#referenced nonsexual nudity

[whumpacabra]

23. Daymare

Nightmare, comfort, fear for others’ safety, referenced gunshot wound, referenced head injury, referenced nonsexual nudity, referenced needle use [IV], vaguely implied past noncon and anticipated violence

AU Masterpost / Previous / Next

The Wolf could hear him whimpering in his sleep. Harrison was nearby - to his right, closer to the ground (he was on a bed?). The Wolf pulled himself into his elbows, ignoring the pulsing pain from the gunshot wound in his right arm.

With his enhanced hearing, the Wolf had been listening to the man’s unsteady breathing; gasps and winces of pain betrayed by the smallest of sounds. Looking down at him (the Wolf's right eye still smothered in gauze) he was clearly still asleep.

Dreaming.

The Wolf couldn’t remember the last time he dreamed. (The was probably for the best, given how upset Harrison looked.)

The room was empty, save for them. He could hear movement and words nearby - the clatter of ceramic on wood (a table?). The voices were talking about him.

The Wolf shied from his own name, sitting up and taking inventory of his body. He still had no clothes (very bad) but the itch and sting of his injuries had faded. The blood bag attached it his IV line had been bled dry.

He removed the needle cautiously, hands steady. He didn’t want the IV stand rattling as he moved around. There was a second bag on the stand - clear fluids running down a line to Harrison’s right hand. It seemed, even in spite of his dreaming, Harrison didn’t toss or turn in his sleep.

The Wolf waited a moment for his fuzzy vision to clear after he sat up, legs swung over the side of the bed. He needed clothes. Rummaging through the dresses found him fresh pants and trousers and an oversized shirt that wasn’t too painful to fit his injured arm into.

Harrison’s breathing was turning labored, sweat beading on his forehead. The voices outside - talking about him, about Harrison - would hear his whines soon enough. The Wolf’s chest clenched at the thought.

His sleeping quarters had always been safe, had been predictably his own space - had been. Until they weren’t.

Would it be the same here?

Were they just lulling the pair into complacency, into false security?

All so they could smile and laugh as they ripped it away again - ?

Harrison needed to be quiet. He needed to wake up.

The Wolf crouched next to Harrison’s cot in a half kneel, putting his body between him and the door. His left hand hovered, fingers shaking. Did Harrison want to be woken? Did he care if their saviors (captors?) invaded this room?

The Wolf wanted him awake. The Wolf cared deeply about keeping the voices on the other side of the door out.

He laid his left hand on Harrison’s shoulder and gently squeezed. The sleeping man tensed, breathing short and pained.

“Wake up. You’re dreaming.” His hoarse whisper didn’t stir Harrison, who only whimpered, eyes twitching behind his eyelids. “Harrison, wake up.”

Shaking his shoulder a little harder, the Wolf flinched away as Harrison gasped awake, grasping at his arm. Harrison’s eyes were wide, tears threatening to spill as he looked between the Wolf and the bed and the late afternoon sunlight filtering between the window shades.

“Oh god I thought - he was - ” Harrison’s whispers shuddered in his chest. The Wolf settled, Harrison’s grip on his arm firm but not bruising. Harrison leaned forward, resting his head against the Wolf’s shoulder as his breathing evened.

And the Wolf let him.

He should have been scared of that, knowing how even gentle touches could wound as deep as any knife. Was it bad that he wasn’t frightened of Harrison’s trembling fingers? Harrison hadn’t hurt him - not even when he was stripped and beaten and weak.

Maybe he had just wanted the Wolf clean. But Harrison had brought him his clothes and hadn’t asked him to take them off. If he had wanted the Wolf dead, it would have been efficient to abandon him after finding the vehicle bay. Why had he come back? What did he want?

At the moment, it seemed he just wanted the Wolf to stay beside him, something steady to cling to. The Wolf would give it to him. He leaned against Harrison’s weight, the embrace alien in its painlessness. He wasn’t scared of giving Harrison this moment of peace and security.

He should have been scared, but he wasn’t.

Harrison was soft. He was gentle and warm and even when his voice had venom it was a balm compared to the vitriol the Wolf’s handler had for him. The Wolf wasn’t made to hold soft things, he wasn’t worthy to sap that warmth and accept that gentleness in turn.

(What creature carved from such violence could be? What rebirth was without blood?)

There were others he had seen, crafted to be sheep in appearance and behavior until their teeth were needed. He hadn’t qualified for that program. His teeth and claws couldn’t be tucked away in cottony wool long enough for that kind of assignment.

Looking back, the Wolf had been envious of those projects. Even when he saw them break apart, shattered and liquidated, he envied their brief performances. How he had wished he was still enough of a person to remember the mask, to be anything but a blunt instrument meant to inflict pain. He had resigned himself to his collar and leash, until -

Until his handler gave him a mask and told him to play the part of a person. The Wolf was cast in the role of human cruelty, a role he knew well as its victim in an earlier production. (His handler was not a person of soft things and gentle eyes, but he was a person nonetheless.)

Maybe the Wolf could play that part a bit longer. He would wait and see if the wool stuck around his sharp edges long enough to let Harrison sleep.

AU Masterpost / Previous / Next

(An AU of my Freelancers series)

Taglist: @i-eat-worlds

[quietly-by-myself]

Across the Silence of the Valley of Dreams - Chapter 2

Masterlist

CW: defiant whumpee, nonhuman whumpee, creepy whumper, carewhumper, shapeshifter whump, lab whump, fantasy whump, medical whump, prison system, trans whumpee, magical hierarchy, nonsexual nudity, referenced noncon drugging, beating, concussion, shock collar, collaring, fictional religion

===

June didn’t remember much of the rest of the day. It was true that he was quite sleepy, but he couldn’t remember being drugged or even when he awoke and when he fell asleep. All he could do was lay there and hope he’d be allowed a bath.

He’d entered as his fox, but he was laying on the bed as a human. When had he shifted? June hated the drugs, the way they messed with his head. He wouldn’t be able to escape and go back to his home at this rate.

Not that Linden could know that it was his plan. June would obey, yes, but he wouldn’t submit. He would never be Linden’s. At the prison, there was no chance of escaping. Here? Here he might, even if he didn’t have access to his magic. The prison was too fortified. He was always restrained. Witchcraft was the type of offense that earned most death. June was lucky to have gotten life without parole. 

All the plea deal he’d taken meant was that he’d have a second chance - another chance to get out and find his solace.

The next day, June had awoken with a pounding headache and blurry eyes. The fuzziness of the world didn’t stop him from seeing Linden, waiting patiently in a chair not far from June’s bed. 

“So, you’re finally awake.”

“No thanks to you.”

Linden’s brow furrowed, a glare forming in his eyes. “You must be respectful, half-blood.”

For some reason, the pounding in his head combined with the anger of what had been done to him the previous day spilled out in a way that June found himself unable to control.

“Do you even know my name? Respect is given and returned, not earned through assaulting and slapping someone-”

Linden stood up, towering above June and where he laid on the bed. There was a growl on Linden’s lips as he ripped June up by his shortened hair and forced him to stand. June stumbled, but Linden did not relent as he grabbed June’s chin and forced the short half-blood to look at him. 

“I do not. It’s inconsequential.” Tightening his grip on June’s chin to a bruising, punishing hold, Linden continued. “I have no respect for witches’ children, much less the half-bloods of witch nobility. You will never have my respect, half-blood. However, you will respect me. I am your new god. Not whatever goddess you worship, you heathen.”

June’s muscles quivered. His eye burned as he felt power rush to his crest with nowhere to go. “How dare you disrespect the name of my goddess in such a way! How dare you!”

June hardly realized the shout in his voice before the darkening of Linden’s face. The nobleborn was furious.

“You were jailed for witchcraft, yet you insist on your worship. Who do you even worship? Which Goddess? Who did you dedicate that crest of ambition in your eye to? Who gives you your nobleborn witchcraft?”

June gritted his teeth. Rage quivered every muscle in his body. He was squarely outmatched without his magic, especially against a nobleborn wolf. 

“That is between my goddess and me.”

“I wouldn’t expect a monk to be so shy.”

June couldn’t help himself as he growled at the nobleborn. 

However, June didn’t have much of a chance to use his words as his whip. Linden, with superhuman strength, smashed June into the wall near his bed. The force was dizzying, but Linden did not relent. He, using June’s hair as a handle, smashed June’s head against the wall a few more times, until blood dripped down from June’s temple.

“You do not growl at me, half-blood,” Linden hissed in June’s ear. “You’ve earned yourself a shock collar. Step any further and you will not have a leg to stand on tomorrow.”

Rage ran through June as he stood there, pinned under the nobleborn. However, he remembered the words of his goddess that had rang in his ear during one of his meditation sessions.

Ambition does not mean impulsiveness nor does knowledge mean arrogance.

Her words gave June the calm he needed to find his head again. Despite his rage, despite the disrespect that Linden showed him and his goddess, June murmured an apology.

“Good. Now, are you going to sit on that bed and wait for me to get your shock collar or will I need to restrain you, half-blood?”

“I’ll sit on the bed.”

The annoyance behind June’s words wasn’t lost on Linden, but to June’s relief, he didn’t act on June’s little bit of defiance.

Goddess, give me strength.

The collar was just about what June had expected except for the markings on it. CAUTION: WITCH’S SON, NOBLEBORN. Nobleborn. Not half-blood. Nobody had ever referred to him as a nobleborn. A half-blooded noble, maybe, but his father had not been a noble in any regard.

Was it a sign of respect? Or something just to mock him?

“It only takes a bit of my crested magic to activate. I can make your world more painful than you could’ve ever imagined. So, I expect you to be obedient.”

June did not respond as he stilled, allowing Linden to put the collar on. For a moment, June thought he was safe, but the backhand that came a moment later told him otherwise.

“You will respond when I speak to you and you will not speak unless spoken to, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Linden gave June a puzzled look. Of course, June knew that the break in his composure would confuse his new captor. June knew he needed to keep his composure more. Through his lack of composure, Linden had figured out a number of his sore spots.

To build a temple to my goddess.

A monk to a cleric for a goddess forgotten to time. There was something poetic about it. 

Something about it that would never be. 

“Come with me, half-blood.”

June fought back a glare, but did as he was told. As he stood, a rush of blood went to his head. When were the lights turned on? Why were they so bright? Fuck. His head hurt and he was still bleeding.

Linden opened the door to his lab, then motioned for June, who could hardly see, to sit on the table. 

“Your pupils are uneven.”

Suddenly, there was a light in June’s face. June quickly went to cover his face, but a hand grabbed his hands. 

“They’re not reacting well to light, either.”

A tsk. As if any of this was June’s fault. For the way he’d been born. For the way he’d been changed. For who he served and what he did with his life.

“Let me clean up your wounds. Then, I’ll let you rest a little. I pushed you a little too far, half-blood. Too much, too soon.”

June wanted to ask Linden what the hell he meant, but knew better. He didn’t want to be electrocuted and he didn’t need another hit to the head, more bruises to his jaw.

Alcohol hit the freshly exposed skin and June screamed in pain. Something about that wound, the rough way layers of skin had been peeled away, made the alcohol all the more painful. June almost expected a correction for it, but none came.

Soft bandages wrapped June’s head, covering his crested eye. The world was so fuzzy, so bright, so loud, that June couldn’t process much of anything as Linden took his hand and helped June to his unsteady feet. A gentle lead down the hall brought June back to his room, back to his bed, with the lights off.

At least, being allowed to rest meant he would be able to pray.

===

Taglist (always open!) @i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @pigeonwhumps, @oddsconvert

[dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night]

DAY 24: Bloody Clothes

TW: blood, deconditioning, referenced torture

"We need to get you changed," Caretaker said. "Your clothing is filthy."

"I don't deserve new clothing, master," Whumpee insisted.

"I don't want you dirty and blood covered."

Whumpee hesitated. New rules, that was all.

"Yes master."

"I told you to call me Caretaker."

Whumpee froze. This had to be a trick.

"Yes, Caretaker sir."

That had to be good enough. Proving they could respectfully follow orders.

