, tasting the honey from his lips. Finally he pulls back, looking like the cat who got the cream. “You were right. Delicious.”

“Absolutely,” murmurs Col, slightly dazed. Sæwin winks at Elis and pulls him into a tight hug.

“Look after yourself. And Col. I’ll be back for dinner.”

Elis nods, leaning into Sæwin slightly for a moment. “Stay safe.”

It’s a ridiculous comment to make (it’s only the castle, and Sæwin isn’t foolish), but Sæwin just smiled, uncondemning. “I will.” He waves goodbye to Col (who raises a hand slowly in return, still a little out of it) and strolls out the room. A few moments later, Elis hears the front door shut behind him, and Col jerks back to himself.

“What was I doing?” he murmurs, and Elis smirks as deeply as he dares.

“Kissing Sæwin.”

Col blushes, and Elis’ smile turns softer. Wulfric would’ve called Col and Sæwin’s display ‘disgustingly intimate’, but Elis just finds it sweet. For some reason, Col and Sæwin being so sweet together always helps Elis settle.

“I was baking, that’s right. Do you want to read to me for a bit while I get this in the oven?”

Elis nods eagerly and takes the book from Col, flipping to where they left off that morning. “When the great became aware of Gawain’s arrival,

There was general jubilation at the joyful news.

The King kissed the knight, and the Queen likewise,

And so did many a staunch noble who sought to salute him.

They all asked him about his expedition,

And he truthfully told them of his trilu– tribu– um–”

Col slides the tray into the oven and crosses over to Elis. “Tribulations. You’re improving.”

“You really think so?” asks Elis hopefully, before remembering himself and adding quickly, “Not that I think you’re lying or wrong, I don’t I promise, I just–”

“You just don’t believe in yourself enough,” says Col, putting an arm around Elis and pulling him close. Elis nods – he doesn’t believe in himself because he shouldn’t, but Col doesn’t think so. Col lets him have his own opinions but he doesn’t like that one. “Your reading’s improved a lot since we met. You could barely string two words on a page together then, and now look at you. Not long now until we finish this story.”

Elis blushes, looking down at the cat that’s just jumped into his lap. He’s still not used to compliments. And he’s not so good.

“Hey, sweetheart. You really are getting good at reading. You’re improving. Recovering. I’m proud of you.”

Elis frowns. Col’s tone increases the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Col?”

Col sighs. “I have a bad feeling. It’s probably nothing more than the fact that Wulfric’s here, but... if something happens, ever, promise me you’ll do whatever it takes to survive. And I don’t just mean if it’s Wulfric.”

Elis nods vigorously. “I promise.” He’s promised before, he has, and he doesn’t think he needs to promise again no but Col needs it, Elis can tell.

“Good. And don’t forget that Sæwin and I will always, always come for you. I’m sure this feeling’s nothing, but I want you to remember that, sweetheart. All right?” Elis nods again, and Col pulls him into a tight hug, kissing the top of his head as Mabel scrambles away. “You’re safe. You’re going to stay safe, I’m sure of it, sweetheart. I’m sure.”

That doesn’t reassure Elis one bit.

A few days later, Elis is standing at the edge of the field, watching the knights train. He knows it annoys the head knight when he does this and he doesn’t like annoying people no but he can’t stay home on his own, not even with Mabel. That’s what he usually does on days like this, when he’s unable to stay still but unable to make himself move without orders. He can usually stay with Mabel and it’s not too bad, but today is worse than usual for some reason (Wulfric, probably, who Elis hasn’t seen again yet but even knowing he’s here is making him nervous), and he can’t stay by himself. Can’t stay with Sæwin either and get in the way of him saving people, he has to stay somewhere more out of the way. With Col. And even though people are annoyed Col says they just have to put up with it.

It seems an odd way to deal with Elis being an inconvenience.

Elis likes watching the knights, lots of young men and women do and if he lets himself become absorbed in the training he can almost pretend he’s normal, but today his attention keeps drifting. He can’t focus on anything.

And then he freezes entirely.

There’s a familiar set of footsteps coming this way. One heavier than the other, slightly muffled by the boots he’s wearing. Dark brown leather boots with a fur lining and intricate patterns sewn into the outside that Elis can picture like he’s actually looking up at them when he closes his eyes.

It’s Wulfric. Elis’ heart pounds. He couldn’t flee even if he wanted to, he’s completely frozen, it’s a fight not to drop to his knees as his former master comes into view. Col inches closer to Elis under the guise of fetching water and murmurs, “Go home if you want to.”

But Elis can’t.

He takes a shaky breath as Wulfric and King Leofric stop in front of the training field. The knights and spectators bow and curtsy as the King turns his attention to them.

“Knights of the realm. Lord Wulfric has requested to lead you all in a few drills, and I have agreed.” Surprised glances are shared around the group of knights - King Leofric is known for being possessive, he doesn’t normally let anyone else do anything with his men - and the head knight looks indignant, before smoothing his expression over before the King can see. “I will be observing, of course.”

