#offscreen whumper

[whumpbug]

this little fic is heavily heavily inspired by this post from @whump-kia because i just couldnt get the idea out of my silly brain so i brain vomited onto my notes app

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kinda sorta wilderness/sci-fi/apocolypse setting.. it honestly could go all ways but the important factors are 1) they are in a team 2) there are enemies they are on the run from and 3) there isnt really magic healing or anything available

i wrote it as medic kinda being the most competent one in general while leader and teammate are frazzled as hell at the situation and could be read as newer to the team but that isn't necessarily my intention!

whumpee: Medic

caretaker(s): Leader and Teammate

[all characters gender neutral]

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The room fell silent. All eyes were suddenly trained on Medic who threw open the door and staggered in.

With a dagger wedged in their side.

The team had been on the run from enemies for the better part of a week now. Even though they weren't completely in the clear, the team was completely worn out. They all needed a good rest.

They were setting up camp at one of their many bases, and Medic offered to scout the area alone. Leader honestly didn’t think it was a good idea, but they were too preoccupied to think to argue it further.

Now, they sincerely wished they had.

“Medic.. oh god, oh god” whispered Teammate.

“Ambush,” They explained. “It’s.. it’s okay, I took care of it..” Medic replied cooly, but the color was quickly draining from their face. Teammate frowned and continued questioning them, but Leader heard none of it.

Leader took a shaky breath, but their feet were planted. They couldn’t move. They were frozen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No, Medic was untouchable. Medic was steadfast and reliable, always there when the team needed them.

Medic wasn’t supposed to go out like this. Medic wasn’t supposed to get hurt.

Leader’s breathing hitched again. Their head was reeling. What were they going to do?! No one on the team was qualified to fix this other than the person dripping blood all over the floor, yet it was still Leader’s job to do something. It was too much, it was too—

“Leader.”

Medic’s voice cut through the room like a knife through butter.

“I need you to listen to me. Carefully. Can you do that?”

Leader swallowed the lump in their throat. They nodded.

Medic took another step forward, only for their foot to catch on the ground, sending them stumbling forward. Teammate caught them by the upper arm and unceremoniously lowered them to the ground.

“Alright,” Medic began. Their face was scrunched up in pain. “Leader. I’m going to walk you through how to fix this, okay? I'm going to be fine.”

“Right. Right, I can help you.. just- just tell me what to do.” Leader said, forcing their voice to remain steady.

“Do you see that fire poker over there? I’m going to need you to grab it and stick the end of it into the fire. We want it to get really hot, okay?” Medic explained methodically.

If it weren’t for the blade sticking out of Medic’s middle, you’d think there was nothing even wrong with them. They seemed like everything was under control. They really seemed fine.

But not to their team.

No, their team didn’t miss Medic’s pallor, the way their eyebrows were pinched together, the way the sweat was beading on their brow. Their team didn’t miss the way their hands were trembling, the way their gaze was glassy, and the way they were slumped against the wall, seemingly sapped of their strength.

Medic was fighting to hold on, but it was a losing battle. They really didn’t have much time before they passed out from blood loss, or worse.

Leader’s resolve came back to them all at once. They nodded sharply and did as they were told, sticking the poker into the fire and leaving it on the hearth. While the team waited anxiously for the poker to heat up, Leader took the opportunity to adjust Medic into a more comfortable position against the wall. This earned a strangled grunt from Medic.

“Okay, Leader.. this.. this is important. Once that poker gets red-hot, you’re.. you’re going to have to pull out the blade from my wound and cauterize it.. immediately.” They choked out, shifting to give Leader a better view of their abdomen.

Leader’s face blanched.

“Cauterize?? Why not sutures? Surely that’s less painful,” Leader protested, only to be shushed by Medic raising their hand.

“I don’t have.. I can’t stay awake to walk you through that.. cau.. cauterization is.. quicker..”

Leader could tell Medic was reaching their limit. The wound, despite being partially plugged by the dagger, had been steadily dripping blood for a while now. Leader could tell by the way Medic’s voice was faltering and the way their shoulders were drooping that they were utterly spent. They had to hurry up.

Leader glanced at the fire poker, and upon seeing it burning hot, they grabbed a towel and picked it up.

“Alright. What’s next.”

Medic steeled their nerves and spoke.

“You and Teamate will have to work together. Leader, you’ll.. you’ll need to pull out the dagger and immediately press the poker along th.. the wound.. As soon as you pull it out, it’s going to start bleeding even faster.. you need to seal it immediately, just until the bleeding stops..”

Leader nods, though they hate this with every fiber of their being. They’ve never had to have had a wound cauterized before, thanks to Medic’s dilligency. Still, they know the procedure is agonizing and not one they are thrilled to perform on Medic.

Medic gaze flits to Teammate.

“You.. you have a very important job.. I need.. I’m gonna need you to hold me down. As soon as that metal hits my skin, I’m going to scream. I mean really scream. I’m also going to jerk away. I need you to hold me down, no.. no matter what happens, even if I pass out, so Leader doesn’t end up making the wound worse. Can you do that?”

Teammate frowns, but gives a quick nod. Teammate was always more timid, but now, in this moment, their jaw was set and there was a determined glint in their eyes. By God, they were going to help Medic.

Leader got up and sat on Medic’s legs to restrain them, and held the fire poker at their side. Using their free hand they gently grasped the handle of the blade sticking out of Medic, careful not to jostle it in the wound. Still, Medic inhaled sharply.

Teammate got behind Medic looping their arms behind theirs and holding them tight.

“Alright.. just.. just give me a count down..” Medic said, their voice low.

Leader nodded.

“3.”

Medic sucked in a breath.

“2.”

Teammate tightened their grip.

“1.”

Everything that happened after that countdown couldn’t have been more than 10 seconds, but to Medic, it felt like 10 years.

As soon as the dagger was removed, Leader pressed the hot metal into the wound. The guttural scream that tore from Medic’s throat was nausea-inducing.

Immediately, every muscle in their body seized up as they violently thrashed against the white-hot pain. Medic’s sobs rang out through the entire facility. Everyone in the vicinity flinched at the sound.

Their Medic, their savior, was now reduced to gut-wrenching cries.

Leader adjusted themself to sit on Medic’s thighs, effectively immobilizing them.

Teammate had to yank Medic’s arms down, using all their strength to keep them still.

“I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry..” Teammate whispered softly, tears blurring their vision.

Right as Leader was about to finish sealing the wound, Medic let out a gurgling gasp as their eyes rolled back into their head and they went limp.

“Medic? Hey, Medic?” Teammate mewled, lightly tapping their cheek.

Both Leader and Teammate finally loosened their grip on them and lowered Medic to the ground with as much care as they could muster.

“Hey, c’mon Medic.. wake up for us, yeah?” Leader coaxed, brushing a strand of hair from Medic’s eyes.

Medic’s eyelids finally fluttered open, but they looked utterly exhausted. Their face was streaked with sweat and there were tears tracks lining their pale cheeks. Still, they gave a weak smile.

“You.. you guys did great..” They managed, but not before their eyes slipped close yet again.

Both Leader and Teammate exchanged a laugh at how absurd it was that Medic was praising them for doing well. Still, the worst of it was over and everyone could breathe again. They knew they should get Medic up and into medbay, but they silently agreed to let Medic rest for a few moments longer.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[deluxewhump]

I Know You Remember Me

John recognizes a wealthy client’s stolen pet immediately, even filthy, with two black eyes. He moves quickly to buy him back from the box truck driver in possession of him, and then must think what to do about this. Meanwhile, he looks after the abused pet in a motel room.

CW: lay it on thick hurt/comfort, pet whump universe (not bbu), caretaker has some ulterior motives but is largely sympathetic, offscreen noncon with multiple whumpers, sti mention, underweight whumpee mention, whumpee offering sex, bruises, burns & cigarette burns, nonsexual nudity and bathing, platonic bed-sharing, medically inaccurate care I’m sure, one shot probably

-

“I know you remember me. I’m sure I remember you.”

The unfortunate creature— for he looked more a creature than a boy in the low light, in the filthy west Texas motel room John had rented for the night with cash— dared to steal a glance up at him.

His eyes were dark, and bright with fear. Bruises ringed both of them like an unlucky fighter, purple as the Easter cloth draped on all the crosses they’d driven past. John knew from the taut look of the eyelids they’d been swollen shut a day or so earlier. The boy pet had dried blood caked in his nostrils and on one side of his downturned mouth. His hair was a matted and filthy mop that fell over his forehead and ears in greasy, wavy sections crusted together with more old blood.

The boy looked at him cautiously. There was too much fear in his posture, in his eyes. It was impossible to tell if he recognized John, too.

John squatted down to be eye level. As he thought it might, this made the frightened pet drop his eyes and flatten his spine as best he could against the nicotine stained paint of the motel wall.

“Hey, now,” John murmured, as if to one of his racehorses. They were spirited, flighty things, nothing like the quarter horses he’d grown up with. He talked to them all the same, though, from the spring colts to the swaybacked veterans.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I know you’ve seen a lot of people lately, huh? You probably don’t remember me. That’s okay. I remember you. You were at Jack Kinsington’s place before all this.”

The boy did not look back up at him, and his dirty hair gave away his trembling, but he was listening.

“I came by with a couple of horses. Bays, both of them. Soaked in sweat and prancing all around, you remember them? They’re high strung, they don’t like to ride in the trailer. Anyway, I told Jack he ought to let you stretch your legs. He did, but you were so numb you couldn’t stand for a while. You looked right at me.”

The boy turned his head an inch, so he could glance up at John’s face again.

“You remember that day. Sure you do. I thought you were in rough shape then, but I have to say, you look worse now.”

That lost him the eye contact. That was okay. The boy remembered. If not his face, then the incident.

“I thought it was awfully cruel to keep you in a space that small,” he went on. “I don’t know how some people do to a person what they wouldn’t do to an animal. They justify it, I guess. They project things onto these pets they buy and then they punish them for it. Gives them their kicks. Even Jack Kinsington, who I have to admit I respected up until that day.”

He stopped that train of thought.

“Why don’t we get you up off the floor there and let me take care of you, huh? No offense, you look kind of like roadkill.”