"Go get changed," Caretaker sighed. "And take a shower while you're at it."

Whumpee hurried up the stairs, and into the bath room. So, they had done a good job then.

They stripped out of their shredded, blood stained clothes and found the soft sweatpants and cotton t-shirt Caretaker had left out for them.

Their new master was different. They were kind, and generous, and good. All Whumpee had to do was follow the rules, even if their master was vague about them.

They turned the shower head on, and brought the water to a comfortably warm temperature.

They stepped into the bath tub and began washing themself for the first time in months. Or had it been years?

Their new master had already promised not to send them back to their old master, not even if they disobeyed or tried to escape. It was more than Whumpee deserved.

The shampoo felt uncomfortable in their hair, but the sensation became more pleasant than Whumpee could remember as soon as they washed it out.

The dirt, blood, and sweat caked up after a near eternity of torture finally washed off, disappearing down the drain.

But why would they try to escape? Even if they weren't to be punished. It was too risky. And their new master was an angel. The outside world could only be worse than being under their ownership.

Whumpee smiled as they stepped out of the shower and turned off the water. They were going to have a good life.

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My website

Chapter 87: July 2017

Martin didn’t need any kind of supernatural ability to know they were traveling up a river, finally, but it was going to take an effort he wasn’t sure he was willing to risk in order to determine which one. He didn’t think he particularly cared. Rivers meant human habitation, usually, so as long as they were in Europe he could probably make his way back to London sooner rather than later.

God, he was ready to be home.

The trip hadn’t been…terrible, all things considered. Truthfully, Martin had slept for most of it. He wouldn’t exactly call his slumber peaceful, but it was at least sleep. The owner and pilot of the boat, who still hadn’t properly introduced himself, actually came down to talk to him every once in a while, usually bringing him some rations and apologizing yet again that Martin couldn’t come out on the deck. Since the entire passage over had been one constant storm, such that Martin’s window either afforded him a view of nothing but sky or nothing but the sea, he wasn’t too terribly keen to go out in it. Seemed calmer now, though, which was a blessing.

The only odd thing…well, odder than the oddness he would have expected from being smuggled in a dinghy across the Atlantic Ocean…was the tapes. He knew he hadn’t brought any extras with him, honestly wasn’t sure what had happened to any of the recordings he had made himself other than the one he’d mailed to the Institute, but when he’d gone to try and put his trousers back on he’d found one in his pocket. Curious, he’d played it and found it to be a statement he hadn’t listened to yet—the recording Jon had made of Daisy when she’d come to drop off the tape of Gertrude and Aunt Mary. Martin wasn’t really sure he wanted to listen to more about the Hunt, but he’d listened anyway, as much for something new to do as to hear the little snippets of Jon’s voice.

The next time he’d slept, there had been a removal van on the side of the road in a rainstorm behind one of the doors in his dreams.

There had been three or four more tapes he didn’t remember, too, enough to stop the shaking and restore at least a little of the energy he’d accidentally expended on the security guard, enough to keep that aspect of him from starving for however long he was gone (Martin hadn’t even tried to ask his host or captor or whatever he was for his statement; he might not know what entity he belonged to, but he could feel the power radiating off him and knew without even testing that if the man wasn’t willing, Martin would be hard pressed to compel it out of him). But without a consistent wake-sleep cycle, without the sun to mark the passage of time by, he wasn’t actually sure how long he’d been gone, and it made him worry. Were the others okay? When was the Unknowing? Soon? Had the Stranger gone for Jon when Martin dropped off the face of the earth? Had Mustermann reformed, survived whatever Julia and Trevor had done, and gone back to report to Orsinov? He doubted that last one—Hunters were among the only things capable of killing a full-blown avatar, they could definitely take out a lower thing like Mustermann, and they hadn’t seemed particularly merciful. Still…he was conscious of the ticking of a clock, ever increasing in volume. However long it had been, they were running out of time.

He sat up and stretched. There still wasn’t room to stand—he’d been mostly crawling about to reach what he needed, on the rare occasions he moved about the cabin—and he’d given up on the trousers as being too much effort if he wasn’t going to see anybody other than the boat pilot, but if they were coming in to land he didn’t want to be walking around London—or wherever he was—in his underpants. And he was getting out of this boat, one way or another.

As he struggled and contorted to get the waistband above his thighs, he felt an odd sensation, as if his sternum had been struck with a tuning fork—like he was suddenly vibrating at exactly the right pitch. A feeling of rightness filled his being.

Despite himself, he grinned. They had to be on the Thames, because they had just crossed the invisible line separating the rest of the world from London.

Martin managed to get into his trousers at last, buttoned them up, and slid his feet into his much-abused trainers. He’d spent some time carefully flaking the dried crust of mingled mud and blood off of them once they’d dried out, and they were…serviceable. He was going to have to replace them, but that could wait. No sense in wearing new shoes to stop a ritual, after all. Maybe Elias would give them a day or two off after they saved the world and they could all go shopping or something.

With a sigh, he sat back, laced his fingers together, and stared at the palms of his hands. Neither one hurt—not right now, at least—or had suffered any loss of flexibility or function. Still, his eyes traced the outline of Jude’s hand wrapping around his palm and fingers on the right hand, the slightly jagged ridge in the center of the left palm, and the worm holes that still laced through both. And then, without conscious thought, his gaze drifted a little further, to the white, almost perfectly straight lines across the underside of both wrists. Those scars hadn’t been that visible for ages, but he’d started to notice that these days, when the other scars started aching, they did too. And it didn’t escape his attention that the worms had seemed to avoid that part of his body.

In a way, it was almost comforting. Not what they represented—only Jude Perry hadn’t actually intended for him to die—but the fact that they were there at all. It meant that the Beholding hadn’t completely taken him over, hadn’t…remade him in its image or whatever. He wasn’t sure that was possible, to erase the Marks left by another Fear, but every scar was another tally against his being of any use in a Beholding ritual. Or at least, he was still assuming that. Orsinov wanted to use his skin for the Unknowing, but it wasn’t him she wanted, just the power.

Right?

Martin worried at his bottom lip, then took a slow, deep breath. Well…if he was wrong, if collecting Marks like Pokémon didn’t actually keep him from being useful in a ritual, then at the very least it wasn’t as bad as if someone else was getting them. He was pretty much a full-blown Avatar at this point; the other Fears were going to be after him anyway, even if he didn’t have beacons branded into his skin. And he was probably too far along that path to transfer his loyalty and be fully claimed by another one. Melanie, Jon, Tim, Sasha—even Basira—any of them was at risk of those Marks doing far worse damage. They were his people, and it was his job as the Archivist to protect them.

He shook his head minutely. Where had that come from? He was an Archivist, if Elias was to be believed…but, no. The Knowledge settled heavily against his shoulders, as if he’d just been embraced proudly by a terrifyingly creepy uncle at a family gathering: Elias Bouchard might have appointed Jon to head the Archives, but as far as the Beholding was concerned, it was Martin Blackwood who was the Archivist.

Well. Shit.

There was a dull thump that reverberated through the entire hull of the boat, then a faint scraping noise. Martin glanced out the window over the bed and saw what looked like rough wood pressed against it, obscuring anything else that might be in view. Not being able to see didn’t matter, because that was a pylon. They had fetched up against a dock. All he had to do was open the hatch and he would be able to get away.

As the thought crossed his mind, the hatch overhead opened, allowing in the familiar smells of London, and the pilot backed his way down the ladder. He seemed both surprised and pleased when he got his head below the level of the deck to see Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, if his smile was any indication—Martin had never yet seen his eyes. “Oh, good, you’re awake and ready! I was just coming to fetch you. Your ride is here.”

“My…?” Martin decided, on the balance, not to argue with the person who’d got him this far. “Right. I’m coming. Uh…thank you for the lift.”

“Oh, it was my pleasure. Elias was right about you.” The man beamed, and from the twitch of his cheek, Martin rather thought he’d been treated to a conspiratorial wink. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again. Enjoy.”

With that cryptic comment, he headed back up the ladder, leaving Martin to crawl over and—for the first time in far too long—stand up straight. Doing so put him head and shoulders out of the hold. There was nothing to see but the side of the boat, but the daylight flooding the deck was a welcome sight. The humidity less so, but there was a wind blowing from the north that ruffled his hair. For just a moment, he stood still, letting the light soak into his bones and warm him.

Then he got on with the business of hauling his arse out of the hold and onto the deck of the boat.

The pilot was whistling cheerfully—way too cheerfully, considering that was definitely “Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep,” which wasn’t generally a peppy song—as he coiled ropes at the stern, but Martin was more focused on the dock. More specifically, he was focused on who was standing on the dock, leaning against a post, partly in shadow, arms folded and glowering.

“Daisy,” he said cautiously.

Daisy grunted. She looked deeply annoyed. Martin didn’t need to even ask the Eye for assistance to guess why, a theory that was confirmed when she muttered, “Bouchard sent me. Wanted to make sure you didn’t get kidnapped again.”

“How kind of him,” Martin said dryly. He went over to the side of the boat and somehow managed to climb out of the boat without falling on his face—or into the Thames, which would have been worse. Still, he had to stand for a moment and get used to being on land again.

Daisy stared, or glared, at him, arms still crossed over her chest. Her gaze dropped to his shirt, and her eyes narrowed at the stain on it. “That blood?”

“Yup.”

“Yours?”

“Yup. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they know it wasn’t you.” Martin tested his legs and found they would at least cooperate for the moment. “Right, let’s go, then. I assume Elias wants me back at the Institute.”

“Institute’s not open yet,” Daisy said, surprising him a bit, but then again it was the height of summer—it had to be at least July by now—so the sun rose a fair bit earlier. “I’m not fucking going back there after hours.”

“Don’t blame you,” Martin admitted. “So, where to?”

Daisy’s phone rang. Martin couldn’t hold back a frustrated groan and was both comforted and slightly alarmed by the fact that Daisy gave an identical one at the exact same time. From the glare she shot him as she answered, she was thinking the same. “Tonner.”

She didn’t exactly soften at the voice on the other end of the line, or even really relax, but the hostility did dial back a notch. “Hey. What’s up?” There was a long pause as she listened to whoever was on the other end before she said, “Yeah, I know it. Who’s asking?…Uh-huh. Yeah, makes sense. Okay, I’m on my way.” Her eyes flicked to Martin’s briefly before she added, “Got something Bouchard sent me to pick up that might help anyway. Ten minutes.” She ended the call and pocketed her phone. “Come on.”

“Cinnamon Rose Books?” Martin guessed. He held up a hand when she glared at him. “I’m not in your head. It’s just an educated guess.”

“You’d better not be,” Daisy growled, but she didn’t reach for her gun or his throat, so that was probably as close to a peace offering as he was likely to get. “Yeah. The rest of them are gathering there for breakfast. Something about plans and that…Unmaking thing.”

“Unknowing,” Martin corrected her. Unease flitted through his stomach. “Yeah, good. Let’s go.”

Daisy’s car was…pretty much what Martin would have expected, a nondescript late model sedan that had seen better days, not battered enough to be called a junker or old enough to be an antique but dingy enough not to stand out. The fact that she indicated for him to get into the front seat rather than the back—or the boot—was another indication of the uneasy truce they currently had going, or so he assumed. He eased into his seat and just had time to put on the seatbelt before Daisy was pulling away and they were off.

Martin gave her a few minutes to be sure she was heading in the right direction before he asked, “How is…everybody?”

“Fine.” Daisy stared straight ahead out the windscreen. After a moment of silence, she added, “Nothing’s been sniffing around. Been tailing Sims to and from his place to be sure.”

“Thank you,” Martin said, both surprised and somewhat touched. When he’d asked her to keep an eye on everyone while he was gone, he definitely hadn’t expected that level of…concern. Unless Elias had told her to do it.

As if she was the one reading his mind, Daisy growled, “I’m not doing it for you. Or Bouchard. If anyone’s going to kill that little bastard, it’s going to be me.”

“You can certainly try.” Martin kept his tone as neutral as possible, but he could feel the protective urge rising in his chest, and something crackled in the air between them. Daisy shot him a death glare, but didn’t respond.