As Wulfric strides onto the field, taking the head knight’s place, Elis thinks his gaze lingers on him. But Col doesn’t seem to have noticed, so please let him be wrong. He’s just paranoid yes that’s it. That must be it.

Elis is worried about what his body will do when Wulfric starts barking orders, but he can’t do anything about that now. He curls his toes tightly inside his boots and clenches his fists. He can do this he can, and then Col will be there to help him after.

“Show me your guards,” calls Wulfric, and Elis grips his arms tightly. That’s not an order he knows well, luckily, but he’s just waiting for one he does.

“Very good. Now, show me your best move...”

He says more, but Elis’ mind goes blank. His best move is taking out the target. Master is looking at the head knight, and the weapon focuses on him, pinpointing the best targets, he’s wearing chainmail but there’s still open targets. His eye maybe. The weapon starts to bend over and reach into his boot–

“Halt!”

Something hits him and he falls to the ground with a thump, something heavy landing on top of him. He blinks, pushing his hands up, as the blankness slowly filters from his mind.

“Elis. Elis it’s me, Col, you’re in Sorestan. Listen to me, Elis. You’re Elis, remember?”

“Col,” breathes Elis, his memory and thoughts returning. “I’m Elis. Elis. You’re Col.”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Will you drop the dagger please?”

Elis lets his hand loosen and the dagger drops to the ground with a dull thud. He tangles his now-empty hand in Col’s chainmail to stop himself picking it back up automatically.

“I dropped it,” he whispers. Col rolls off him, pulling Elis’ hand off his chainmail gently and folding it in his own, helping Elis to his feet.

“Easy, sweetheart. You’re okay. You’re Elis, you’re okay.”

Elis nods shakily. He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s not a weapon anymore. Col pulls him into a quick hug, kissing the top of his head.

“Shhh.”

“You!”

They both jump at the sound of Wulfric’s voice and Elis spins around to face him. He looks angry, glowering, and oh– no no no–

“You’re my weapon, aren’t you? I thought I recognised you. My little weapon, who ran away and hid from me. Or did he hide you?”

“I didn’t–” mutters Elis, backing away, nearly inaudible, “no no no no no–”

His voice breaks. He can’t speak in front of his master, he’s not allowed to.

Col glances at him, squeezes his hand. “He didn’t run. You left him to die. He was nearly dead when we found him, you–” Col’s voice hardens, the way it always does when he’s trying to stop his emotions from showing, and Elis flinches, which he always does. “You nearly killed him. He was bleeding out and about to burn to death, and you would’ve known he couldn’t move without your permission. Don’t lie and pretend you care, you don’t, you never have, you’re just regretting discarding of your best weapon.” He pulls Elis to him and squeezes him tight. “And you’re not having him. Never again, you abusive brute. Sir.”

Wulfric’s face has gone red, a vein popping in his temple. Elis shrinks, not moving, he’s not allowed no but his mind shrinks, hiding from his punishment.

“How dare you insult me like that? I am Lord of Magance, far more important than the likes of you. Certainly more important than that.” He looks at Elis in disgust and draws his sword, slashing it downwards, oh gods he’s going to kill Col and there’s nothing Elis can do, he’s not permitted to move–

Clang.

His master’s sword is stopped inches from Col’s neck, pushing against... Sæwin’s. Sæwin’s? What’s Sæwin doing with a sword? There’s a low hum as the metal vibrates against each other.

“I don’t often use a sword, but I suggest you stop trying to kill my family,” says Sæwin warningly, panting slightly. “Trust me, you don’t want to be cut open by an expert in human anatomy.”

Wulfric scowls but he doesn’t get a chance to retort as an authoritative royal voice rings out across the training ground.

“Guards! Arrest Lord Wulfric for attacking one of my knights.”

Wulfric is dragged away by guards, protesting at the top of his voice, and Sæwin drops the sword, turning to Elis and Col.

“Are you two all right?”

Col nods. “I’m well, thank you. That bastard just... got to me.”

“You got to him too, I’d say. Elis? What about you?”

Elis squeezes his eyes shut and nods. It’s the best he can do.

“Well, I’m not sure I believe either of you, I can hear that deliberate lack of emotions in your voice, Col, but... you’re both alive and in one piece. That’s something, at least.” Elis feels Sæwin’s arm snake his back, the physician’s solid warmth shoring up his other side, and he feels more secure. Col and Sæwin wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

Not if they could help it.

“The guards have taken Wulfric away, Elis,” murmurs Sæwin, “you’re safe now.”

He’s safe. Safe safe safe safe safe.

So why doesn’t he quite feel it?

In all the fuss and distraction as the three of them stand there, looking after each other, as the knights’ training breaks up into murmurs and whispers and stares, as the head knight almost forgets to dismiss them in his discomfort, amidst all that, everyone misses the greedy, considering look the King gives Elis.

Looking him up and down like a sacrificial lamb at the next spring festival.

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