The boy made no sound, no indication that he’d even heard except for the way his chest expanded a little faster with his quickening breath. The poor thing's heart must be pounding. John had a knack for fixing things up, be it a business his brother had fucked up or a lame horse, a broken water heater or a vehicle. He spent less time fixing things now and more time delegating what other people needed to fix, but this boy was downright hurting his innermost, rarely expressed tenderness of heart, and he wanted to fix something for him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said again. His knees were getting tired in this deep squat, and his boots had no give in the toes for it. “I’m gonna clean you up and look after you. You don’t have to do anything, just don’t fight me too much. Can you do that?”

He reached out and laid a hand over the boy’s. The abused pet flinched but didn’t jerk away. John encircled the boy’s wrist in his hand and pulled it slowly away from his body, towards him. “Can you stand?” he asked, pushing himself to standing and bringing the boy with him.

He made it to his feet, and was nearly as tall as John, but stumbled when he tried to take a step.

“Please,” he whispered reflexively as John moved closer, flinching to protect his battered face.

“Please what, baby?” John muttered, lifting the boy’s arm over the back of his shoulders and wrapping his arm around his slim waist to help him walk. “You’re okay, you’re right here. I’ve got you. Let’s get you in the tub.”

Slowly, they staggered to the motel bathroom a d John flicked on the staggeringly white lights that buzzed and hummed to life. He sat the boy on the lip of the low bathtub as gently as he could.

“I’m going to give you a bath,” he said matter-of-factly, turning the taps so warm water began to fill the tub. “Where did all this blood come from?”

The boy was watching him warily, dark eyes following his every move.

“You hear me? Where’s all this dried blood coming from, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

John nodded, pleased the boy had spoken. Some didn’t, or wouldn’t, he knew, not once they looked like this one did.

“Did they beat you? Is that what all this is from?”

He gave a small nod, blinking in discomfort at John’s bluntness.

“Did they hurt you in any other ways?”

He nodded again.

John felt a tug of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach. “How?”

Jack’s pet looked evasively at the rising bath water.

“If you tell me how you’re hurt, I can help you better.”

Nothing.

“What’s your name?”

“Paulo.”

He put the emphasis on the au, and there was a way he said his L that positioned the tongue differently than he did when saying other words.

“Paulo,” John said, putting the emphasis on the vowels of the first syllable too, but with no attempt at altering his very American L. I’m John. I bought you from that man, the one with the box truck. I take it Jack Kinsington sold you? Or were you stolen?”

Tears shimmered in the boy’s dark eyes, swollen and purple still like a raccoon mask. He bit the inside of his cheek to steel himself and keep from letting them fall.

John gentled his voice. “Paulo. I only ask because it’s important. If you legally belong to Jack, I gotta bring you back to him.”

Paulo’s head snapped up. He lost control of the tears, which spilled down his bruised cheeks. He grabbed hold of John’s sleeves, pulling himself closer as if his whole body was not bruised and sore. “No,” he begged urgently. “Please. I’ll do anything. Please. I-I’ll do anything you want, I can’t… please don’t….”

An idea dawned on him and he let go of his latest captor’s sleeve in order to lift his trembling fingers to his own tattered shirt. He pulled it over his head with a barely-suppressed whimper of pain. His torso was bruised like his face and arms, dark black and purple impact points on his warm toned skin like fists or boots, some that looked like electric burns left from a cattle prod and others more reminiscent of the yellow, oozing wounds cigarettes tended to leave. He was ribby, in a dehydrated, sudden sort of way that looked like he hadn’t eaten much of anything in the last few days.

He started on the button of his pants and John reached out to stop him. “Hey. No. What’s this?”

“Do- do you prefer girls? I can be just as good for you.” His glittering eyes were simultaneously like a starving animal and horribly blank. “They all say so.”

Ah. There was an answer to one of his questions. He pulled Paulo’s wrists away from the opening of his pants, held them in his own on the cool edge of the tub between them. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not interested.”

“I could take a bath,” he whispered hopefully.

“You will take a bath. But I’m still not interested. I need to know— were you given to someone by Jack Kinsington rightfully, or were you stolen?”

The fear was back. John didn’t know which was worse on this one, the dead eyes or the fear. “Don’t take me back to him.”

“He hurt you a lot, then? Jack?”

John already figured as much. Despite his admiration for the man’s business sense, he was a cruel and sadistic pet owner. Once he’d seen a boy shoved into a cage fit for a fox, he’d reconciled that much in his mind. It was like that often, when it came to human pets, and never quite who you’d expect.

The boy begged miserably. “Please, Sir. I’ll do anything.”

“You mentioned that. He didn’t sell you, did he?”

Paulo glanced down.

So he’d bought a stolen pet. That’s what he more or less suspected when he’d seen the boy at the rest stop, weeks after he’d seen him in the cage at Jack’s and much worse for wear.

Jack Kinsington would probably be even more open to buying more of John’s racehorses in the near future if he returned his favorite boy-pet to him. Don’t worry what it cost to get him back, Jack. Less than the yearling I’ve got for you to look at this spring, I can tell you that. Call it even.

John turned off the taps and tested the water with his fingers. He’d wondered if the boy would be willing to take those filthy clothes off in front of him, but seeing as he’d just offered himself, he thought it more likely now.

“Take those off,” he said of the boy’s remaining clothing. “You can borrow some of mine when you’re cleaned up.”

Despite his offer less than five minutes ago, Paulo was modest to the point of shyness once he was naked.

“It’s okay. I’m not even looking at you,” John assured him a little gruffly as he helped him into the water. “I just want to get you clean.”

Paulo flinched as he submerged, undoubtedly feeling every burn, cut, and bruise as he did. He was so dirty that tear tracks were now visible on his face from his crying. John wet a rough motel washcloth in the warm water and brought it to his face. He dabbed and nudged the dried blood from Paulo’s mouth and nose. The boy tried very hard not to flinch and shy away, and in return he tried to be very gentle. “Good,” he said quietly, wetting the cloth and returning it to the blood and swollen tissue. “Tell me if I hurt you.”

Paulo made brief eye contact with him at that, probably because it had become a foreign concept that someone would make an effort against hurting him. Just as quickly he slid his gaze away, back to an indeterminate point on the bathroom tile.

“You wanna do this next part?”

Paulo didn’t answer.

John moved as gently and quickly as was prudent over the rest of his body, knowing he was hurting him when he passed over the yellowed cigarette burns on his legs and hips.

“I know. You’re gonna be okay. Almost done. You’re doing really well.”

Paulo let John wash his hair, using some of the hotel shampoo that would likely sting some cuts but was desperately needed. He closed his eyes as John worked his fingers through the blood and dirt, the snarls coming apart slowly with gentle patience. As he rinsed the boy’s dark hair clean, John noticed he had stopped shaking.

He drained the now red-brown water and wrapped Paulo in a white hotel towel. He looked better clean, though there was nothing to do for the bruises but wait. He sat on the side of the motel bed as John went through his black duffel bag, pulling out sweatpants, a gray cotton T-shirt, and ibuprofen for him.

Paulo dressed in the bathroom and accepted two of the pills. He came out and sat on the end of the bed afterwards, staring at the pattern on the comforter.

“Does Jack know who had you?” John asked as he set up his phone charger. “The guy with the box truck out there?”

Paulo shook his head. “That man wasn’t the first.”

So he’d been bought and sold multiple times since being stolen—kidnapped— from Jack's property. It was possible Jack knew the original perpetrators, but had no idea where his pet was now. John sighed. His mind was working analytically, trying to understand every facet of the situation before he acted— trying to understand how he could manipulate it most in his favor. But that all felt shallow and cruel when he truly saw the boy in front of him, his damp hair and his bruised face, his narrow chest and the way he was nervously picking at a scab on the inside of his wrist.

“Don’t do that,” John said softly. “I don’t want you getting any infections.”

Paulo stopped immediately but looked intrigued by the care in that statement. Likely no one had said anything like it to him in a long while now.

“Are you hungry?”

Paulo shrugged. John raised his eyebrows and he went with a more committed shake of the head. “No, Sir.”

“…Are you scared?”

The boy swallowed, touched the scab on his wrist without picking it.

He’d said it before, but he knew he’d have to say it a hundred more times, and show it a thousand, before it sunk in. He likely would not end up doing that, but he’d say it as long as the pet was in his possession. “I promise I'm not gonna hurt you.”

“What, then?” Paulo asked, shrugging one shoulder to his ear in what felt like embarrassment at his own question.

“If I’m not going to hurt you? What then?”

He nodded.

“Nothing. I'm gonna take you back to Tennessee.”

“To Jack?”

“For the time being, to my place in Lewisburg. I have a farm.”

“What kind of farm?”

“Horses. You wanna come?”

He said he did. Not that he had much of a choice. John suspected they both knew that killing him on the side of a dirt road in west Texas would be better than what might happen if he took him back to Tennessee and failed to promptly return him to Jack. Jack would take it out on his lost little pet as much as he did John.

“I can’t believe you’re still even sitting up and talking. Come here.” John stood up and pulled the corner of the bedsheets down. “Lie down.”

Paulo did as he asked.

Before John would cover him up he asked, “Can you tell me if anyone kicked you in the back or abdomen, or if you feel any pain when you move or breathe?”

He thought about that. “I don’t know. I’m sore.”

“Any sharp pains, anything feel broken?”

“No?”

“Can I touch your stomach right here? It won’t be for long.”

A little apprehensive, Paulo agreed. John placed his hands on his abdomen and prodded his way along, trying to feel anything amiss or to get a sharp yell from Paulo. None came.

“Does this hurt anywhere more than soreness?”

“No,” his patient said in a small voice.

“Okay,” he said, and covered the boy to his chest with the blankets. “I’m done. Thank you. I was worried you might have internal bleeding, or broken ribs.”

“I don’t think so.”

“We’ll need to get you checked for other things too, soon. Make sure you didn’t contract anything.”

It took a moment for this to register, but when it did, Paulo blushed scarlet.

“It’s okay,” John assured him. His next gesture surprised him. Tenderly, he brushed the back of his knuckles to an unbruised spot on Paulo’s cheek. He was quickly becoming endeared to this unfortunate little pet. “You’re probably alright. And even in the event you did, it’s not your fault.”

“Is that why you didn’t want to?” Paulo asked, leaning his cheek almost imperceptibly into John’s knuckles.

John retracted his hand. “No. I didn’t want to because I am not interested in hurting you.”

“I said you could.”