To cut the sudden tension that had sprung up, he added, “And…that other thing I asked you about?” When her scowl deepened, he pulled out the recorder and popped the tape out, then set it on the dashboard, its tape deck conspicuously open. “Not recording, see?”

Daisy grumbled under her breath, but did return her eyes to the road. “Got a couple names for you. Guys who didn’t buy the official line on why Basira and I aren’t around anymore. One of them was on the Brodie case and he’s pretty convinced Bouchard called in the tip, didn’t ask why, but he shouldn’t be hard to convince. If you can find that evidence.”

“It’s there. We just have to figure out how to get at it.”

“I put a flea in James’ ear about it. Don’t know if anything came of that yet.”

Martin braced himself against the dashboard as Daisy took a corner with, he couldn’t help but feel, unnecessary sharpness. “I guess we’ll find out.”

It didn’t take them long to reach the bookstore, and Daisy parked in the tiny space out front where the alleged car had once sat when it didn’t feel like running, which was most of the time. Martin managed to get out of the car relatively quickly and stretched, feeling his shoulders pop. Then he made his way up the path to the shop’s door as Daisy leaned on the bell.

He assumed it would be Gerry who came down, but when the door opened, it was Melanie who stood scowling at Daisy.

“Basira said you picked up something that might help,” she said, managing to make it sound accusing. “I’m here to make sure it’s actually useful before I let you bring it in.”

“You know, people usually say hello first,” Martin said dryly.

That fast, Melanie’s expression changed from irritation and suspicion to shock as she whipped around to see Martin. She flung the door open wider, launched herself at him, and promptly burst into tears.

“Hey, now, it’s all right, I was only joking.” Martin tried for a joke, but it definitely fell flat.

“I’m sorry,” Melanie wailed, the same way she had twenty years previously on the train back from Oxford. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I didn’t—I was so busy that I didn’t even think to ask if anyone had heard from you and I didn’t realize you were missing and—”

“And what could you have done if you did?” Martin said pointedly. “Melanie. It’s okay. Really—”

“I promised you I’d look after Jon,” Melanie hissed, stopping him in his mental tracks. “And he was suffering for two weeks knowing something had probably happened to you and I wasn’t there to help him and…Jesus, you scared the fuck out of me. I can’t imagine how he felt.”

Martin hugged Melanie tighter. Tears pricked at his own eyes, and he had to force them back. They wouldn’t help now. “It’s not your fault. And…it’s not your fault. I’m here now. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Apology accepted.” Melanie stepped back and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then gave a mighty sniff and turned. “Come on. I need to go make sure Gerry has cherry preserves now.”

Daisy raised an eyebrow at Martin, but she did follow Melanie into the shop. Martin took the time to lock the door behind them before following.

Melanie took the stairs two at a time, hopped over Umberto—Martin bent briefly to rub his ears—and practically broke down the door to the kitchen. “Jon!” she shouted in a voice too loud for the small space.

They were all there, Martin noted to his relief—Tim presiding over the stove while Gerry lingered nearby, Sasha and Jon studying a sheaf of papers, Basira watching with her elbows resting on the table. All of them jumped when Melanie shouted. Jon leaped to his feet with an expression of mingled fear and alarm, but a split second later, he lit up, his beautiful brown eyes widening.

“Martin,” he choked out, and then he was rushing around the table, and Martin stepped fully into the room and held out his arms to catch him in a tight embrace. He buried his face in the top of Jon’s head, smelling the tea tree shampoo he always used, and felt a sense of overwhelming calm come over him. He was home.

Jon pulled back from the embrace just enough to take Martin’s face in his and bring him down for a kiss, and, okay, now he was home, because he’d been waiting for this moment for—apparently—two long weeks. Three if you counted the week before that. Martin would happily have stayed like that forever, but the need for air did eventually force him to break the kiss. He rested his forehead against Jon’s briefly and soaked up the moment of closeness.

All their problems were going to come flooding back in a moment, but for the moment, there was this.

At last, reluctantly, he pulled back and looked up at the others. Sasha and Tim were both grinning ear to ear, and the relief in Tim’s eyes was palpable. Basira was just watching, a little uncomfortably, like she wasn’t sure what to make of the scene. Melanie was apparently rummaging in the cupboards for the cherry preserves. Gerry, behind Tim, was just…staring at Martin. What little color he had in his face had gone, and he looked both shocked and quietly devastated.

Martin felt an uneasy twinge. “What? What is it?”

Tim’s smile faltered as he turned to look at Gerry, suddenly worried, and Melanie straightened with a scowl and a jar in one hand. Gerry edged past Tim and walked towards Martin as if in a trance. Jon stood aside, leaving room for Gerry to stand directly in front of Martin.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached up and brushed Martin’s temple. In the same tone of voice Martin himself had used almost a year ago, he murmured, “Oh, Martin.”

With a sinking feeling, Martin realized that the spot Gerry had just touched was the spot where his father’s ghost had pressed a solid kiss before telling him he was proud of him. Obviously, there was something there to Gerry’s eyes—a sign of a new Mark.

“You were right,” he said quietly. “About my dad.”

“About—?” Gerry looked momentarily confused, and then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “He was in the Book? How do you know?”

“I met him. Apparently when you burned it, all the souls that were in it…didn’t exactly get set free, but aren’t exactly trapped either. It’s…complicated.”

Sasha gestured to the table. “Well, sit down and un-complicate it, then.” Martin flinched slightly at the echo of the words Julia had used, but either it was internal or Sasha did the polite thing and ignored it. “Or at least tell us what happened to you since…Chicago? Was that where you were the last time you talked to any of us?”

“Pittsburgh,” Jon said. “And I think…maybe there were things you were hiding?”

“A bit,” Martin admitted. “All right, yeah, I think I owe you guys an explanation.”

“You don’t owe us anything, Martin.” Tim pulled down a bowl and took a couple of the ingredients from Melanie. “But we’d like to hear what you learned. Did you get anything useful off this trip?”

“Maybe. You be the judge.”

While Tim and Melanie cooked in the background, Martin told his team what he had learned on the trip, about the feeling of being watched in Chicago, the weakness in Pittsburgh, and the kidnapping in Philadelphia. Daisy’s eyes flickered with interest when he told them about the encounter with Mustermann, and Sasha leaned forward when he told them about the things he’d learned from Julia and Trevor. Tim looked over his shoulder in some concern when Martin said that the tape recorder had shut itself off when he asked it to.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Should you be able to do that?”

“Probably not,” Martin admitted. “And that’s not even the worst of it, honestly. Talking to Mustermann…I-I didn’t get a whole lot out of him, he didn’t tell me where the ritual was going to be or anything, but I got a little bit. And…well, I compelled him. Pretty hard, actually. I asked him when it would be ready, and I had to practically make his head explode to get him to give me even a vague answer. I managed it, but it took a lot out of me. After we were done, I…kind of let slip that I’d spoken to you, Gerry. I mean, since you died. Trevor, um, didn’t take that well.” He held up his left hand, palm out, to show them the scar, eliciting a round of gasps and curses. “Stabbed me through the hand with his hunting knife. They…locked me up in the other room while they decided what to do with me, and that’s when I met the ghosts from the Book. One in particular.”

“Your dad,” Melanie said flatly.

Martin swallowed. “Yeah. He gave me his statement…I’m pretty sure I’ve got it on tape, but I don’t know which one. I was…I was bleeding out pretty heavily, and I’d used a lot of energy on that interrogation, so when he realized he could touch me, we realized I was probably not going to make it to hospital if I didn’t get something, so he told me about…everything. Apparently he used to sail with Salesa. And I’ve got a few more answers about Mum.”

Fortunately, nobody pressed him further; he wasn’t ready to share. Jon took his left hand in both of his and ran his fingers lightly over the scar. “But you made it to the hospital after that, right? They stitched it up? I, I assume the sutures were the kind that dissolve on their own.”

“Uh…no, actually,” Martin admitted. “After I had his statement and I was…feeling stronger, we realized it had closed up on its own. Which, while it was great for the immediate ‘not bleeding to death’ thing, is probably not all that good in the grand scheme of things. But it at least meant I was able to move. Papa rallied the rest of the ghosts to distract Trevor and Julia while I got away. I made a run for it and…well, eventually I ended up by the river, where I met…someone.”

“Someone,” Sasha repeated.

“Look, I didn’t get his name, okay? He said Elias had sent him to help get me home. I’d just realized I’d lost my passport and my wallet, so I wasn’t going to be able to get anywhere otherwise.” Martin took a deep breath. “I knew it was a trap, but…I didn’t really have much of a choice. And at least it got me home. Eventually. And at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t get a new Mark out of that one.” He squeezed Jon’s hand gently. “That’s it, really. What about you lot? What did you find out while I was gone?”

“A good amount,” Sasha said. “We found out—well, Tim and Melanie worked out where the Unknowing is going to be. The House of Wax, in Great Yarmouth. The three of us spent the last couple of weeks staking it out, and Tim and Melanie finally got that final proof a couple days ago, so we’re sure. And Gerry and Jon went to a storage unit Gertrude had rented up in Hainault and found a crate full of plastic explosives.”

“And a statement,” Jon added. “Which I haven’t read. You—you can have it. You should have it. Later. You might need it.”

Martin couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Jon. That’s…awfully sweet of you.”

Tim set a laden platter in the middle of the table. Martin realized that he and Melanie had been making naleśniki while the rest of them had been talking. “There’s one other thing. I think they’re almost ready.”

“What makes you say that?” Martin accepted a plate from Melanie and used a fork to lift the first thin folded pancake off the platter.

“Skin. That’s what they need, right? They wanted yours.”

“Yeah?”

“Well…they took a trip to a couple of cemeteries.”

Martin’s blood ran cold. “Who did they take?”

Tim sighed. “New graves. No flowers. The first had a name, no dates, no inscription. ‘George Icarus.’”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Martin glanced around at the others, who all looked equally bewildered. “Who was the other?”

Tim bit his lip and glanced at Melanie, who scowled. “You found that one out. You tell them.”

“Tim?” Gerry prompted, reaching up to tug Tim down to sit on his lap. It wasn’t even a sexual gesture, just a simple need to be close as Gerry wrapped his arms around Tim’s waist and settled his chin on his shoulder. Martin could empathize with that.

Tim leaned into Gerry for a moment, then looked at Martin and said softly, “Gertrude.”

“What?” Jon, Martin, and Gerry all said in unison.

Sasha blinked hard, several times. “Wasn’t she cremated?”

“Apparently not,” Tim said.

Jon exhaled hard. “So they did get an Archivist’s skin after all.”

Martin realized, with a slightly uncomfortable twinge, that he hadn’t told the others about his realization that he wasn’t just an Archivist, he was the Archivist. And then something else hit him like a lorry and he sat up straighter. “Wait. When was this?”

“Just the other day.”

“Tim, I need you to be specific. Wh—” Martin caught himself, barely. He didn’t want to compel his friends, and he definitely didn’t want to fall into the habit of using the Eye more than he had to. “Please. It’s important. I need you to remember exactly when they got these skins.”

Tim stared at Martin, looking a little worried, but he answered. “Sometime between the cemeteries closing the day before yesterday and it opening yesterday. I found out about it late yesterday evening, after we’d left the Institute.”

“Fuck.” Martin rubbed his forehead. “That doesn’t give us a lot of time.”

“What? What do you mean?” Melanie demanded.

Martin looked seriously around the room at his team. “Mustermann said that once Orsinov had the skin she needed for her costume, she would ‘call in the Chorus and the Corps’, and three days later they would be ready to begin. Assume they waited until the darkest part of the night we got, say around midnight yesterday? It’s been one day. We’ve got two left.” He nodded as he saw realization dawn on everyone’s faces. “I hope you figured out a plan while I was gone, because we officially have to stop the Unknowing. Now.”

[syoddeye]

everything I was, burning slow

price x reader. 1.2k words. title from 24thankyou.

tags: implied/referenced illness+surgeries, implied/referenced self-harm, established relationship, panic attacks, brief vomit mention, nonsexual nudity

banner from @/cafekitsune

Your mouth is dry and gritty as if you inhaled half the desert and, after a swallow, as tacky as a bowling alley floor. The side of your face is cold and wet, but you’re too busy mapping your molars with your sticky-shriveled tongue to bother lifting it. Once you confirm that all your teeth are in their crooked places, your limbs return online. You push, arm shaking, beneath your weight onto your back. Another swallow. Tastes bitter.

When you were dragged to church as a kid, you’d lean in your seat and gaze at the vaulted ceiling and the murals of angels. Did the same with the open sky, staring at rolling clouds or blinking stars. No matter where you were, you relished how small you felt. How insignificant.

The view from the bathroom floor is a lot like that, too. Lends perspective. Partly under the toilet bowl (you’ve got to clean under here better), you stare at chipping paint and watch particulates float lazily on by. You lay there, telling yourself you’ll get up when the world stops turning. But it won’t, will it? It’s spinning and carrying on. You hear the neighbor mowing the lawn and the dog across the street barking at him. The radio is on in the living room, transitioning from music to a talk show. This is all going to carry on without you, and—

Your jaw pops, hinging open to suck in a sudden, desperate gasp for air as if you’re a fish dropped unceremoniously onto the deck of a boat. What you get, what you taste, is turbid and stifling. It tickles your windpipe and forces you to choke as your chest tightens. You clutch your shirt and silently beg the invisible fist around your heart to loosen its grip. Not again, your thoughts slur. Not again. This is getting embarrassing.

It passes. Eventually.

How long you lay there, you don’t know, but the sound of the front door opening and closing a floor down stirs you out of your stupor. You’re dimly aware of John calling for you, his voice steady and level–your name, maybe? Sheer terror and embarrassment keep you pinned on the tile, though at least it lets up just enough to let you curl into the fetal position. It’s gut-wrenching to hear his tone gradually swell from curiosity to concern. 

The bathroom door opens at last, and your eyelids squeeze shut.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Before he touches you, the light flicks off, and he turns on the tap. He crouches. His knee skims your calves, and a warm hand slides up your back. He fixes your slightly bunched shirt, tugging it down, then rubs circles above your tailbone how you like. He’s talking, too, whispering something you know is kind and tender. It’s an internal tussle of whether or not you want to hear him. The brush of a knuckle over your temple pulls the cotton from your ears.

“–member we’re supposed to take deep breaths, yeah? Can you do that for me? In your nose, out your mouth. C’mon, with me,” He murmurs, tracing the shell of your ear as he demonstrates.

“Can’t.” It’s the first word you’ve spoken in hours. It tastes sour.

“‘Course you can. Like me, babe.” 

In. Out. In. Out. In—

“I got my results.” You croak, eyes opening in slivers. Blearily, you turn your head, looking past him to the corner of the bathroom counter.

“In a minute.” 

The hand on your back completes a few more figure eights before John hauls himself to his feet. The dull, muted sound of him punching in your passcode and typing keeps you tethered. You both hold your breath for very different reasons.

“I see,” John says a moment later, “I see.” 

With some convincing, he maneuvers your body into a seated position, leaning you against the tub. He doesn’t complain, scrubbing the toilet and floor clean of your sick and taking breaks to rub your shins and give you sips of water.

“Bed or bath?”

“Bath.”

He hoists you by the armpits and sits you on the toilet, briefly cupping your face in his hands. Scarred knuckles and palms thickened with calluses; they’re the softest things you’ve ever felt. After checking your eyes and pressing a kiss to your forehead, he starts the tub and carefully undresses you. 

“Join me?” You ask, leaning into him as he helps you step out of your jeans and underwear, fingers skimming the keloid on his shoulder blade.

A warm puff of air and a kiss to your neck. “Need or want?”

Sometimes, you need him in the shower when the shampoo bottle is impossible to lift.

“Both.”

He hums, sits you back down, then strips.

John climbs in first, offering his arm and supporting you by the hip as you follow. He situates your back to his chest, rubbing your elbows after you adjust. It’s a tight squeeze in a tub realistically meant for one, but he never complains. Steam curls off the water’s surface, and sweat beads at your neck. He kisses it anyway.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks after a time, voice rumbling through your spine.

Tracing the scars on his arm and comparing them to your own, you consider. 

When you first started dating, it took months for you to let John see you with the lights on. So used to partners seeing the brutal constellation of marks, self-inflicted and surgical, and finding reason to flip off the light. Used to them suggesting clothes with sleeves and layers. You can’t recall what changed your mind to let him have you in the morning light so long ago, but you remember how he looked at you. How, before he even really touched you, he studied each of them. Invited you to do the same. A new kind of intimacy that told you how well your bodies fit together in more ways than just the one. It lent perspective.

“Later, in bed. I’m tired.”

An arm bands around your stomach, settling you closer. You don’t feel small with John. You don’t feel insignificant.

“Alright. I’ve got you.”

You feel like the world.

[ottern0t]

I was doing referenced nude studies and i also needed to flesh out my fullbody headcanon design for ten so I decided to kill two birds with one stone

Uncensored version under the cut

Nonsexual nudity my beloved…bodies r beautiful

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: Spine

Masterpost // Previous

@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff (also: i finally added a taglist to my main wkw doc, so please send me a message if you wanna be on that list)

TW for: back injury; burns; Magical Injury/painful healing; guilt; Injury To The Degree That It Is Kind Of Body Horror; potential/partial paralysis; referenced past abuse/murder; referenced noncon; nonsexual nudity (brief/implied).

----

Night has barely fallen when they bring the dying Prince to Feira’s salon. By the time she has stitched him together enough to leave him sleeping on her table, his face shadowed and aura flickering but death no longer crouching on his chest, the sun is streaming through the salon’s single window and directly into Feira’s eyes. She collapses back into the single chair that sits opposite her table, wiping sweat and stray strands of grey hair from her forehead with the least bloody part of her sleeve.

It should not have taken this long.

Spines are delicate things, and the care with which she knits one back together will mean the difference between a Prince who someday walks again and one who doesn’t; but she has studied the inner workings of the spine extensively, ever since she put the Prince’s back together from whole cloth after his botched execution. This was never going to be easy, but it should certainly be possible.

It takes her twenty long, harrowing minutes to identify the problem, as she has never encountered anything quite like it before. The iron manacle, clamped to the stump of the Prince’s wrist, is drinking in her magic. Sucking it up like a rag in a puddle. By the end of that first twenty minutes, she is sweating with effort, the Prince is still writhing with the effort of each breath, and when she happens to brush the manacle with the back of her hand, she draws back with a hiss. The metal is hot enough to burn her skin.

Feira is familiar with iron as an insulator against magical energy, of course. Magic-resistant armor is always made of iron; one of the earliest ways to recognize magical aptitude in a child is a rash-like reaction to the touch of iron. But she’s never seen anything like this before. She takes hold of the Prince’s wrist to examine the manacle—seeing, now, the way his skin is already reddening from the heat—and sees the unfamiliar rune welded into the metal. It can be no accident: it must be an intentional damper on the Prince’s magic.

There are—implications, there. About the fall of Fourshield House; about claims that the White Crane has made. None of which Feira has time to think about now, while the Prince is dying on her table, and she does not have the key to his cursed shackle.

It is—not an insurmountable obstacle. But it does mean that Feira must dig deeper into her Patron’s magical reserves than she ever has before, must strain her own aura to the point of pain and dig deeper into the Prince’s soul than she would ever have done given the choice—and must close her eyes to how the skin of his arm reddens and then blisters. The Prince slips in and out of awareness throughout the night; sometimes he is even awake enough to beg for mercy, though he never seems coherent enough to know who his torturer is, and Feira is shamefully grateful for that.

In the end, he still—has an arm, however useless it is without a hand attached. It is a horrible sun-scorched red up to the elbow; the place where the manacle once touched skin has burned down deep into the flesh beneath; in between the skin has bubbled and blistered in ways that make Feira have to stop in the middle and waste seconds she doesn't have gulping air and trying not to be sick. And even then—a spine is a finnicky thing. She may have twisted his arm beyond repair without even returning the use of his legs. She doesn’t know. Certainly he will be well within his rights to hate her to the end of his days, for these hours of torture if not for the years of neglect that preceded them.

But he does not die.

----

Thorne does not expect to fall asleep, not even when he gives up on pacing the hallway and sits down outside the Healer’s door with his forehead pressed to his knees and his eyes squeezed shut. Andry is not screaming as much, by then. Thorne doesn’t know if that means the pain has lessened, or the Prince’s throat has simply given out.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps; he doesn’t even know it's happened until he hears his Master’s voice—he knows it immediately, even in sleep, and is halfway to his feet before he is fully awake or his Master has finished the sentence—say, “What are you doing here?”

Thorne snaps to attention, though he has to grab the wall to keep from falling over while his vision clears. Morden is looking at him with blank surprise but no anger, thank the gods. Morden looks like he hasn't slept, either, and for some reason there is a smudge of blood near one corner of his jaw, like he has tried to wipe it away and not quite succeeded.

“Master,” Thorne says, his mind blessedly blank with relief. “I was—” Part of him knows he is not being careful enough, that he is too tired and wrung out to pay attention to what he says, that he must no better, by now, than to speak to his Master without thinking first.“Someone—I wanted to—they almost killed him, Master,” he blurts out. He sounds like a child to his own ears; high pitched and near tears.

Morden blinks at Thorne. Thorne cannot read his Master's face. That sends an immediate spike of panic into Thorne's guts that brings him halfway back into his body, thankfully. He pulls himself together, with a mighty effort, and bows his head properly, like he is giving an ordinary report, and his voice is almost steady, this time.

“There was an attempt on the Summer Prince’s life, Master,” Thorne says, without lifting his head. “I was—absent from my quarters at the time. I apologize for not taking more care with your gift.”

He should say more. He should tell Morden about the guards. Even if... they were enlisted men, not officers, but Morden might still notice their absence. Thorne didn’t even think to look around the Healer’s room' their bodies might be right inside the door for all he knows. He should tell Morden.

(The word "gift" shouldn't make his mouth fill up with bile, like he's going to gag on what his Master has given him. He should be anticipating his Masters needs and striving to meet them. He shouldn't be thinking about his Master's needs and feeling—feeling—)

(Morden, for his part, is afflicted with a strong desire to laugh. Thorne, his head still bowed, does not see this. Morden schools his features carefully before Thorne meets his eyes.)

“…I see,” Morden says. “And was that attempt successful?”

Thorne shakes his head.

“No, Master,” he says. “No, he—he’s alive. But—I—they—” The words do not want to come. But his Master is watching, so he makes them. “His back is broken, I think,” he says, though it comes out thin and whispery and wrong.

Morden raises his eyebrows. Thorne looks at the blood on his Master’s jaw. His Masters next words are muffled by the sudden buzzing in Thorne’s ears.

“I imagine he'll be fine,” Morden says, and brushes past him to open the Healer’s door.

----

Andry knows the ceiling of the Healer’s room as soon as he opens his eyes. It is decorated with vines and fruit and beehives, sculpted out of white plaster, cracked a little with age.

He feels cracked that way himself. He doesn’t try to move his arm, but even in stillness it feels

(like it is filled with crawling insects who are eating it from the inside like old wood like it is in a sleeve of struck matches like it has swollen so far that the skin has split like rotten meat left in the sun)

bad.

The door of the Healer’s room opens. Andry does not see who has entered, at first; he only sees Lady Feira, the old Court Healer, leap to her feet, placing herself bodily between him and the intruder.

“No,” Lady Feira says, in thickly-accented Leisevan. “No visitors. Get out.”

“Now is a bad time to be in my way, Madam Healer,” the Winter King says in a soft, gentle voice. His Craetan is very good, as always.

Andry feels his heart stutter painfully in his chest, but it has been a long, long night, and he is too tired to feel properly afraid.

Lady Feira is shaking her head. “No. It is enough. You have done enough, you will do no more, I will not—”

Andry takes hold of the Healer’s wrist with his good hand. She stills, though he can feel that she is trembling slightly.