“You and I both know it would still be hurting.”

Paulo laid his head back on the pillow. “I don’t understand what you want.”

“For starters, I want you to tell me what you want to eat.”

He didn’t eat much, but he did make an effort. John got the impression he was suspicious of every simple kindness, every time there were footsteps outside their door in the breezeway.

When he turned out the light and put a partition of pillows between them to sleep, he felt Paulo start awake every time a car pulled into the parking lot, or the AC beneath the window kicked on with a rattle.

“You’re okay,” he said drowsily from across the pillow divide, which made it feel more like bunking together and less like sharing a bed. “Nobody knows you’re here. Nobody knows where you are at all. That door is deadbolted. And I’m here between the rest of the world and you. You can sleep tonight. Nothing can hurt you.”

He doubted words would actually help, since the boy's nerves were probably completely shot, and who knows when was the last time he’d had a good nights sleep, and felt safe enough to do so? Still, he thought it should be nice to hear. It was the least he could do. He didn’t make any undue promises. Just tonight.

Paulo was quiet for a minute, and then John heard a wet sniff that was the unmistakable sound of crying. He didn’t think he should say ‘don’t cry’ to someone in his position, so he didn’t. He just listened from across the pillows until the little pet fell asleep.

[scratchandplaster]

Stack The Deck - PART 11

CW: obsessive thoughts, drug mention

Intermezzo ⇽ [Masterlist] ⇾ PART 12

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Yaletown Park looked more like a rocky desert than anything adjacent to the open hangout it was sold as, especially in the hollow glow of the streetlights. Caught between high-risers and vacant retail space, the few square meters of cobble only offered some trash or needles to pluck from the ground. If the grass patches shooting out here and there were ever kept trim in the first place remained a mystery.

Behind a strategically chosen planter sat a reserved man, smoking the second pack of the day and stewing in his jaded mood, still waiting for whoever wanted to stop by. All this was normal for Morris by now.

The evening had started promising, with frat boys strolling along the sidewalk and a few girls in tow; a view that was starting to become more and more frequent. He smiled joylessly, remembering how he met Amber on a night like this.

More than a year must've passed since then, he figured, trying to cling onto thoughts that wouldn't shock him with memories of someone he didn't have to think about anymore. At least when he was chased around enough.

"You're gonna sit there until I tell you otherwise!"

Goddamn. Not that it was easy for Belanger either, patrolling the streets to prospect the usual scum. No regret laid in avoiding each other, but since Morris was dependent on any signal to engage with the more casual clientele, he was stuck in place. 

That's what I get for my not so tight scheduling. 

As a fixer caught at the bottom of the food chain, and honest to god no agency or willingness to change his position, it was better to keep his mouth shut and head down. But with skin still in the game, did he have another option? For all he cared, they could make him do their laundry and scrub all crack houses of the state squeaky-clean. Anything else than ending up in Dutch's office with that thing-  

Another thought he quickly shoved aside, another problem to ignore till it blew up.

Except a lone hobo who threw up way too close to his shoes, nothing ripped Morris out of the daydreaming that kept his last sliver of sanity alive. The risk of being arrested on the spot or stabbed to death by someone who needed cash even more than him aside, the prize of it all was just...surviving.

"One day you wake up, and your whole life is spent in what?" Amber's life lesson was now sober reality, spot-on to the last detail.

Hearing her voice again used to pierce through his gut and leave him wrecked with self-hatred, although these feelings had died down in the time they spent apart. Not that he didn't try to distract himself from the distraction, oh no, he had several chances to drown out boiling memories of past love during the spring months, but this year it was different. Nobody was waiting at home. Morris couldn't let go, not this time, not since her...since him-

If Belanger didn't call right now, he would find a good use for all those narcotics in his pocket.

A break from it all, that's what he needed to work himself to the bone for. 

Wrapping his leather jacket closer around his body, Morris wished to disappear into it completely. Even the colorful August couldn't hide that it had gotten colder in the last days of an already far too chilly summer. 

Without any warning, his peaceful solitude was interrupted again. 

A figure stumbled blindly along the sidewalk. Morris' gaze followed them closely, how disoriented feet pushed each other forward and finally letting them flop down onto a bench near the park's exit.

Drunk or high, certainly. Care for another round? 10 bucks for a flat of fentanyl - dark green, quite popular at the moment. 

Still, Belanger didn't give him the go-ahead yet. Maybe he should make today's slow business hum: be proactive, independent. Write it on a resume, why not.

His stiff knee gave an audible crack as it was forced to stand straight, lazily stretching the sore muscles in his back and taking the first few steps towards his potential customer, Morris started to become flustered. 

Could be a setup, for all he knew. Something was off. 

The soon-to-be buyer was wrapped up in shadows, sitting quietly by themself and only rarely mumbling at the stones below their feet.

He approached until their shoes nearly touched, time to play offense: "You good?"

Nothing. Awkward, he wasn't used to making the first move like this.

Shoving at the motionless shoulders only made their head flop forward, and a forced sigh quickly followed it. First week on campus, probably, lost their friends and self-control only to aimlessly walk around the neighborhood.

"You definitely had enough fun for today, buddy," Morris scoffed, ready to turn around. 

Suddenly, he faltered. They had to rethink Belanger's strategy if he ought to stay here, passed-out freshmen were only good for catching unwanted attention and as long as Dutch didn't want to see his ass in jail, any cops on patrol should be avoided. Not that they lost sleep about the mass of catatonic bodies scattered throughout the city streets, just when they were seen in the wrong parts of town - the pleasant ones.

"Move," so he demanded, quickly lifting up their chin, nestled against the stiff collar of their windbreaker, with his fist. "You're gonna get me in trouble."

The hot breath against Morris' hand sent shivers up his spine. After nights like these, he felt mostly frozen numb, but the air coming out in labored and shallow puffs let his fingers tingle with newfound life.

Suddenly, the howl of an ambulance cut through the silence. Not for them, of course, it was surely headed east. As it took a turn and rushed past the unusual couple, Morris caught a quick glimpse of his vis-à-vis.

For less than a heartbeat, his body froze.

His mouth began to open and close like a fish on land, unable to produce a single word, whilst the prickle spread from his back through every inch of his body. A wonderful illusion bloomed under the blue-red-blue-red flicker and as quickly as it had reached both, it left them alone in the nightly glow of streetlights.

Morris didn't hear himself gasp, the rush of blood in his ears was too deafening. Now dead focused on the freckle-sprinkled skin, tousled dark hair and soft lashes, an inward pull kept him from blinking: the fear that he would be ripped out of his trance.

No dream, no wishful thinking. Morris would recognize this face anywhere.

"Elliot?"

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Taglist: @whatwasmyprevioususername, @canislycaon24

[stab-the-son-of-a]

For Now We See Through A Glass

No. 24 FIGHT, FLIGHT OR FREEZE Blood Covered Hands | Catatonic | “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Not so subtly inspired (directly) by @wormwriting's recent piece Stained Glass.

CWs: implied murder, implied drowning, mental health issues and instability, implied alcoholism, eye trauma

Tagging those who might be interested: @wolves-and-winters, @pepperonyscience

He has a pattern. He always has a pattern. A pattern, a ritual, a list of rules to follow. A ritual to unwind, a ritual to breathe. A ritual to be safe. 

At 7:00pm, he brews a cup of peppermint tea and places it on the coaster next to the remote. He pours out exactly three ounces of bourbon and places it directly on the table as far left from the tea as possible. He opens East of Eden to page 284 - On Thanksgiving of 1911 the family gathered at the ranch - and places it spine up on the right hand armrest of the couch; the binding is beginning to fray and he doesn't want to find out what happens when the spine finally breaks. There's always a breaking point. 

He turns the television on, turns up the volume, and carefully replaces the remote to the table, not allowing his hand to brush the mug. 

Then, each step taken like an ax chopping through wood, he takes in hand the worn blanket draped over the back of the couch and curls up, pressing himself between the left arm rest and the suffocating nothing to his right.

The same episode's opening credits roll. The same contrived plot plays out second by second.

7:14pm clicks over on the digital clock above the television. His heart cranks faster and his hand shakes right until the moment his fingers curl around the glass of liquor. It burns all the way down and suffuses through his throat, stomach and even his lungs. He keeps a posture of fabricated ease even as his ribs tighten and anxiety curls in his stomach. He drowns it in an ounce of alcohol.

But he can still feel it approach. The door opens. It's a silent motion, not announced by even the lock clicking open. It makes sense, if he thinks about it, but he does not.

He drains the final ounce and sets down the glass. He pretends he doesn't feel the pressure of a new being entering the room. He focuses on the actors and their simple quips and dialogues as if they're fresh and novel.

It flows around the sofa. It stands just to the right of the TV but he doesn't acknowledge it, doesn't look to the dark shape no matter how his eyes may want to skirt over the rerun he's seen countless times before. He knows each line by heart and could watch it behind his eyelids, but he knows better than to close his eyes. Not now.

His focus and vision narrows to a tunnel with the light at the end being a glowing television screen and trite acting. He tells himself he doesn't see it, but soon he can't deny it. 

A pressure divots the couch behind and beside him, ruining the embrace of fabric pressing against him, ruining the last vestiges of his illusion.

A flash of memory stabs him through the chest. Of shaking chains and of whispered pleas, of closing the door to lock the sounds behind him.

There are cold, cold fingers, and they find their homes around his wrist, layering over blackened bruises, or in between strands of his hair. 

He swallows a shudder, tries not to breathe, but the stench of stale water and musky earth still permeates his senses. Another flash. Reeds and bricks weighing down on a still chest, water soaking into wounds and a mouth left hanging open by a shattered jaw, like a door on a broken hinge. Bloodied hands washing bloodied hands in a too calm lake, surface broken only by the shoreline.

It whispers the next line of dialogue in his ear. Its breath is like leaves crunching underfoot; its laugh is like a broken wind chime strangled in the breeze. 

He breaks his own rule. He closes his eyes.

The hands in his hair and holding his hand grow sharp and harsh. Fingers dig into flesh until they become like claws burying into soil. Blood wells up in the cuts and drips to the couch cushion.

"You'd best not close your eyes for this part," the thing that was but now isn't Sidney snarls. It yanks Sterling's head back as it swings its ephemeral body over his, weightless yet heavy enough to crush his chest. Its presence is like cords of rope and its pressure is like the clay of the lakebed. 