“It’s alright, Feira,” he rasps.

Lady Feira turns to look down at him, over her shoulder. She looks—stricken in a way he has never seen her look before, even when his fever came back a few weeks after his back had begun to heal. He might feel sorry for her, in a few hours. He is too tired for it, just at the moment.

Lady Feira removes her spectacles and rubs her eyes, letting her shoulders sag and not looking at either Andry or Morden.

“Fine,” she says, after a moment, in Craetan. “Fine. Speak, Winter King; but do no more or you will waste the hours I have just spent keeping the Prince alive.”

Andry can see just enough of Morden over the Healer’s shoulder to see him cross his arms and raise his eyebrows at her expectantly. The Healer swears under her breath. She turns back to Andry.

“Don’t try to move,” she says curtly. Her expression seems more under control, though her eyes are still tight with misery. “I won’t go far.”

It’s—kind enough, as a sentiment. Andry knows she can do less than nothing against Morden, any more than he can. It’s nice that she's—thinking of him, he supposes.

Morden watches her leave. When she has closed the door behind her, he turns to look down at Andry, narrowing his black eyes.

Morden pulls up the Healer’s chair and sits down beside the sickbed. The Healer has draped a blanket across Andry's chest; it is the only thing between him and the Winter King. Andry tucks his ruined arm underneath it.

“Alright, Summer Prince," Morden says. "You've got my attention. Tell me about your sister.”

[livelaughwhump]

Worthless - Part 7

Masterlist | Previous

Meet the Team

Content: swearing, dehumanization, pet whump, referenced non-con, self-deprecation, degradation, begging, self-hatred, nudity (nonsexual)

-

Elliot didn't want to get out of bed. He laid there, reveling in the softness of his blanket and staring out the window at the steadily rising sun. He could hear the sound of voices and footsteps, but he didn't bother going to greet his fellow teammates. If they didn't seek him out, then it was safe to assume they didn't want to see him.

Once Elliot eventually lost sight of the sun, he entertained himself by identifying which footsteps belonged to which of his teammates. Landon's footsteps were the heaviest, which made them easy to identify. Yvonne's, on the other hand, were so light that Elliot could hardly hear them at all. Broderick's and Karine's were almost identical, which wasn't surprising. Broderick and Karine were the same age, the same height, and nearly the same weight. If it weren't for their appearances, one could assume they were twins.

Elliot eventually identified Broderick's to be slightly irregular, given his faint limp that he constantly tried to deny.

The creaking sound of Elliot's door opening interrupted his thoughts. He couldn't help the sense of fear growing in the pit of his stomach as he looked up to see who it was.

Karine smiled at him and Elliot's fear started to dissipate. "Hey, buddy. Are you feeling all right? It's not like you to stay in bed until almost noon."

Elliot whimpered in response and snuggled further under his blankets. Karine approached him and said, "May I touch your forehead?" Elliot gave a gentle nod and Karine pressed her hand against his head. "You don't feel warm," she stated. Her face dropped into that of understanding and pity. "Are you just missing Lyra?" Elliot's silence was answer enough. "I'm sorry, buddy, but she'll be back soon. She won't be gone long, I promise."

Elliot sniffed. "What if she never comes back?" He finally spoke. "What if-What if she gets hurt or-or worse?"

"She'll be fine, buddy. And in the meantime, me and the rest of the team are going to take good care of you, I promise."

Elliot shrank into himself. He didn't want to be 'taken care of.' He didn't know what that meant. Were they going to kick him out? Were they going to push him around? Were they going to use him as entertainment? Were they going to make him act like a dog again? Were they going to treat him like their slave?

Elliot whimpered and pushed himself out of bed, spilling onto the floor. He dropped into a kneeling position, his head bowed perfectly.

Karine furrowed her brows. "What are you doing?"

Elliot didn't dare lift his head. "I c-can be good," he whispered. "I won't scream or fight back, unless-unless you want me to. I'll behave. You can d-do whatever you want with me and I'll-and I'll be a good pet. I can be a good pet, I promise."

Karine stared at him for a few seconds before her eyes widened in realization. "Oh, Elliot, no!" Elliot flinched and whimpered. "That's not what I meant. No one is going to hurt you. I just meant that we're going to be here for you and make sure you eat and recover as much as possible."

Tears started trickling down Elliot's face. "I'm s-sorry, K-Karine. I shouldn't h-have accused you. I'm so s-sorry."

"Don't be sorry, buddy. I'm not mad at you. It was just a misunderstanding." Elliot didn't move from his place on the floor. The room was silent for a moment before Karine said, "Why don't we try a bath again?" Elliot glanced up at that, unable to fight the fear in his eyes. "Don't you think you'd feel better if you were clean?" Elliot shrugged, and Karine thought for a moment. "Maybe one of the boys should help you, though."

Elliot hunched his shoulders. "I-I don't want to bother them."

"Nonsense!" Karine exclaimed. "I'm their leader. It's my job to bother them. Besides, I told Lyra that we would all do our part in helping you recover." Karine jumped to her feet and held out a hand for Elliot to take. "Come on, let's go ask the boys."

Elliot hesitated, but she had ordered him to go with her, so he couldn't disobey her. It wasn't in his nature to say no. So, he took her hand and allowed himself to be pulled up from the ground and guided out of the room.

They found Landon asleep on the couch and Broderick playing a video game beside him. Broderick looked up when he noticed Elliot and Karine and gave a sweet smile. "Hi, guys," he greeted.

Elliot couldn't bring himself to smile. He hardly could anymore without hearing Christian's voice in his head saying,

"You ugly mutt. You smile too much, it's hideous. No wonder none of your friends have come for you. They're probably glad your face isn't there to give them nightmares anymore."

Elliot remembered being forced to wear a giant paper bag over his head after that conversation. He remembered crying himself to sleep at night because of how much he hated how he looked. Lyra said she liked his smile, but was she lying to him? Or maybe she was making fun of him and he didn't even notice. Was he really that ugly?

"Elliot?" A voice said, bringing him back to the present. Elliot blinked a few times to gather this bearings before his eyes met Karine's. "Is that okay?"

A spark of panic flickered in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't listening. He didn't know what she'd said. He had ignored her.

Bad pet! Bad dog! Stupid mutt!

Instead of letting her know that he hadn't been listening, he simply nodded, hoping that was the right answer.

Karine smiled and Elliot relaxed a bit. "Perfect," she said. "Then, I'll leave you guys to it." The tension in Elliot's shoulders returned when Karine walked away, leaving Elliot alone with Broderick--and a sleeping Landon.

Broderick smiled at him, but didn't dare get closer. "Hey, Elliot." Elliot was silent. He lowered his head and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Broderick's smile faltered and he gave a nervous laugh as he scratched the back of his neck. "We-We haven't really talked much since you've been back, so...this might be a little awkward, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

Elliot's gaze wavered. "This is...just about the bath, right?" he asked.

Broderick nodded. "Of course. What else would it be about?"

"Nothing," Elliot answered, his cheeks turning pink.

Stupid mutt. What else would this be about? Everyone knows you're too stupid and traumatized to do anything on your own, so Lyra asked the team to help you. But it was just like Landon said. You're a fucking adult! Any normal human would be able to do this by themself, but you know what can't? A fucking dog!

Elliot deflated, his limbs feeling heavy. "You-You don't have to do this," he mumbled. "I'm not worth your time."

"What are you talking about?" Broderick said. Elliot glanced up, only to find confusion and irritation plastered on Broderick's face. "Of course, you are. We're friends, and this is what friends are for. Hell, we're practically family at this point. Just think of this as...your big brother comforting you when you're sad."

Elliot furrowed his brows. "My-My big brother?" he repeated.

Broderick nodded. "Yeah! It'll be fine, I promise. I just want to help you. I hate seeing you like this, all quiet and frightened. It's not like you." Elliot silently lowered his head.

You hear that, you dumb bitch? He hates you, just like the rest of them

That's why they haven't gotten rid of you yet. They're trying to fix you. They're trying to turn into the person you were before you were kidnapped. They like that version of you better. They don't like you anymore.

Elliot frowned. He was trying so hard. He just wanted to be part of the team again instead of a burden that the rest of them were forced to carry. He didn't know what to do. He just wanted his friends to like him again.

"Elliot?" Broderick's voice pulled Elliot out of the depths of his own mind. "Are you ready to start?"

Elliot blinked up at his friend. He could he good for Broderick. He could do as he was told. Maybe if he was good, his friends would like him again. This was his chance to prove that he could be good.

Elliot nodded. Broderick lit up and started leading Elliot into the washroom. Elliot resisted the urge to drop to his knees and crawl after him. Instead, he simply followed his friend into the washroom.

Broderick held his hand under the water as it slowly filled. Elliot watched, the tension in his shoulders loosening ever-so-slightly. If Broderick was able to touch the water for so long, then it probably wasn't a dangerous temperature. He tried to remind himself that Broderick was his friend. He wasn't going to hurt him.

Somehow, Elliot couldn't find it in him to believe that.

Broderick turned around and smiled at Elliot. "Okay. All done. Um..." Broderick examined his friend, who shrunk beneath his gaze. Broderick chuckled nervously and said, "I can-I can turn around while you get undressed, if that will...make you feel more comfortable."

Elliot blushed, but he did as he was told. Broderick turned around and Elliot slowly began to strip off his oversized clothes.

"Let me know when you're done and I can...uh, help you in," Broderick said. Elliot didn't respond. He could tell Broderick was uncomfortable with this. He could tell this wasn't how Broderick wanted to spend his time, which only worsened the shame Elliot felt.

Elliot didn't want to do it either, and as much as he wanted to tell Broderick to just forget it, he was given an order.

And it wasn't his place to disobey.

When he'd finished and neatly placed his clothes into a folded pile, he lightly tapped Broderick on the shoulder. When Broderick turned around, Elliot flinched, expecting his friend to wrestle him to the ground and force his legs apart.

Elliot stumbled backwards until he hit the door and clutched his arms to his chest. "No, no, wait, please, I-I can't...I can't do it again, please, I'm-I'm not ready."

Broderick's eyes widened. "Elliot, what's-"

Elliot burst into tears. "No, no, no, I-I..."

"Elliot, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."

Elliot was sobbing. He used his arms to shield himself as he slid down the door and curled into a pathetic ball. "Please, S-Sir, I-I can't..."

Broderick held both of his hands up placatingly. "I'm not going to touch you, if you don't want me to. I swear, I'm just here to help you get clean. I'm not going to hurt you, sweet. I promise." Elliot glanced up and Broderick forced a smile to his face. "I'm-I'm like your big brother, remember? I would never do...that to you. I would never do anything to you, Elliot. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm so sorry."

Elliot's gaze wavered, fixing on Broderick's shoes rather than his face. "You're-You're not going to...t-touch me?"

"No, sweet." Broderick kneeled in front of Elliot, who flinched back as much as he could. "I would never touch you without your permission. I...no, all of us see you as our little brother. We wouldn't hurt you, any of us. We love you."

Elliot refused to lift his eyes from the floor. He still felt incredibly vulnerable, being completely naked while his friend was fully clothed in front of him. It felt familiar in the worst way, but Elliot wanted to trust Broderick. He wanted to believe that this wasn't some kind of cruel trick. He wanted to believe that Broderick wouldn't hurt him.

"Would you like me to help you into the bath?" Broderick questioned.

Elliot thought for several seconds. He was still so frightened, but he didn't know what else he could do. If it turned out that Broderick was lying, Elliot would simply be punished for trying to resist. It was easier to just do as he was told, so he gave a slight nod.

Broderick smiled and reached out a hand, which Elliot reluctantly took. Broderick guided the younger man to his feet and led him over to the steaming bathtub. Elliot's skin tingled where Broderick touched him, but his focus was stuck on the bathtub.

A pathetic whimper escaped his throat as they drew closer, and Broderick gently rubbed Elliot's back. The tension in Elliot's shoulders eased slightly, but not enough to allow him to relax.

Elliot clamped his eyes shut, preparing to be shoved over into boiling water and held there until he passed out.