His fear tangles in his veins and sends electric shocks all through his body. He breaks another of his own rules. He begs, "Sidney, please..."

"Open your eyes." It doesn't give him time to obey, just forces his head back further, straining his neck further, until his neck is bent over the edge of the couch, and uses one claw to pry open his eyelid. The pressure on his skull feels ready to cave in. His vision is blurred, though who can say if that's from tears or pain, but he clearly sees what will happen next.

The thing uses only one hand to hold him in place. That's all it needs. The other lifts high, long talons dirtied with soil and blood, flesh torn from the tips.

"Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"So sorry," it echoes, voice something warbling and distorted. "No, not yet."

Claws rake across bone, through skin and muscle and organs. Pain fills his mind, overwhelms his mind, and it becomes his soul, his very being. Blood flows free down his face and into his mouth as he shrieks –

Panting, Sterling bolts upright. The television still plays, sound up much too loud, remote on the floor, perhaps where his thrashing had left it. The glass is full again. 4 ounces. Perhaps he overpoured. 

He doesn't dare look around. Shivering in the nighttime chill, he brings the whiskey to his lips and swallows it all readily. He pulls the blanket around him as he lilts over, eyes staring at the screen but not seeing anything. His hand finds his wrist, feeling the fresh scabs and the hot pulse of fresh bruises under his own touch.

Cold fingers wind through his hair. 

"Not yet," something he doesn't acknowledge whispers. The room stinks of water and rot and alcohol, but the scent is fading. The peppermint tea is missing.

[justheretobreakthings]

All right, I'm seeing all these polls going around about people's favorite whump tropes and scenarios, so now I'm here to bring down all this positivity.

[whumpsday]

Kane & Jim #53: Healing Right

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: recovery, (past) vampire whumper, broken bones, past loss of bodily autonomy, offscreen surgery, emotional whump

Whumpmas in July Day 18: Ache

back to this guy :)

-

Jim rubbed at the bump on his arm where the bone didn't heal quite right, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. The bone on his forearm went at an angle, up and up, before suddenly dropping off where it met misaligned with the rest of it going to his elbow. Bones, they'd told him there were two, but it was easier to just think of it as one.

It hurt, but it wasn't a bad hurt. Jim knew bad hurt. It was a dull ache he'd gotten used to over the past two years. It didn't hurt like the snap when Kane cracked Jim's arm open with his bare hands anymore, and he had pain meds now anyway. He'd tried to get on some stronger ones, but Liz had told him it wasn't a good idea, that he'd get hooked. Jim wasn't very good at disagreeing with people anymore, so he just took her word for it.

But he'd get some now for sure. Even Liz said it was okay this time. Because he had to get his arm re-broken.

Every day as the operation got closer, the dread grew more and more. He knew it wouldn't be like the first time. He'd be conked out, and he'd be allowed pain meds, real pain meds. It wasn't a punishment, and if all went well, his arm would be fixed. No reminder of Kane every time he looked at it. Probably no dull ache. It was even his own choice.

They couldn't fix the scar on his neck, neither the mark or the pain, so this was the best he could do to scrub off any lasting reminders Kane had left on his body. Liz's friend Laken had suggested a tattoo to cover it, but the idea of a needle going into his neck was so horrifying that the thought made him want to throw up.

But he could do this, at least. Even if breaking his arm again would be scary, he needed to claw his body back for himself. He needed to know it was his again, not Kane's. No matter how much it would hurt.

“I don’t belong to anyone. My body is mine. I’m out," Jim whispered to his reflection. Afraid to say it any louder, like Kane would be able to hear and swiftly correct him.

He got dressed, hiding his neck and arm under a turtleneck. He'd started dressing in them every day, though he knew he would need to take it off for the surgery. One more thing to dread about it, but he told himself it was worth it.

"You ready?" Liz asked as he came downstairs.

Jim shrugged. "As I'll ever be, I guess."

-

The operation was a success. If there was anything at all to thank Kane for, it would be that he'd made a relatively clean break.

Jim's arm hurt like hell when he woke, but he knew it wasn't as bad as it would be without the meds. He had a cast this time, and a real sling, not one he had to make himself. His friends kept wanting to sign the cast, but something about it made him wildly uncomfortable in a way he couldn't explain.

He knew the old him would have jumped at the chance to have all his friends sign it. Probably would have given out points for who could draw the best doodle. He was practically a social butterfly when he was nineteen, before Kane got to him, but now it just seemed like he kept finding more and more disconnects with his old friends. They had jobs and babies and memories of the past five years together, and all he had were Kane and panic attacks.

Even though his friends kept reaching out and inviting him to stuff, he was too neurotic to act like his old self. It felt like putting on an act, it felt wrong. And being his real self was even worse: he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want them to know.

His cast remained unmarked.

-

He woke with a scream a week after his surgery, his arm exploding with pain, far worse than it'd been during his recovery.

Jim looked around wildly, but couldn't see the source of the pain in the dark of his room. He sobbed, clutching his arm protectively to his chest. He'd been so badly-behaved lately that he couldn't even pinpoint what it was he was being punished for.

He flinched back into the headboard with a whimper as the door flew open. "Please don't," he begged, trembling.

"It's okay, it's just me," Liz soothed. She sat down next to him. "Nightmare again?"

"No, I don't- I don't think so?" Jim struggled to catch himself back up to reality, but with the haze of sleep leaving his mind and Liz's presence grounding him, he came to the conclusion it wasn't a punishment at all. "I hit my arm in my sleep," he realized. "Sorry for waking you. Didn't mean to."

"You're all good," Liz assured him. "I wasn't even asleep. Getting myself back on schedule for when I go back to work."

Jim's stomach turned at the thought, even though it was no surprise. "What if something happens to you?"

"Someone's gotta protect people from 'em. Plus, I know we live in the cheapest place in the country, but I've gotta get back to work," she pointed out.

"There's other jobs. I'll get one again too, once I'm better. You could just... not go back." As much as Jim hated living by the border, the fact that it was so cheap to live here at least gave them some leeway. At least they didn't have to worry about rent, even though selling the house was nearly impossible if they ever wanted to move.

Liz patted him on the back. "Not for me, there isn't. It'll be okay. I won't be alone, and I've been doing this for years with no issues."

"What about that?" Jim pointed to the scars on her face, faded claw-marks running dangerously close to her throat.

"That barely even counts. You should've seen the other guy. Dead, for what it's worth. Most vampires won't even fight us, they just decide it's not worth the trouble and run back home. It's gonna be fine." She gave him a quick hug. "You gonna be okay to go back to bed?"

"Yeah. Just... be safe. I can't lose you again," Jim said quietly.

Liz gave him a sad smile. "I know how you feel. I'll be as safe as I can. Just go back to sleep."

True to his disobedient streak, Jim couldn't manage to fall back asleep, mind racing with fear. Liz getting taken by vampires, subjected to the same hell as him, or having her mind stolen from her entirely. Kane showing back up to steal him away in the night while Liz is off fighting other vampires, arriving home too late to help. Jim reached a shaking hand under his pillow and took his stake- a real one this time- and held it close as he sobbed, trying to be quiet and not disturb Liz again.

He could only hope his arm would heal better than he was.

-

i'll be putting out two one-shots next! one about a fairy whumpee on friday, and one about an alien whumpee on monday. after that, more Jim in Distress!

event: @whumpmasinjuly

taglist in reblog!

[feministfandomgeek]

Hurtcomfort/Whump Radiostatic Fanfic Recs

++++

Oleanders in June by Spoondrifts

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54842197

Hurt Vox with Caretaker Alastor (pre breakup or au). 

—-

Meteor Shower by spoondrifts

https://archiveofourown.org/series/4032370

RadioStaticRose queerplatonic. Alastor and Vox whump. 

—-

Put Your Fingers Back to the Keys by Rachello34

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54625816

Alastor whump is mostly offscreen so this might be a stretch, but I still really enjoyed it. Vox pov.

—-

To Care for One Another by Jad3w1ngs

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54611779

Alastor whump. Established radiostatic au where they never parted ways and both came to the hotel. Short and sweet. 

—-

Static by passthevoxcord

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34989667

Caretaker Alastor for whumpee Vox. Whumper Val. Radiostatic endgame.

—-

666 Live on Air by princeliest

https://archiveofourown.org/series/3969442

This will not be for everyone! Lots of kink and sex exploration. Read the tags of each fic thoroughly. Radiostatic. Emotional whump for both of them. Really great character exploration.

—-

Enjoy! And if you have questions about any of these fics, hit me up!

If you want to talk about or nerd out about any of these Please DM me. I would LOVE to.

[whumperhive]

PT51734 - Rules

@bbu-on-the-side

Contents: Guard Dog whumpee, Pet whump(?), Nonhuman Whumpee, Male whumper (offscreen)

Takes place in the same universe as Double A! Woagh, two Days in one?? Amazing!!!

They didn’t mean it.

Truly, they didn’t.

They had rules, a routine, everything good and simple. Something a pet should know.

Something they should have known.

9:00 AM, sharp, they were to patrol the grounds. Usually they were paired with another Guard, something about having a pair of eyes behind you, Mrs. Altringer had said.

The morning was cool, the dew on the blades of grass from the mist that was fading in the slices of sun rays that cast from between the trees that surrounded the estate. Elody made a mental note to inform Mr. Altringer about the height before it got too out of control. He liked it being at a certain height, and they knew that this was becoming a bit too long.

Their ears twitched as they looked around, a small cloud of wariness settling over them at the feeling of absence behind them. Markus was sick this morning, Miranda and Orion were patrolling the other side of the estate, and August…

They pushed aside the sickly feeling pooling into their stomach at the thought of the fellow Guard. He had made the mistake of becoming distracted a few weeks ago when the Altringers were out; poor little Anastacia had nearly become lost in the large market they had attended. The last time they had seen him was the night they had come back; the whites of his eyes visible, canine ears pinned against his head, muzzle all too-tight around his face and brows pinched in pain. He had been dragged to the back, Mr. Altringer’s booming voice nearly snarled as he berated him.

Elody took a deep breath, feeling the collar around their neck tighten as they did. The familiar feeling brought them back to reality, brushing away the memories. Of course he’d be fine, training was necessary with the ownership of pets. Still, they had remembered their days down in the basement, begging cries going unheard, the gnawing ache in their stomach, the itchy feeling of drying blood against aching wounds struggling to scab over. They clench and unclenched their hands, focusing on the thudding of their hooves beneath them, tilting their ears this way and that to analyze the surroundings. Not the time to get lost in thought, not now.

Instead, they focused on their schedule, reminding themself of the rules given to them by Mrs. Altringer.

9:00 AM: Patrol the Front of the Estate.

They will follow every command anyone of the Altringer family gives them. Without questioning.

10:00 AM: Take post at the front gates to the estate.

Speak when spoken to. Dogs do not have voices.

12:00 PM: Return home for lunch.

Keep a strict workout regimen, Mr. Altringer has provided you and the others with what will be acceptable.

12:30 PM: Take post at the back gates of the estate.

Muzzles will be used at our discretion, it will be our choice if we feel the need to —

Though the reminders are calming, familiar, they accidentally distract. Elody comes-to when their body instinctually jolts at the sound of a branch snapping as if a gunshot had gone off. Their eyes snap to the foliage close to the house, grand bushes blooming with flowers that smelled so strongly they weren’t sure if the noise was a stray animal or a threat.

Ears pinning back, they went on the defensive, stomping towards the noise. The noises alerting to others unseen, nonexistent. They feel the need to lower their head, shake around the small antlers resting in front of their ears towards an unknown threat. They don’t, of course, but the feeling, the instinct, the need, is still there like something heavy hanging in their chest.

Suddenly, another snap, this time to the right. Their eyes hone in on where it comes from, closer to Mrs. Altringer’s garden. The lady of the house hates having it messed with, and that sends a spike of fear through them like a dagger. They grit their teeth behind thin lips as they approach, heart hammering in their chest. It feels strange, wrong, to be the one sneaking up on a threat. They feel the need to turn tail and hide, to run away from whatever this was, unseen, unknown. All of it screamed of danger, danger — run run run run and hide and flee and protect and snap and bite —

They dig their hand into the bushes covered in sickly-sweet smelling, soft pink flowers and yank back something screeching and kicking and yelling. They let loose a growl that comes from their throat, unfamiliar and unnatural feeling to use.

Their vision is tunneling as they throw the figure to the side, nose and eyebrows pinched and teeth shown in an attempt to seem threatening as they stomp a hoof once more. They can feel their tail displaying the striking white against black to warn, for a nonexistent group to run and hide and find safety.

“Dude, what the fuck?!”

Elody blinks and their eyes clear as their heart drops.

Fuck.

Oh, fuck.

Laying on the ground is the eldest son of the Altringers, Elias, holding his arm and face wrenched in a pained, shocked scowl. Dirt is smeared on his freckled face, jet black hair that usually is clean and shining covered in leaves and petals. The penned up suit he usually wears is discarded for a hoodie and sweatpants, now littered with a few tears.

But what makes them freeze is the cut on his cheek, a thin crimson line dripping down to his chin.

“Oh — Oh goodness, I didn’t —”

“Shut up.” The order is followed by their jaw snapping shut with an audible click, a barely-hidden wince as they bite down on their tongue.

“Do you know what you just did?!” His voice is raised now, and he should quiet down, Mrs. Altringer needs her rest and Anastacia wakes in an hour and God only knows how long they’ve been out; they need to get to the front gates, that’s at 10, and they need to go because that’s rule 6, to be on time, and they follow rules: rule 1, rule 2, rule 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7 days are in a week and 4 weeks in a month and 5 months until —

Elody nearly falls to the ground as they’re manhandled, pin striking down their skull as Elias grips one of their antlers harshly, pulling on the outermost tine. Even if he’s told them to shut up, they’re begging, blabbering like some child about to be punished, chest rising and falling in heaves as they stumble over tile. Their hooves aren’t made for such surfaces, they’re meant outside, they’re meant to be guarding, it’s their purpose, please, please!

“P - Please, I didn’t mean i - it! I thought y — an outsider! I thought you were an intruder — please, please, sir! Please, it was an accident, please!”

Their pleads go unheard, and soon it’s back to the darkness, the cold, the aching.

And what irony was it that their company was one and the same with them.

Rulebreakers.

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Whumptember day 29

“You told me this was the right thing” Mislead | Blood on hands | Too late

Content warning: mention of body desposal, offscreen Whumpee death

Whumper had never questioned who they were ordered to kill. They trusted Caretaker, trusted that their judgment was sound and the people they targeted deserved it. Caretaker did the hard work of weeding out the criminals and deciding who the world was better without, and Whumper got rid of them. Whumper had never needed to know anything but a name and a location.

But something was different this time. Something about Whumpee was different.

They couldn’t put a word on it. Whumpee had begged and cried like all the others, but something about them just screamed wrongness to Whumper. They didn’t seem as hardened as the others. They seemed so...normal. It had eaten at Whumper as they planned their kidnapping, It’d nagged them as they stuffed Whumpee’s unconscious body in the trunk of their car. And it nagged them now, as they were returning home from disposing of the body.

When Whumper returned from disposing of the body, Caretaker was still scrubbing blood from the basement floor. The smell of cleaner was overpowering.

"Um," Whumper’s voice broke the quiet. They hesitated, feeling like they were about to break some unspoken rule. They knew they were just letting anxiety get the better of them, but still they continued. “So, who was Whumpee exactly?

Caretaker stopped scrubbing. They turned a quizzical look Whumper's way. "What? Why do you ask?"

Immediately Whumper regretted saying anything. "I mean, I guess it doesn't –," Whumper backtracked. "I'm just…curious I guess?"

“Curious,” Caretaker repeated. They allowed the basement to fall silent for a moment, staring with Whumper with a piercing, considering gaze. Whumpee struggled not to wilt under the force of it. After what felt like an eternity, Caretaker rolled their eyes, chuckling as they returned to their work. "They’re nothing interesting, just another scumbag.”

“I know that but, who exactly were they? What’d they do?,” They were gradually realizing that they didn’t actually know how Caretaker picked targets. Whumper had always just been happy to follow their orders. They were still happy to. Something was just bothering them this time.

Caretaker sighed, annoyance clear on their face. They leveled Whumper with a deadpan stare. “Whumper, is this really what you’re caught up on? We have better things to do than worry about that right now.”

Whumpee flinched at the reprimand.“I’m sorry. I just…,” They looked away, fingers tangling with one another. “It’s just really bothering me, that’s all. Why can’t you just tell me? Who even is Whumpee?”

“Was,” Something close to mirth flashed on Caretaker’s face. “Who even was Whumpee. They’re dead, do who cares? It’s a bit too late for questions like that now.”

“I care!” Whumper hadn’t meant to shout. They flinched at the way their voice echoed against the walls, reminding them all too clearly of Whumpee’s screams mere hours ago. “Please.”

After a pause, Caretaker sighed again, this time more gently. They stood, removing their gloves with trained smoothness. They approached Whumper, and Whumper found themselves flinching back, expecting to be scolded. Instead, Caretaker only gave them a sympathetic smile.

“You trust me, right?”, Caretaker’s voice was soft, and Whumper found themselves latching onto the comfort of it. They nodded and Caretaker’s smile widened. “Then don’t worry about it. I know exactly what I’m doing,” They squeezed Whumper’s hand, giving them a reassuring look. “ Look. It’s been a long day and we’re both exhausted. How about I run you a nice bath, hm? I know you're usually not hungry after a job, but maybe I could make you a little something? You’ll feel better afterwards.”

The thought of bathing just made Whumper all the more aware of the lingering scent of blood on them. It was tempting to simply accept the offer, take the olive branch Caretaker was offering and stop bothering them. That feeling of unease still lingered in Whumper’s mind, but the dread of angering Caretaker again overwhelmed it. Weakly, Whumper nodded.

With a encouraging pat, Caretaker made their way up the stairs. Whumper watched them go quietly.

[mellowwhumps]

(Not-so) “Whumperless” Whump Event Day 3: Vertigo (kinda) | Struggling to stand

OCs: Haley, Twelve (magic!AU)

written before it was announced that whumpers shouldn’t be implied either,,, so yes, there is a specific whumper who caused this, even if offscreen

——————

Haley knew when he’d gone too far, the way the room seemed to revolve around his being. In fact, he was more than familiar with the symptoms of magic exhaustion. Such was the plight of his current role in the castle.

He nearly toppled over, instinctively wrapping his arms around the concoction to cushion it from any impending falls. He’d tried for days to perfect it, this spell. With the lack of books present, he went through numerous trials and errors to even get to this point. 

Right now, he could barely think. What a shame, then. Seemed that the people above wouldn’t be getting their potion today, and he could preserve the good of this world for a while longer. Might as well just get the job over and done with, he thought, pouring another bottle of wispy solution into the vial and chanting a few practiced words.

Almost immediately, he was interrupted by another bout of nausea, clutching his head as his legs gave way and he slid down the wall he was leaning on, sitting awkwardly on the dirty floor. He couldn’t maintain this anymore, despite how much he so desperately wanted to. Something felt empty in him, something ever-yearning for energy. Back home, it would be more than easy to replenish that, yet over here, the usual soups he could make were barred to him.

He crawled his way to the makeshift shelf of ingredients where his bed once used to be, and even that small action made black spots bloom in his vision. He thinks twice before attempting to push himself up. He knows he can’t. Instead, he resolved himself to simply staying stationary, adjusting his position to get comfortable. 

The floor was cold. He was cold. His thoughts wandered to the prince that unintentionally led to such a situation. He doubted that the carefree boy from the unimaginable time before would even be aware of such a place, right beneath the floors he walked.

Light permeated the room for the slightest of seconds before another figure was thrown in and the room returned back to darkness. 

Almost immediately, he could tell they were not normal: if not for the shock of snow-white hair, then the way his hairs stood on end from the sheer aura radiating off them in waves and waves. His energy levels, though still below average, spared him the pleasure of having a little more than enough strength to stand, cautiously approaching the small boy with a million thoughts rampaging his fatigued mind.

There wouldn’t be a reason for him to slack now. Even before the stranger spoke, he comprehended just how much the task was required of him.

[whump-card]

Sunless Lives: Arc 1

This is a long-form story with 36 parts and 68k words (unless I rewrite the ending again. Don't let me do that). It’s about a team working for a government agency that is tasked with hunting and capturing vampires, the Vampire Investigations Unit, or VIU (said like ‘view’).