But when Broderick helped him into the bath, the water wasn't boiling and his head wasn't being forced under. Elliot opened his eyes, still breathing erratically, as he lowered himself into the bathtub. Surprisingly, the water was soothing and helped to relax his tense muscles. Elliot unintentionally let out a sigh of relief.

"How are you feeling?" Broderick asked.

Elliot shivered. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a warm bath. Usually, Christian would wash him every few weeks using a garden hose and some dish soap. The only time he'd been given an actual bath, it was full of ice, and he'd been left in there until his whole body had turned blue.

Tears started to trickle down Elliot's face.

Broderick's eyes widened. "What's wrong? Is it okay? Are you hurt?"

Elliot sniffled. Despite the voice of his tormentor screaming in his head, he couldn't help the smile growing across his face.

Elliot shook his head. "No, it's-it's perfect." He forced himself to meet Broderick's gaze, tears still cascading down his flushed cheeks. "Th-Thank you."

-

It's Broderick's chapter, hooray! I don't particularly like this chapter, but I don't know why. Maybe because it was a bitch to write🤷

Anyway, Broderick's chapter will continue into part 8, just because it was too long to do in one chapter. After that, it'll probably be Landon's turn.

Taglist:

@l-antre-des-merveilles @pigeonwhumps @nicolepascaline @burningkittypoet @whumpinggrounds

[whumpacabra]

6. Clean

Angst, anticipated violence, cold temperatures, nonsexual nudity, referenced dislocation [shoulder], referenced torture, implied starvation, implied past noncon

AU Masterpost / Previous / Next

The Wolf relished in the numbing water. He could hardly feel his torn skin, even where the stream trickled over still weeping cuts. Soap would have stung a lot worse, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to scrub himself clean.

Maybe H would bring some back from the supply closet? (Now that was wistful thinking…)

Shivering, the Wolf started to rinse the floor, chasing the blood and filth from his skin into the drain. He switched off the water, hands shaking from the cold as he limped toward the door. Using the wall for leverage, he snapped his left shoulder back into place. The staticky ache faded quickly - he was well practiced enough to shake the remaining pins and needles from his hand.

He would just grab his clothes from his room - he wouldn’t look, he wouldn’t breathe that air, he just needed to be covered and protected and -

H startled him away; the Wolf tripped over his own feet as the volunteer cursed in surprise. His left hip hit the ground hard, drawing a keening whimper from his throat as bruised bone impacted the concrete.

He braced, eyes open and ready for the hands that would follow - only for his own clothes and shoes to be dropped unceremoniously in a pile next to him.

“Got your clothes.” H looked better in some ways and worse in others. His chapped lips had a flush of color, but his eyes were distant, pointedly avoiding the Wolf.

The Wolf followed orders, secretly relieved to finally have some shell to hide in - however fragile.

(He remembered stripping these clothes off - slowly, for his handler’s pleasure. Piece by piece as his handler and the overseers stood patiently in front of the door - not that he would have tried to run if the exit was open. His handler trained him better than that.)

As he zipped up his jacket, gloved hands finally gathering enough warmth to be felt again, H shrugged toward the door next to the Wolf’s own.

“Don’t supposed you know if they keep any food in there?”

The Wolf shook his head.

“I’m not allowed in the White Room.” He had only caught glimpses in passing, his handler and other project members crowded around the screens and speakers. The Wolf had no need to know what data they were collecting; it was his job to help them collect it - however they saw fit.

“And the other one?” H nodded to the door across the way. The Wolf shook his head again.

“Tools and firearms. I’m not allowed access without supervision.” He had only been inside the Black Room a few times. The firearms locked behind a cage but the tools on open display. His handler had him clean his own blood off a few before ordering him to turn them on the volunteers.

“Supervision from who?”

Right. The script.

“I work alone.”

“You just said you need supervision to access the weapons locker.”

“I work alone.”

“That’s not - ” H groaned in frustration, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus fuck I need food.” His face was contorted in disgust as he glanced between the Wolf’s door and the Red Room.

“There are rations in the supply closet.”

“I looked there already - looks like they cleared out all perishables.”

Like they weren’t planning on coming back. The Wolf let his eyes drift to his own door. His handler wasn’t coming back.

Maybe.

And if his handler was coming back…well, the Wolf would be punished for leaving the Box. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I have food.”

He turned on his heel, vision tunneling as he forced himself to only see what he needed to see. Desk. Bottom right drawer. Behind the false back he had made - a first aid kit and a handful of rations. A bit stale, but edible.

He kept his back to the rest of the room as he exited, blindly closing the door behind himself. H was watching him with those eyes again - pity and hate and something sour.

The Wolf held out the rations, and H took them with gentle urgency before collapsing to the ground and tearing into the packaged food.

AU Masterpost / Previous / Next

(An AU of my Freelancers series)

[quietly-by-myself]

Across the Silence of the Valley of Dreams - Chapter 1

New story! No Masterlist yet. Inspired by @demondamage and I's roleplay. Hi there, Az. You've now inspired two of my stories.

This isn't the best but it's self-indulgent nonsense so enjoy!

CW: nonhuman whumpee, shapeshifter whump, lab whump, fantasy whump, medical whump, prison system, trans whumpee, magical hierarchy, nonsexual nudity, noncon drugging, noncon exam (cavity search), referenced possible future noncon

===

“Are you happy with it?”

June looked in the mirror, eyes dull. He hardly recognized himself. His once long, pristine white hair was now a short, cropped thing. 

The man behind him, the one with wings and wolf-like eyes, was watching June carefully. 

“Yes, I am, sir.” June hoped that the insincerity wasn’t too obvious. He was lucky. He should’ve been thankful. 

The man considered him carefully. A noble, a full-blooded noble was scrutinizing him. June tried not to let his anxiety control his heart.

“You know your manners. Come, the Doctor will see you now.”

June could’ve breathed a sigh of relief. Down winding halls painted white with white tile, June might’ve felt at home, in some sick way. However, these white tiles weren’t snow. The building was too hot for his liking, too.

Eventually, on the eighth or ninth floor, June found himself in front of a single hall that led to a door. The man who’d cut his hair, shaved his face, and dressed him nicely didn’t exit the elevator with him. Instead, the doors closed with a silent finality as June was left to his fate.

He approached the doors carefully, focusing on calming himself. 

June didn’t even need to knock. A man with thick black hair and glasses opened the door with a smile on his face. The man’s silvery wings sat on his back.

“The half-blood of the Witch Queen. I never thought there’d be a day I’d get to meet you.”

Of course, June was caught a little off guard. Sure, his reputation was difficult to escape. However, after living alone, in solitary for so long, he never imagined arrest and a plea deal to be his escape.

“Hello, Doctor.”

The Doctor smiled, cutting June off. “Call me Linden. I insist, half-blood.”

June swallowed. Did Linden even know his name? “Linden, then, it’s my pleasure as well.”

Linden motioned for June to enter his office, where he found himself in a large, leather chair. It was nicer than anything June had seen since he’d been arrested. One of the other inmates’ warnings played in his head.

Sick bastard. Nobody lasts longer than three months with him.

When June had asked what he’d meant, the inmate was tight-lipped.

June hadn’t heeded his warning.

Linden circled June for a moment, then took a seat at his desk. “So, tell me the nature of your crime, half-blood.”

“Witchcraft.” June had rehearsed this part over and over again. “I was caught using the dark arts.”

Linden hummed a moment, thinking to himself with that same, eerie smile. It was a cookie-cutter question. Not one that tipped June off to anything.

“The dark arts, huh? And tell me, then, half-blood, why are you here before me? Surely my reputation precedes me.”

“It does, Linden. However, I find myself a fox amongst wolves. I do not fit into this country, much less the prison packs. I need to get out and I’m willing to do anything.”

That smile darkened. “Anything you say?”

“Yes, anything.”

“Even become my next experimental subject?”

The noble before him looked thrilled at the prospect. It unnerved June a bit, in all honesty. Nobody should be that excited about having another Shifter as a subject. An elf, maybe. A vampire, sure. But another one of his kind? That scared June for the first time, having met the man.

However, going back to the prison scared him more.

“Yes.”

Linden grabbed June’s arm, pulling him towards the elevator. It was all a blur and for a moment, June considered if he’d been drugged. There was a strange prick-like feeling in his neck.

Again, instead of many winding halls, June found himself in front of a hall with three doors. Linden pulled a languid June into one of the rooms, the last one at the end of the hallway. There laid a table with all sorts of restraints.

“You’re mine now, half-blood. I want you to remember that.” 

When June didn’t reply, a hand flew across his face. 

“Answer me when I speak to you, half-blood.”

“Yes, Linden.”

Linden smirked, ushering June onto the table. Maybe he had been drugged. He couldn’t remember much of the office anymore. 

“Now, strip for me.”

What?

Another backhand, this time harder. “I don’t want to have to get you a shock collar, but I’m not afraid to.”

“Linden-”

Linden grabbed June’s wrist and for the first time, June realized how much bigger Linden was than him. “Do not speak to me unless spoken to, half-blood. You’re not starting out on the right foot with me, you know.”

That, in and of itself, was a terrifying enough prospect. June didn’t want to be sent back to the prison, so he stripped, revealing the first of many secrets.

He’d changed his body with the dark arts, all except for that one part of him that he couldn’t seem to change with his relatively weak nobleborn magic.

“So, the rumors are true. You were born a woman.”

Magic has removed June’s chest, womb, dropped his voice, given him facial hair, and rearranged his body, but it hadn’t gotten rid of that one part of him.

“Yes, I was. What of it?”

Another backhand. 

“It… complicates things. Lie down.”

June knew the threat behind those words, so he laid back. Linden placed a thick anklet around June’s leg and immediately, June felt empty. His magic was gone. It was a piece of enchanted metal, June was sure of it.

Fingers probed June’s mouth, looking, feeling. Somehow, when Linden pulled up a stool, rolling up to June’s lower half, June knew what was about to happen.

Two gloved, lubed fingers entered him. They felt around, feeling everything, looking for hidden contraband. 

June froze. Worse could be happening and this was standard procedure, after all. However, something about it felt deeply violating, even as the gloves snapped off and a new pair snapped open. Two fingers entered his anus, searching for anything. Nothing. The gloves snapped off.

June broke out in a cold sweat, the wetness between his legs making him cringe. 

Panic heaved in his chest, but he couldn’t show it. What was wrong with this picture? Would Linden take it a step further?

Why couldn’t he react more? Why was every bone in his body tired? What was happening to him?

“Very good. Now, I think I’ll leave the bloodwork for tomorrow. I want you to get adjusted, half-blood.”

The wetness persisted. Was June just supposed to be used to this?

“Clothes are a privilege here. I do not see any sexuality in your nudity, do not fear. However, I see them as too… humanizing for scum like you.”

Scum. That was all June was now, right?

No. No. No. What the hell had he signed up for.

As Linden pulled June up, June fell to the ground. A steel-toed boot met his ribs, knocking June to his side. “Get up. Being pathetic won’t help you now.”

June found himself too weak to stand in his human form, so he took a breath and allowed the fur to sprout and his bones to compress into that small skeleton of an arctic fox.

Linden smiled. “Come now, little fox. I’ll let you get some rest. The medicine must be making you feel awfully sleepy by now.”

===

Tags: @i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @pigeonwhumps, @oddsconvert

[dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night]

Eden part seven

Masterlist linked in my pinned

TW: Stockholm Syndrome, brief implied transphobia, captivity, injury, blood, referenced torture, nonsexual nudity, multiple whumpers, multiple whumpees, creepy/intimate whumper, sadistic whumper, pet whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker

"Ezra," Christopher called. "I need to speak with you."

Ezra hurried after the sound of Christopher's voice, finding him stirring a large metal pot in the kitchen.

Nearly two weeks had passed since they had met, yet Ezra still adored the sound of Christopher saying his name.

His real name, not the other one. That one was shoved away in a drawer, an unspoken secret between the two of them.

"My fiance Colt is coming over later today" Christopher said. "He is not the most punctual sort, so don't hold your breath for his arrival."