When a captured vampire escapes and attacks researcher Simon McKenna and their team captain wants to cover it up, agents Matthew Beck and Gina Ruiz must help Simon recover alone, and in the process uncover his dark past. And that's just the first arc - things get wilder from there! This story contains elements of SA/noncon, but in this arc the worst is offscreen backstory. 

Part 1: I Should Have Seen This Coming

~3130 words (A double feature! Most chapters are around half this length)

CW: Negative self-talk, anxiety, home invasion, vampire whumper, vampire feeding, attempted noncon, noncon kiss, broken bones, head injury

Next, Masterlist

~~~

They got the call while they were headed for the processing facility, the vampire in their custody.

Christian Isles, a gruff man in his 50s and their team captain, listened to his cell with a furrowed brow before twisting around in his passenger seat to announce to the three others in the van:

“Processing center is overwhelmed. Some big bust over on the north side. We’re taking him home with us for a few hours.”

Matthew Beck, the pale, husky agent in the driver’s seat, looked in the rearview at the armored vehicle following them. It contained the latest capture by their Vampire Investigation Unit - or VIU - team, Edward Finch. The vampire had fought like hell before suddenly surrendering, putting them all on edge.

“Are you sure we can hold him?” Matthew asked, “I know a previous assessment had him at grade C, but after that fight -”

“We can hold him,” Captain Isles declared, “And it won’t be for long.”

The two young women in the backseat, agents Amber Wynn and Gina Ruiz, glanced at each other. They were familiar with their captain’s ‘we’ll-do-it-ourselves’ attitude and knew that this meant they’d be awake even longer than they already had been. No other team would be called to assist.

“You gonna radio Simon about that, Cap?” Amber asked, looking back to her boss.

“Yeah, yeah,” Isles huffed, “He’s not going to like this.” He grabbed the transmitter off the dashboard and clicked it on

“McKenna, processing is backed up, we can’t take Finch there yet. We have to hold him at base until they’re ready.”

A moment of silence passed, and Matthew could hardly imagine what Simon was thinking. The whole team knew their researcher had… history, but only Captain Isles knew the full extent. Given the events of today…

“Seriously?” The response finally crackled out of the radio.

“Yeah, seriously,” Isles replied, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice, “and he’ll be completely under control. We'll take care of everything, you can just… make yourself scarce.”

“Captain, I don’t have much up-to-date information on him, are you sure our facilities can hold -”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

There was another pause, as if Simon was debating whether to add his next comment.

“He surrendered after he heard my voice on the radio. Are you sure -”

“It’s fine, McKenna!” Isles snapped, “Just hole up in your room, you don’t have to come out until he’s gone, alright?”

“Yeah… yeah,” said Simon, cowed, “Please take every precaution.”

Matthew finally butted in on his own radio. He didn’t have the guts to talk back to Isles directly, but he tried to be on Simon’s side when the Captain’s harsh nature got the better of him, as it often did with Simon.

“McKenna, we will follow every protocol, alright? You can even come and check that we’ve done everything correctly.”

“Thanks, Beck, but I’ll stay out of the way.”

Captain Isles returned the transmitter to the dash with an air of finality.

Amber leaned forward in her seat, eyes narrowed at Isles.

“Captain, I get that he’s a couple years younger than the rest of us, but telling him to go to his room is pushing it a bit, yeah?” 

“He’s the only one that has a room, if any of you lived on-base I’d be sending you to your room all the time too!” Isles joked.

Amber sat back, clearly deciding to not push it further. Gina, ever the silent type, rolled her eyes at Amber, eliciting a small laugh from the other woman. Isles chose to believe it was for him.

~~~

Captain Isles radioed the armored truck, informing the final member of their team, Devon Barre, as well as the VIU truck driver, of their change of plans. When the two vehicles arrived at the VIU base - an imposing brutalist building in the heart of DC, four stories tall with subterranean levels to match - the transfer of Finch from the truck to the small cellblock went smoothly. The vampire was still mostly sedated from his initial capture. 

The cellblock had four B-grade certified cells on floor -1, small metal-plated rooms outfitted with a cot and toilet each. The only points of entry were a ceiling air vent too narrow to even think about crawling through, and the heavy metal door with a small reinforced glass window.

Matthew peered in through the window at Finch, dumped unceremoniously on the cot inside. The vampire’s long limbs dangled off the thin mattress, and his previously perfect blond hair stuck up in disarray. The sight gave Matthew a sense of satisfaction - another vampire, off the streets. He jumped when Captain Isles clapped his hands together.

“Well! I know you’re all tired after chasing this scum all night, but we’re not done yet.” He scanned their group, honing in on who looked the most awake.

“Wynn, you stay here on guard.”

Amber’s shoulders slumped a little as Isles continued.

“I know, I know, but we promised to take extra precautions, right? Everyone else, go take care of your gear, shower, get some sleep. Beck, I want you back here to relieve Wynn in an hour.”

Matthew nodded.

“Yessir.”

He shot Amber a sympathetic glance as she settled onto the bench outside the cell door. She waved halfheartedly as the rest of them headed for the locker rooms. Along the way, Matthew took a detour to their team’s communications room, but found the workstation empty. Captain Isles stepped in behind him, resting a hand on Matthew’s shoulder.

“He’ll be alright, Beck. Better to give him his space, yeah?”

Matthew nodded, reluctant.

“Right.”

In the locker room, the three men peeled off their gear - sidearms, UV flashlights, and bulletproof vests - and showered. On their way out they passed by a couple agents from other teams who congratulated them on their capture. Then they headed for the bunkroom. Unlike Simon, they all had homes to go to, but Captain Isles had made it clear that they were to remain on duty in the building until Finch left their custody.

Matthew had asked both Isles and Simon about Simon’s housing situation before. He received cryptically brief answers from both of them, but he got the picture. Simon had run-ins with vampires on his previous team, back when he was a field agent, not a researcher. Some of them got away, and held a grudge. Living in the fortress that was the VIU building was his safest option. Matthew felt sorry for the guy. It couldn’t be easy, living in a basement, unable to leave, waiting for the day the final vampire on his list is captured. Not that Matthew spent a weird amount of time thinking about what Simon might be feeling. Definitely not.

Matthew did his best to get comfortable in a bunk that barely fit him and set a timer on his phone for 45 minutes. Then, unbelievably exhausted, he fell asleep almost instantly; he didn’t even have the energy to wonder what Simon would do when he could finally go outside, and whether Matthew would be there.

~~~

Matthew’s alarm ripped him away from sleep what felt like seconds later. He silenced it quickly, whispering apologies to the groaning and hissing agents nearby it had also woken up. He pulled on his boots and slipped out to the locker room to gear back up, then headed down to the cellblock.

When he arrived he found Amber asleep sitting up on the bench, her head awkwardly flopped to the side.

“Wynn!” he whisper-shouted. She jumped.

“Ss’sleep! What? Shit!” She stood up quickly, almost losing her balance. “I can’t believe I fell asleep!”

Matthew caught her arm to steady her.

“It happens, we were all exhausted. When did you fall asleep?”

“A little while after Finch woke up, I think? He started talking shit so I was trying to tune him out, and I guess I tuned him out too well.”

“He’s quiet now though, huh?” Matthew stepped over to look through the window, and froze, ice running down his spine.

“Amber.”

“Yeah?”

“He’s gone.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth, then shouldered Matthew aside to look through the window.

“No, no no no…” she spun to face him, her big green eyes wide with fear.

“Matthew, he was talking about Simon. Where is he?!”

~~~

“Thanks, Beck, but I’ll stay out of the way.”

Simon waited, but no reply came. He eased back in his chair in front of the communications workstation, taking deep, controlled breaths. He relaxed his hands, and color flooded back to his light-brown skin where it had gone white at the knuckles.

He’ll be locked up. Yeah, he’ll be in the same building, but…

Simon started as Christian's - Captain Isles’ voice came through the radio again, but it wasn’t for him, he was just updating Devon and the driver in the other vehicle. Simon couldn’t listen to it any longer, he ripped off his headset and stood up sharply enough to send the chair rolling away behind him.

Childish. You’re being childish. There’s nothing to worry about.

He walked - walked, didn’t run, didn’t flee - to the elevator and pressed the call button before immediately deciding it would take too long and spinning around to take the stairs. He started down too fast before seeing someone else coming up and slowing down, putting on what he hoped was a pleasantly neutral expression and nodding at them as they passed.

God, be normal. They already think you’re weird.

His pace picked back up as he reached subfloor 3. There were two apartments down there intended to be temporary safehouses for victims. One had been converted into his permanent home. He pressed a shaking hand to the handprint reader and the door silently unlocked. Once he was inside and the door was locked again behind him, he let out a long breath into the dark. His heart slowed. He was safe. No one could get in here unless he let them.

Do what Christain says. Just stay here.

He clicked on the lights. The apartment was tiny, but it was all he needed. To his right was a couch, coffee table, and television, with a treadmill behind the couch and a short, overflowing bookcase on the far wall. To his left was a postage stamp of a kitchen. Straight ahead was the briefest of hallways leading to a bathroom and bedroom. The whole place had scratchy wall-to-wall carpeting, except for the linoleum kitchen and bathroom. This far underground there were no windows, so Simon kept a UV lamp on the desk in his bedroom and tried to read a book under it for a while every evening. He mostly ended up doomscrolling on his phone instead.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep despite being awake for over 24 hours, Simon sat on the couch and opened up his personal laptop that mostly lived on the coffee table (another prime doomscrolling location). He pulled up a VIU training lecture recording and hit play. Only ten minutes in and he could tell the instructor didn’t know what he was talking about.

That isn’t what initiations are for. That isn’t how the hierarchy works. That isn’t what they do with bloodbags at initiations, that isn’t what they did with -

He slammed the laptop shut and pressed his hands to his face.

Breathe. Breathe. (He’s probably upstairs right now) Shut up!

Clearly, he’d picked the worst possible thing to distract himself with. He turned on the television, tuning in to some inane morning talk show. No, that was a lie - the four personalities on Morning With Marissa were like family to him, he’d listen to them talk about anything - fashion, celebrity gossip, the latest kitchen appliance. On that particular morning, the subject was a new self-help book that one of them had written. As he watched, the familiar voices soothed his anxiety, and his eyelids grew heavy.