Christopher had mentioned Colt, of course. Sometimes leaving Ezra alone for a few hours to spend time with him. But Ezra had never expected to meet the man.

"He's rough around the edges," Christopher continued. "Please forgive any rudeness on his part. I love him dearly, but we really are a case of opposites attracting."

Whatever the opposite of Christopher was, Ezra didnt want to meet him. Christopher must be exaggerating, unless he was bringing the Devil himself over for tea.

"Yes sir," Ezra said. "If you don't mind my asking, why don't you live together? Are you planning on it after you get married?"

"No, we have very different life styles, and are content to live separately."

Christopher stirred the pot of stew he was cooking a few more times, then set his wooden spoon on the counter.

So, their peace would never be permanently disrupted. Ezra secretly rejoiced in this knowledge.

He and Christopher were so perfect by themselves. Christopher didn't need Colt, or anyone other than Ezra, anyway. It was only a matter of time before he realized that.

"I want you to get along with him," Christopher said. "Don't think I can't see the look on your face. Now is not a time for jealously."

"I'm not jealous sir," Ezra lied. "I'm happy that you're getting married. I'm just nervous about meeting another person. I'm used to it just being the two of us."

The pot on the stove boiled over, white foam rising over the edge and pouring onto the stove.

Christopher swiftly balanced his wooden spoon over it, reducing the bubbling significantly.

"We're going to have lunch or dinner together, depending on when he shows up. You will eat later, so don't think I've forgotten you."

"Yes sir."

Christopher turned the stove down so the stew could simmer. He turned and hugged Ezra, then held him at arms length, smiling warmly.

"Would you like some tea?"

Ezra knew the correct answer. "Yes sir." With a smile to match.

They sat then, in each other's company, cuddled up on their sofa drinking steaming lemon tea.

Christopher's house felt more like home to Ezra than any of his past houses or apartments ever had.

It seemed insane that he had ever resisted being kept here. It really was their own Eden, uninterrupted by the horrors of the outside world.

The loud sound of someone banging on the laundry room door rang out.

"Christopher!" a man, presumably Colt, shouted. "I'm here!"

Christopher sighed and walked to open the door. Ezra stayed perfectly still, listening to Christopher and Colt's conversation.

"What's up dollface?" Colt asked. "Did you miss me?"

"Terribly," Christopher said. "Excuse me, do not track mud in my house. Take those disgusting boots of yours off."

"Yeah yeah. I love you too."

"And your pet is filthy. Did you even try to clean them off?"

"I sprayed it down with a hose."

Pet? Ezra physically recoiled. Please be a dog. Please be a dog. Please be a dog.

"Have you done anything interesting lately?" Christopher asked.

"I finally got around to fixing up that old motor bike. She's a right beauty. I just need to finish the paint job then take her for a spin.

"That sounds like fun. Tell me how it goes."

"I will."

"Come on in."

Christopher walked into his living room with Colt just behind him.

Ezra immediately decided that he hated Colt.

His obnoxious slicked back hair and bad eye liner suited him perfectly, in the most derogatory sense. His worn out leather jacket was covered in the logos of various metal bands. His pants were more rips than leather, hugging his hips much too tightly.

He looked to be the sort of man who picked fights in bars for fun and prided himself in stealing other men's girlfriends.

"Ah," Colt said, fixing his gaze on Ezra. "So this is your new pet hmm?"

"His name is Ezra," Christopher said.

"You named it?"

"Him, dearest. And no, that was already his name."

"Your pet has a name and preffered pronouns?" Colt asked with a nasty sort of laugh.

"Precisely," Christopher answered.

Colt considered this. "Whatever makes you happy."

He looked around, suddenly realizing his pet hadn't followed him inside.

"Come on in you stupid mutt!" he hollered.

A person shambled into the room, stumbling every few steps. Their long hair was matted in all manner of filth and what looked too much like dried blood for Ezra's comfort.

Shredded clothing did little to cover their scarred body, covered in all manner of cuts, burns, and bruises. Their skeletal frame betrayed weeks without more than scraps to eat.

"They need cleaned up," Christopher complained. "They're getting my carpet dirty. And some of those wounds are festering."

Colt sighed, as though basic human dignity was very far beneath him.

"Fine dollface. That'll at least get our pets out of the way while we have some fun. I can smell the, what do you call it? Oh yeah, I can smell the borscht from in here."

How Colt could smell anything over the cloying scent of lavender was beyond Ezra.

"Ezra dear," Christopher said. "Can you take...this person and get them into the shower. I hope you don't mind them borrowing a pair of your pajamas."

"Of course sir." Ezra stood up, leaving his empty tea cup on the living room table. He gestured to the pathetic creature trembling in his livingroom. "Please follow me."

"You don't need to be nice you know," Colt complained. "Tell it what you want it to do. Then hit it if it refuses. Easy."

"I expect politeness from my pets," Christopher correct.

"Oh yes, well whatever." Colt made a shooing gesture at Ezra. "Off with you two then."

"Yes sir."

Ezra stood, and held out his hand. Colt's pet hesitated, before accepting it and allowing themself to be led down the hall and into the bathroom.

Ezra closed the door behind them and gestured for Colt's pet to sit on the ledge of the bathtub.

"What's your name? I'm Ezra."

They shook their head vigorously, matted hair falling over wide gray eyes.

"I'm not allowed to have one."

"Oh...is there anything I can call you then?"

"Master calls me mutt."

"I'm not gonna call you mutt. I used to get called that. I hated it. Christopher and Colt can't hear us in here, anyway. They have the record player on."

"You can-" They broke off, glancing around wildly, before dropping their volume significantly. "You can call me...a name?"

"Yeah, sure thing. What name?"

"Any. Just a name."

Ezra thought about this for a minute. How could this poor person not remember their own name? What in the nine rings of hell had Colt put them through?

"How about...Jay?"

"I like that one."

"And pronouns? Do you like she or he or they or it or something else?"

"Master calls me it. But yours called me they."

"What do you like?"

"I like...what you like?"

Ezra sighed. "Alright Jay, we can stick with they and them unless you decide you like something different."

Jay lit up, a cracked lipped smile reaching across their bloodied face. "Okay."

"Christopher wanted me to help you get cleaned up. Do you mind taking your clothes off? I have clean ones for after you're done showering."

Jay stripped imediately, finding nothing embarrassing about being exposed. Numberless scars littered the entirety of their body, all covered in a layer of dirt and dried blood.

Their back and chest bore poorly scabbed over wounds Ezra recognized as coming from a knife. Second and third degree burns stretched across large swaths of their limbs. The peeling blisters and charred black flesh almost hurt to look at. Dark purple bruises covered every piece of skin where nothing truly atrocious laid.

"What happened to you?" Ezra couldn't help but ask. "I have a first aid kit."

"Master likes beating me," Jay said, as though it were obvious. "It doesn't look like yours does. So I'm happy about that."

Christopher's words suddenly came rushing into Ezra's mind.

Oh, don't look at me like that. It isn't anything horrid. I'm not going to hurt you, unless you harm me or attempt escape. You should be grateful, really. I'm a lot kinder than most of the masters you could have gotten stuck with.

And you're so pretty too. I know a few men who would wear your face as a mask sooner than saying hello. No, no, you're much better off with me. I'll take care of that pretty face of yours.

Ezra loved Christopher, that much was certain. But he didn't understand why he would involve himself with someone capable of such brutality. Christopher deserved better than Colt, and so did Jay.

Ezra brought the water to a pleasantly warm temperature. Then he flipped on the shower head, already on its gentlest setting.

"Am I really allowed to?" Jay whispered.

"Yeah. Christopher said you had to. He likes to keep his house clean."

Jay relaxed, apparently satisfied with any reasoning outside of compassion. They stepped into the shower, and laughed with delight.

"Oh, that feels good," they said brightly.

Ezra handed them a towel and body wash.

"Thank you Ezra."

After Jay finished cleaning the dirt and dried blood from their body, Ezra handed them the shampoo.

They lathered it into their hair, and smiled as the built up grease and grime finally seeped down the drain.

Their skin, brilliantly red and raw, looked as though they had been partially flayed. But still this was improvement.

Drying off proved a challenge. Jay's skin was far too sensitive, they winced and even yelped at being touched by the towel.

"You can drip dry," Ezra offered.

Jay nodded. "Thank you. I don't know how I'm ever going to make this up to you."

"You can make it up to me by telling me about yourself while I clean your wounds out."

"Okay." Jay thought about Ezra's request as he pulled out the first aid kit. "I'm Colt's pet, but you already know that. I'm not a very good pet. He tells me so. That's why he hurts me, I can't just listen to him. And I don't know how to shut up."

Ezra poured rubbing alcohol over Jay's wounds. They hissed in pain, but stayed still. Ezra used alcohol drenched cotton swabs to clean out the stubborn dirt missed by the hot water.

"That sounds awful Jay. How long have you lived together?"

"I don't know," Jay said. "A long time. What about you? It must be nice, living with a master who keeps you clean."

Bandaging Jay's injuries took far more time than expected. They took up such awkward positions.

"Christopher is amazing. I love him, and he loves me. I wish you could stay here with us, but I don't think it's allowed."

"If we're good, I bet we can visit more. Your master sure has a nice house. It smells like flowers."

Ezra knelt down and rubbed burn salve onto Jay's legs. The texture made his skin crawl with unseen insects. It was truly disgusting, seeming like something out of a horror movie, not fit for real life.

Jay sighed with relief. "That feels amazing. Please keep going."

"I will," Ezra promised. "I want you to feel better."

"I've been thinking, about what you said," they whispered, almost inaudible. "I like being Jay. It's a nice name."

"You deserve to be happy."

Jay injuries were far too extensive to be completely cured with a bathroom first aid kit. But Ezra made do, putting the prevention of injection above all else. Even if he couldn't rid Jay of his pain, he could at least risk him of bacteria and what looked suspiciously like mold.

After pulling out a set of clothes, Ezra helped Jay into them. They clutched his arm, unable to balance themselves properly.

"It's okay," Ezra assured them. "I've got you."

Jay ran their hands over their shirt. "Wow," they breathed. "This is so soft."

"Do you want me to brush your hair?" Ezra asked.

"Yes please."

Large clumps of matted tangles pulled loose from Jay's hair as Ezra brushed it, causing Jay a great deal of pain despite Ezra's best effort to be gentle.

When Ezra was done, Jay looked almost normal. Most of their injuries laid beneath the blue cotton clothing, other than a few bruises their face.

"Thank you," Jay whispered, staring at their own reflection. "Is that really what I look like?"

"Yes." Ezra bit his lip, almost guilty for how he was treated when Jay had to suffer such torments. "Are you ready to go back to the livingroom?"

Jay nodded mutely. Ezra took them by their bandaged hand and led them back.

As soon as Ezra caught sight of Colt, he hated him the more for what he saw.

He and Christopher were necking, and Colt seemed to be trying his hardest to suffocate Christopher with his tongue. His hand clutched Christopher's hip, slid below his waist band.

Colt's leather jacket had been removed, revealing his arms, covered in tattoos of punk symbols and naked chicks.

Christopher pulled away from his fiance, his wire framed glasses slightly skewed. "Oh, hello dear Ezra. Are the two of you getting along?"

"Yes sir."

"You look nice," Colt said, sneering at Jay. "You're lucky I brought you. I hope you aren't getting too used to this."

"No I-" Jay broke off. "No master. Of course not."

"Run along and play," Christopher said. "Colt and I have a lot to talk about."

Ezra imediately took his leave, bringing Jay back to his bedroom. The closed door provided a level of privacy he usually disliked, but found appealing in this case.

"Let's take a nap," he suggested. "You look exhausted."

"You're allowed to have a bed?" Jay asked. "Why?"

"So...I can sleep by myself sometimes. Do you just sleep with Colt?"

"No. I sleep of the floor. It isn't that bad. I like playing with the mice. Most people think they're gross, but they're really sweet."

"Lay down," Ezra offered. "We can sleep together. And, if you want, we can cuddle."

Jay burst into tears. They crawled into bed, and Ezra covered the both of them in blankets.