“- and I swear, two weeks! Two weeks was all it took -”

“Marissaaaa, you’re so kind!”

“Truly, folks, even if you think you don’t need this book? You do!”

“All I wanted was to record my dear mama’s advice to me when I first moved out…”

Sleep crept over Simon before he could stop it. He had hazy dreams of vampires with familiar faces selling him self-help books and overpriced blenders.

~~~

Thump-thump-thump.

Simon awoke, inhaling too sharply and coughing because of it.

“That’s all from us today, tune in tomorrow and see us-”

Thump-thump-thump.

Someone was knocking on his door. Was Christian here? Was he late for work? He’d fallen asleep on the couch again, his button-down and slacks were all wrinkled. He turned the TV off and scrambled to his feet, still half-asleep, and opened the door.

Whoever was on the other side shoved the door inwards, knocking Simon off-balance. He stumbled back, his eyes rising to meet those of Edward Finch.

Edward Finch, in his apartment, closing the door behind him.

No one could get in now.

Simon felt like the blood was draining from his body, like he’d already been bitten. He wasn’t dreaming, and he knew it. Ed’s face was too pleasant, too politely pleased, not the leering horror Simon would dream about. Something about how casual Ed looked kept Simon eerily calm.

“Ed, wh… Why are you here?” Simon asked. His voice was gravely from sleep, which covered the tremors in it.

“I came to see you, of course!” Ed declared, “My good boy.” His eyes squinted as he smiled wide, baring his fangs.

Those words snapped Simon out of his stupor.

Fucking MOVE.

He turned to sprint away into the apartment. There was a panic button behind the television, he just needed to reach it -

Simon felt hands hit his back and he was tackled to the ground, Edward on top of him. Something cracked within him on impact, and pain lanced through his ribcage in a small explosion. Ed grabbed at Simon’s hair, but it was mercifully too short for him to get a grip. Simon twisted, ribs screaming, throwing Edward off to the right, and he heard a thunk and a grunt as the vampire collided with the heavy coffee table. Simon somehow got his feet back under himself and took another desperate step towards the TV, but a cold hand wrapped around his right ankle and pulled it to the side, sending him tipping to the left. He went down and his temple slammed into the edge of the kitchen counter. The crack reverberated through this body like a lightning strike. The room warped, and he felt the floor slam into his back, his spine taking the brunt of the hit this time. A heavy weight landed on his hips, and Ed loomed over him. Simon grabbed Ed’s wrists as they descended towards him, but only succeeded in uselessly holding on as Ed clawed at his shirt, ripping it open and sending popped buttons flying. Ed twisted his arms out of Simon’s hold and pinned down Simon’s wrists in turn. Then he lunged down and bit. Hard.

Simon finally screamed. There would be no neat twin pinpricks of fangs here, Ed’s full set of teeth tore through the skin. It felt like he was actually trying to rip out a chunk of Simon’s trapezoid, not just drink his blood. Maybe he was. Simon’s legs kicked uselessly against the carpet. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. His single cry died out and he struggled to take in new air. Any and all self-defense training he’d taken had evaporated out of his skull. He could feel the blood slowly draining out of his body as his limbs weakened and his vision darkened and distorted with tears.

This isn’t supposed to happen. Not here. It’s supposed to be safe here. Chris promised…

Simon’s thoughts unraveled as staying awake and breathing became his brain’s priority.

After what Simon knew was dangerously too long, Edward unlatched. Simon heard another uncontrollable, weak noise leave his own throat when Ed’s teeth pulled out. Ed shifted to put his face nose-to-nose with Simon, dripping blood onto Simon’s open lips. There was the toothy, gloating grin that Simon would dream about.

“How about,” Edward said slowly, “We see what else we can get up to before the cavalry arrives?”

Simon tried to speak, to say anything, but he could only make shallow, sobbing breaths, and choke on the drops of blood. Edward stood, still holding Simon’s wrists, and yanked him upright. Pain burned through the bite wound and what was likely a broken rib or two, and between that and the blood loss Simon nearly passed out as Ed held him upright, switching his grip to one hand on Simon’s upper arm, confident he would receive no resistance at this point. He started pulling Simon towards the bedroom, and Simon felt a new wave of adrenaline kick in.

No. no no no no no.

Suddenly he saw it, something he could do, even in his weakened state. As he was pulled past the television, he made a controlled crash into the protruding corner of the wall where it turned into the hallway. Out of Ed’s sight, his right hand slid down the wall and hit the panic button.

Nothing happened.

Simon sobbed as Ed tugged him back upright.

“Come on, clumsy.”

Simon tried one last effort of resistance and went completely limp, but that only made Edward pull him back up and hold him with his back against Ed’s chest, one arm around him like a seatbelt. Simon quickly realized this was a far worse, and far more intimate, position to be in. He pawed at Edward’s arm, but it was useless.

“Cozy, hmm? Let’s see here…”

Guessing, Edward opened the bathroom door first. He tutted in disappointment, then opened the bedroom door.

“Here we are!... Wow, you really don’t decorate. I hate what you’ve done with the place.”

He dumped Simon onto the bed. Simon tried to kick his legs and crawl backwards, away, to put any amount of distance between them, but Edward easily pushed his knees down and climbed on top of him. He trailed a hand down Simon’s exposed chest, and the faded lines there.

“Oh, I remember these…”

CRASH!

“SIMON!”

Matthew.

Simon sucked in a full breath, finally, and bellowed, “HERE!” His voice cracked. God, he sounded stupid.

“Oh no!” Edward laughed. “Looks like we’re out of time. Here…”

He leaned down and kissed Simon on the lips. Simon jerked his head to the side, and Edward’s mouth left a long smear of blood across his face, mingling with tears. Then the vampire got up off the bed and calmly walked out into the hallway, his hands raised.

“I surrend-OOF!”

He was tackled by Matthew, quickly followed by Gina. Simon struggled up onto his elbows and watched them tussle on his hallway floor. Then he realized -

They can see you.

They’re all going to see you.

~~~

~~~

~~~

Next, Masterlist

Taglist: @angst-after-dark

[painonthebrain]

Also, bonus question, does what role the character play affect how you feel about their death or if they were to die? For example, a whumper dying vs a whumpee dying or a caretaker dying

[blackberry-bloody]

Masterlist

This is a masterlist for my written content!

And if you like any of these, I have a Discord server that I'm working on putting content in! It's pretty chaotic, but it's fun!

While there is some overlap between series, since they all take place within the same universe, they can be read independently of each other.

Also, Stay down, doesn't really have an order to be read in, It's very up in the air and a bit jumbled. So while some context may be lost, it can essentially be read in any order (as it stands right now. This may change later.)

Meet my ocs-

Meet Mibium

Meet Berkley

Series-

Pick Your Poison:

Masterlist

A Choose your own adventure whump story where the player/reader is the whumpee to a mad scientist.

Contains: Lab whump, creepy whumper, paranoia and gaslighting, horror elements.

Characters: Berkley, Mx. Doe, Rain, Marley

Stay Down:

Dayzel's half- A somewhat jumbled story of Dayzel, a demon, and the multiple bouts of whumping he has endured throughout his life.

Contains: Living weapon whump, villain whumpee/outcast whumpee, whumper x whumpee, spousal abuse, manipulation/gaslighting, defiant whumpee, self-loathing whumpee

Characters: Dayzel, Mibium, Rupert, Nox, various background characters from flashbacks.

Nox Marking him

BTHB Pleading

"Have You come to Laugh at me in my miserable state?"

Unforgivable

Sensory Deprivation

Zapping

Dayzel's rescue pt.1

Dayzel's rescue pt.2

Sleep

Mibium's half- A "spinoff" in flashbacks about Mibium's time as a whumpee in Hell as an angel.

Contains: Creepy/intimate whumper, pet whump, objectification/dehumanization

Characters: Mibium and Octavian

BTHB Chained to a bed

BTHB Blindfolded

BTHB Non-con Touching

Overstimulated and Carewhumper

Half Lies and Hidden Truths:

Masterlist

Three connected stories, told separately through The Heart, The Mind, and The soul.

(Content and characters in masterlist)

Snake Bite:

Whumper Berkley- A story detailing his experiments on his two main whumpees, with some flashbacks to a previous whumpee.

Contains: Lab whump, horror tropes, multiple whumpees, lots of character death (non of the major characters, and offscreen/implied)

Characters: Berkley, Rain, Marley, Mindy (mentioned but not present)

Quiet and Lament Prompts

Whumpee Berkley- An "epilogue"/"spinoff" where he is captured by a demon when he's forced to visit Hell.

Contains: Creepy/Intimate whumper, whumper x whumpee, Stockholm syndrome, whumper turned whumpee, nsfwhump (any chapter involving this will be posted to @blackberry-sour-and-sweet)

Characters: Berkley, Octavian

(NSFWHUMP) Octavian being Bored

Failed escape

(Untitled) Demon Mishap:

A story idea about a demon having been "accidentally" kidnapped and sold to a high ranking demon who's eager to break him in.

Conatains: Creepy/Intimate whumper, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, defiant whumpee, nsfwhump (any chapters containing this will be posted to @blackberry-sour-and-sweet)

Characters: to be announced later :)

(Untitled) Space demons:

A story about two bounty hunters in the far, far future when humans/angel/demons have begun exploring the stars.

Contains: Scif-fi whump, enemies to lovers, "enemy of my enemy is my friend" trope, morally bankrupt/ villain whumpees

Characters: Zeke, Omen, (others tbd later)

Lore/worldbuilding-

Timeline

Claim Marks/Magic brands

One offs, RP, extras, and non-canon-

Random Mindy fact

Nox, Rupert, Berkley whumper answer

Berkley whumper answer

Character questions (cheese, flexible, and pets)

Character questions (touch starved, sleep, breaks, and strength)

Character questions (smooth talker, graceful/clumsy, instruments, self-sacrifice)

Magic "anon"- Human Fates

Octavian, Rupert, Nox whumper answers

Berkley Whumper answers (with Mindy)

Nox, Nom, Octavian character questions

Whumpee Nox 1/2

Whumpee Rupert

Dayzel "red flags"

Dayzel tattoos

Rupert= Malewife potential?

Character questions (mibium)

DnD content-

Forgotten Familiarites- A DnD campaign run by @obsessedwithegos for myself and @emmettnet

Contains: Self sacrifice, religious trauma(?), abysmally low self esteem, whumpee being reckless/lacking self-preservation, character death (mentioned)

Characters: Nom and Alithea (both belong to me), Dirk, Teddy, Dirce (belong to @/emmettnet), Nilam, Selin, Aevid, Kavius, Mantra, various other NPCS, etc. (all belong to @/obsessedwithegos)

BTHB "I just want to have friends"

Help prompt

Laugh

Falling Feathers- A homebrew campaign I'm running for @/emmettnet and @/obessedwithegos.

Contains: Lab whump, non-con body modifications, major character death (temporary), reluctant whumpers, carewhumper, living weapon whump, multiple whumpees, whumper viewing/treating whumpee as "family", whumpee turned whumper, horror tropes

Characters: Denice (belongs to @/emmettnet), Eliza/Esheh (belongs to @/obsessedwithegos), Berkley, Marley, Rain, Dren, Mindy, The Fates, various NPCs, etc. (all belong to me)

[freefallingup13]

Farmhand; Painting in the Barn

By Talos this is fucking happening

Meet Grin and Jaren, roommates! Not a lot of whump in this one, but I think it’s a good start to the series! Also, introducing the fact that we have a surprise second whumper!

Content Warnings; bruises, bf and gf fight verbally (offscreen), partial nudity, noose mention, threat of hanging, willful ignorance of abuse

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Babe!” The door to the barn scraped against the dirt inside as it was pushed open. “Babe, have you seen Grin? I’ve been looking for him all day-”

“He’s busy. And close the door, you’re ruining my lighting!”

Jaren blinked, stepping in and kicking the door shut. “He’s not,” he said slowly. “I see him. Right there. He’s just sitting there. Not even wearing a fucking shirt.”

Scoffing, a young woman with a palette in her hand flipped the pink strip of her hair behind her shoulder. “He is not ‘just sitting there’. He is posing. And he’s shirtless so I can get the bruises. I’m trying to get in a new piece before Monday.”

As they argued whether Grin was worth working more as a model, or out in the field, Grin could only sigh. He took the moment of rest to close his eyes. It was all he could do; moving his head, or any other part of him, would likely earn him another slap. 

She wanted his pose to be perfect for the painting. The dramatic, searing light from the lamp above him, his hands resting in his lap as if he’d worked them so much he couldn’t even twitch his fingers. Even the tilt of his head, she’d demanded he keep it perfect. She wasn’t above hammering a nail into the beam he was leaning on, one that would dig into his ear if he leaned too far. She’d done it before.

“At least let me tug on this,” Jaren muttered. Grin’s eyes flew open; he hadn’t noticed the man come closer, looming over him. Jaren’s hand was reaching for the noose that was draped around Grin’s neck, and Grin couldn’t help but let out a desperate whine.

“Don’t you dare!” A paintbrush flew through the air, whacking Jaren in the back. “That took fifteen minutes to set, and I am not setting it again!”

Closing his eyes, Jaren took a deep breath. “Babe… Babe.” 

He turned around, clapping his hands together and leaning towards his girlfriend. “I think we need to have a little talk about sharing. I got him for the both of us, you know.”

The girl burst out laughing, smiling toothily. “He lives with you!” she cooed. “I can get a day every once in a while, right? Then you get him the rest of the time.”

Jaren narrowed his eyes, glancing over his shoulder. “... I do, don’t I?”

Grin struggled to stay still, resisting the urge to cringe away from him. Jaren was, after all, the man behind all the bruises on his torso, several of the cuts, the burn mark in the shape of a J on his chest.

Technically, Grin mused, the whole day was a day of rest. At least being painted didn’t always involve so much pain.

[actress4him]

In Irons 1 - Freedom

(Prompt #29 for Summer of Whump)

This is the beginning of another new series. I wrote one drabble for it for Whumpay, but decided to rewind for some backstory to actually start off the series. This particular chapter isn’t super whumpy, but it will def get that way later!

If you want to be tagged in future installments, please lmk!

Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, implied offscreen noncon, implied domestic abuse, wives treated as property

.

.

There’s another ship coming into the harbor. There’s always ships coming, going, unloading and loading, off to another port further up the coast, or to some far off, exotic land. She has a perfect view of them from her bedroom window. They’ve fascinated her ever since she was young, but it wasn’t until the last two years that she truly longed to be onboard one of them. Any of them. She’d even be glad of a pirate ship if it would take her far away from here.

The bedroom door opens and Adelaide automatically tenses her shoulders. 

“You’ve done your job, now leave. And make sure we’re not disturbed.”

Her eyes flutter closed. She knows what that means.

Setting down the hairbrush she had been using on Adelaide’s long, deep red locks, her maid bows respectfully before skirting around the master of the house and exiting the room. If only there was some excuse to get her to stay. But there isn’t, and it would only delay the inevitable, anyway, so she folds her hands stiffly in her lap and waits.

Heavy footsteps cross the wood floor until her husband comes into her field of vision, standing in front of the window with his hands clasped behind his back and blocking her view of the harbor. The candle on her dressing table throws strange shadows across his chiseled face.

“Two years and you still haven’t given me a child.” He states it like a mantra, almost every day. “Even a daughter would be acceptable at this point.”

There’s nothing to say to that, nothing that she hasn’t tried saying before and had it thrown back in her face, so she remains silent. He likes her best that way, anyway. There’s no reason to rile him up right now more than he might already be.

Finally Charles turns just enough to cast a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. “Take off that shift and get on the bed.”

She obeys.

It’s when she’s lying in bed later that night, wide awake while her husband snores, that an idea begins to form in her mind. She’s known for nearly two years now that she’s tired of being treated this way, but it’s just now that she begins to think about doing something to change it. Yes, her father matched her up with Charles Harrison with the best of intentions, and paid him a sizable dowry. Yes, she has tried her best to play the part of the perfect wife - other than producing a child - ever since then, solely to honor her parents. 

But she’s had enough. She can’t keep pleasing her parents and her husband at the expense of her own soul, which is steadily being dragged down into the depths of despair every time she’s ordered onto the bed. It’s time for Mrs. Adelaide Wilson Harrison to make her escape and live her own life.

The very next day, while Charles is at work, she rummages through his wardrobe and chooses an off-white shirt, a blue waistcoat, brown breeches, and a dark brown coat. Nothing too fancy. For the rest of that day and all of the next she locks herself in her room and sews, adjusting everything until it fits her much thinner figure. When Charles is at home, she stows them away in various drawers and boxes that she knows he’ll never look in.

It’s on the third day that she finally tries everything on at once, throwing on a navy blue cravat, a brown tricorn, and a pair of her own stockings and shoes to complete the outfit. Smiling, she turns this way and that, admiring her reflection in the mirror and marveling at the feeling of freedom. She’s not sure how much of it comes from the actual freedom of movement, and how much of it is anticipation of the freedom that is nearly within her grasp.

There’s only one small thing standing between it and her right now.

Her hair.

Sighing, she steps closer to the mirror, wrapping a strand of it around her finger. She likes her hair. Besides her bright blue eyes, it’s her best feature. Sure, red hair seems to go hand and hand with the plethora of freckles that cover her entire face - entire body, actually - but it’s such an unusual color in this part of the world, especially as dark as hers is. It was her hair that first caught Charles’ attention.

She frowns at that thought, stares at the strand on her finger a moment longer, and drops it. No more procrastinating. It’s time for the hair to go.

Snatching up the scissors still sitting on her dressing table from sewing, she tosses the tricorn hat to the side and takes a deep breath, then begins to cut.

Several minutes later, Mrs. Adelaide Wilson Harrison is no more. 

Mr. John Gray dons the tricorn once more with a confident tap, gathers up the already packed bag waiting on the bed, and without a second glance, marches out the front door and toward the harbor. 

.

.

Next

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Whumpril day 17

Content warning: implied offscreen Whumper death

(cry for help, self-treatment, “I can’t do this”)

Nobody was coming for them. It was a fact that Whumpee had known for a long, long time, but one that seemed to change its meaning each time they realized it. When they were trapped with Whumper, forced to bend to that sadistic bastard’s every whim, that truth had filled Whumpee with a sick dread. When they’d finally escaped and made sure Whumper would never catch them again, ever, that truth had given them hope.

Now, that truth left them terrified.

Whumpee didn’t bother muffling their scream. The teeth of the bear trap dug into their leg, piercing their calf and refusing to budge. Blood had soaked their leg ages ago, leaving their pants cold and sticky with it. They felt lightheaded at the sight.

With a shaky breath, Whumpee reached for the trap again, steeling themself for the pain that came with it. It would hurt, it would hurt like hell, but they couldn’t stay here. Nobody was coming for them.

They gripped the sides of the trap, groaning as they tried to force their fingers between the trap’s teeth and their leg. The pain sent shivers down their spine, making even their fingers ache with it. But they had to do it.

“I can do this, I can do this…” They whispered to themself. 

Whumpee began to pull the jaws apart.

It hurt, more than anything even Whumper had done to them, but Whumpee had already known it would. They couldn’t let go this time, couldn’t fall back and cry, overcome with the pain. It was already getting dark, they’d already lost so much blood. Whumpee didn’t want to learn why Whumper had felt the need to set out bear traps.

Whumpee could barely see beyond their tears as they pulled. They couldn’t tell if they were making progress anymore, or if they were simply holding the jaws at a stalemate. The pain had become too absolute for them to feel if the teeth were pulling out of their leg, or simply not pushing further in. 

They kept pulling, refusing to let themself look away, until they saw the first bloodied tip pull free from their flesh. 

Whumpee pulled their leg out of the trap, ignoring the agony the movement caused. They barely managed to crawl away before the pain and relief overwhelmed them, leaving them to collapse on the ground.

They simply cried for what felt like ages. Everything hurt, every bone in their body ached with exhaustion. They were cold and tired and hurt, but they’d gotten out. 

After what felt like hours, Whumpee opened their eyes. It was noticeably darker now. The wilderness loomed around them, silent and daunting. 

Even if they’d escaped Whumper, even if they’d escaped the trap, they still needed to escape the forest. They’d have to walk for miles if they were ever to find civilization. With the leg the way it was, they didn’t know if they could, but they had to; nobody was coming for them. The thought made their leg pulse with pain.

A fresh wave of tears sprung to Whumpee’s eyes. “I can’t–I can’t do this.”