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Jay asked. Another sob escaped their lips, and they buried their face in Ezra's pillow.

"No," Ezra said gently, rubbing Jay's back. "This is real life."

He wrapped both of his arms around Jay, keeping them close. He could feel sobs racking through their body, and their ceaseless shaking.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Jay asked. "Oh no, I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. I promise."

"You're okay," Ezra whispered. "I'm being nice because...because you're a person."

"I forgot that." Jay sniffled. "After a while. Everything hurts."

"Sleep. It'll help you feel better. At least a little bit."

"I have nightmares."

"I'll wake you up if you do."

Jay didn't answer. After a few minutes, Ezra heard them softly snoring. He closed his eyes, and allowed sleep to take him, hoping Jay would still be there when he woke up.

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[emcscared-whumps]

WHUMPTOBER 2022 - 15: Emotional Damage

"Breathing Through The Pain"

Read below the cut!

Whumptober Navigation Post

Is this canon compliant? Yes. Is this canon? Who knows, only if I find an appropriate spot in a rough timeline lol

I intended to keep all of the snippets under 500 words to keep the pressure down, but it honestly ran away from me lol. I'm definitely not writing or posting any of these in order lmfao have fun

CONTENT and WARNINGS: mer/shifter whumpee, afterburns-- candinium burns (like silver but probably worse), scars, painful shift/transformation (mentioned, non-explicit), nudity (nonsexual), bathing (nonsexual), referenced captivity and torture, a little bit of suffocation

wc: ~1k

It was like Pete was back with that man.

He was on fire.

Invisible flames licked at each hideous pink scar that marred his skin, covering his back and reaching claws over his shoulders, stretching down his side, striping his skin… Each one was made by that stuff. And it burned like the day the weapons and tools broke his skin and pressed against his flesh.

As Pete panted, sweat beaded on his forehead and formed a sheen over his body despite the cold of night. He whined pitifully in his tangled sheets with each new wave.

It hurt.

He could barely even think.

Frantically worming out of his shirt did not alleviate the uncomfortable heat that filled his body despite the seemingly frigid air that brought goosebumps to his skin. No matter how much he turned or shielded himself, it only aggravated the phantom coals buried in each poorly-healed wound, that glowed red with their punishment. There was no escape from the flames.

Another wave washed over him, worse than the ones before, drawing a thin cry from parched lips.

Pete couldn’t breathe, yet he was breathing too fast. He twisted, using the tension as a distraction from the raging inferno that engulfed him. Broken gasps and cries drifted out of his room and through the hall until finally, the pain broke, and left him in a deep, quiet trough.

His eyes fluttered open.

It was still dark. He wondered what time it was, how long it had been, how long he had left to endure this hell, and how long it would be before those coals buried in his skin would rage again.

Without warning, Pete’s world set itself ablaze.

He threw his head back and shrieked, every muscle in his body pulled taut as if they could lift him off this bed of fire, but it just made it worse.

He couldn’t see the door burst open, nor Timmy rush in, he only felt burning warm hands on his arm and face as he tossed and flinched away.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he heard a voice say, was it Timmy’s? “Fuck, ye’re burnin’ up… is that… what I think it is...? Shit…!”

Pete yelled out again, before sobbing incoherencies.

“Woah, woah,” Timmy said again, placing one hand against Pete’s face and the other against his heaving chest.

At first, Pete quivered under the touch, but settled into it between thrashes.

“I don’t think you’ll like this, but it’s gonna help. I won’t lie, it’s gonna hurt like hell, and then it will help, I promise.”

Anything, Pete couldn’t help thinking, Please just make it stop, anything…!

He tried to open his mouth to speak, to beg Timmy to make it stop, to save him, to help him, but he only managed another tight whine.

“I’ll be two seconds, ye’ll feel better soon, I promise,” he said and left.

Not a moment later, through the roaring of his blood and thundering heart, Pete could hear the bath run in the room adjacent.

Fear.

Overwhelming fear chilled Pete’s burning blood.

Anything but that…! Please!

He didn’t hear Timmy return and kneel at his bedside. “Shh,” he whispered, “I know ye’re scared, but I’ll be with ye, it’s just us tonight, in my terrace. Kate and Liz aren’t here, it’s okay, I promise ye it’s just us.”

The burning subsided momentarily, finally letting him open his teary blue eyes and stare hopelessly up at Timmy who slowly, gently wrapped his arms around him and helped him up.

Timmy hadn’t been wrong yet, Pete trusted him.

Timmy said it’d hurt before it helped, so he must be right, and he tried not to lose sight of that notion when they stepped over the threshold of the bathroom.

Pete hesitated when Timmy brought him forward, closer to the quarter filled tub. A glass of water sat on the sink, waiting.

I can’t…!

“Hey, hey,” Timmy cooed, “say with me, you’ll be alright.”

Timmy hadn’t been wrong before.

“I-i-i-i-it’s g-g-gonna—g-g-g-gonna be a-alright,” Pete stammered.

“That’s good, it’s gonna be alright, that’s it,” Timmy said. “Now, you’ve got burns and your skin feels warm, I think some cool water will help, but you’ll have to shift for me—”

Pete gasped, gripping Timmy’s shirt tightly, trembling and shaking his head.

Timmy calmly stroked Pete’s head, running his fingers through rough, wiry hair.

“Trust me, I’ll be here, I won’t leave ye, I promise. It will hurt, I don’t deny that, but I promise ye it’ll be worth it. Do you trust me?”

After a moment, Pete shakily nodded.

Timmy was kind enough to give Pete a towel and turn away when he took off the last of his clothes, and helped him into the tub, steadying him when he slipped.

Timmy held the cup to Pete’s lips.

He trembled, unable to breathe the air around him.

“It’s alright,” Timmy reassured him, and then Pete let the water from the cup flow through his gills and start the shift.

Timmy turned the shower on a gentle cool spray and let the water fall across Pete’s back, trying to provide some relief while he twisted and his body changed.

Pete's mouth dropped open in a silent scream as blinding agony lanced through his injured foot and up his leg. His chest heaved, refusing to draw in air until the edges of his vision darkened and they finally relented.

He gasped deeply, coughing and choking, gripping Timmy’s shirt tightly from where he’d slid down into his lap.

“That's it, ye’re doin’ great, just breathe, that’s good.”

That was all he did, he couldn’t get enough air

“Slow it down just a bit… Just breathe, breathe through it, breathe through the pain, and ye’ll be alright,” he said. “In, and then out… In, and then out…”

When Pete’s ragged, shuddering breaths began to resemble that rhythm, Timmy gently praised him.

“Ye’re doing so good,” he’d said, “Ye’ll pull through soon, these afterburns of yers’ve never lasted longer than a couple of hours.”

Pete could do nothing but nod into Timmy’s legs, keep breathing, and hope he was right.

In the meantime, the coolness of the water washed away the burning agony of Pete’s wounds, and finally, his body let him sink into a light doze still resting on Timmy’s lap.

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[ao3feed-brucewayne]

the best endure, but the dead are true believers

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/92jZGP5

by valkyriered

Slade knows what torture looks like. He’s done it himself, he’s survived it plenty of times. The evidence of it on Jason is clear — bruising on his wrists and throat, missing fingernails, burns on his skin.

He nudges Jason with his boot. “Hood.” He says, loudly. Jason doesn’t stir.

 Slade finds Jason after a few days at the hands of Black Mask.

Words: 4273, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: DCU (Comics), Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con

Categories: Gen

Characters: Jason Todd, Slade Wilson, Bruce Wayne

Relationships: Jason Todd & Slade Wilson, past Jason Todd/Slade Wilson - Relationship, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne

Additional Tags: Aftermath of Torture, Rape Aftermath, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, nonsexual intimacy, Hair Washing, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason Todd-centric, Slade Wilson is Deathstroke, Good Slade Wilson, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Roman Sionis is an asshole, Nonsexual Nudity

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/92jZGP5

[ao3feed-danganronpa]

Your Skin Like Light

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/aDOfwM9

by kichibabe

“Your skin Smells Like light. I think you are The Moon.”

or

Kamukura really likes Komaeda's body

Words: 788, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Danganronpa, Dangan Ronpa Another Episode: Ultra Despair Girls

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Kamukura Izuru, Komaeda Nagito

Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito

Additional Tags: kamukoma - Freeform, danganronpa - Freeform, Trans Male Character, Trans Komaeda Nagito, Trans Character, Nudity, Nonsexual Nudity, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/aDOfwM9

[whumpacabra]

Cleaned Up

Nonsexual nudity [bathing], cold water, referenced captivity and torture, threats

[Directly follows Ghosting]

David was completely awake now, the cold water biting into tender bruises and open cuts. His shuddering gasps for air were ignored by the pair of men hosing him down, steel toed boots tapping impatiently.

“I fucking hate this…” One of them, red haired and husky, couldn’t sit still. He paced the length of the concrete room, refusing to look at David.

“I fucking hate hearing you complain about this when you haven’t had to lift a finger.” The smaller man, mousy and squeaking, ran another pass of icy water over David’s shivering shoulders.

“I take it nobody cares how I feel about this?” He wanted to bite his tongue off the second the sentence snapped past his chattering teeth.

“Shut up.” David counted it a small blessing that nothing physical followed their unanimous, almost automatic reply.

“I got the damn clothes and shit - you wanna go argue with the supply guys about why the Boss wants a fresh pressed suit fitted for a - a fucking - damn, I fucking hate this.”

“It ain’t about you. So…I don’t know, take a smoke break. It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

David kept his eyes glued to the wall in front of him as two pairs of footsteps moved. One leaving, one approaching. Even his shivering couldn’t hide his erratic breathing.

“Relax dammit it’s just a fucking towel.” The fabric that fell over David’s shoulders wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t like the rags Cortazar gave him.

Hesitant hands gripped the towel tighter over his back as the man behind him took a step back. David couldn’t remember the last time he was allowed to dry himself.

“What’s your name kid?” David squinted over his shoulder at the man, who couldn’t have been more than a few years older than himself.

“Dave.” His voice came out gravelly and hoarse. Did the Boss not even know the name of the man he held prisoner?

“I’m Marius. The twitchy fuck is my brother Jo.” Marius was sifting through the layers of clothes his brother had left behind, tossing David a pair of boxers. “Can you dress yourself?”

David wanted to ask what the hell was going on - why the Boss wanted him to…'join him for dinner,' why Marius was (comparatively) kind to a man he had just met. All he managed was an expression between apprehension and horror.

“Listen closely because I’m sure that pretty little head of yours is still having a hard time.” Marius turned his back as David struggled to get dressed while still damp. “You are going to die on this island. One way or another. Best case scenario the Boss likes you enough to keep you around for work, but you’ll never be able to leave.” His voice softened as he turned, handing over a pristine undershirt. “Worst case scenario Jo has to scrape what’s left of you off the walls. Understand?”

David nodded numbly, the urge to float away from his body and become a passive observer tempered by the anger under Marius’ words.

“Cortazar’s dragged in quite a few…problem children over the years. Boss is usually too busy to care but he’s on vacation here this year. I don’t know what the fuck he’s thinking but whatever it is, it’s better than replacing your brain with a shotgun shell, eh?”

David knew there were things much worse than death that the Boss could visit upon him. Much worse.

[Directly before Feast]

(Part of my Freelancers: Intersection series)

[dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night]

Eden VAU part two

Masterlist linked in my pinned.

TW: breifly referenced eating disorder, captivity, referenced racism, referenced Islamaphobia, nonsexual nudity, referenced nuclear weapons, referenced war, pet whumpee, creepy/intimate whumper, human whumpee, vampire whumper

"You may bathe, if you wish," Christopher offered. "And I have made you food."

Ezra stood and stretched. His back cracked loudly, releasing a great deal of pent up pressure.

"Yes sir," he said with a yawn. "Can I turn on a light?"

"I do not have electric lights," Christopher said apologetically. "Instead, I will start a fire for you. However, I have running water, for convenience. A quite spectacular invention."

"Thank you sir. Where's your bathroom?"

"Follow me." Christopher strolled down the darkened hall, with Ezra just on his heels.

He opened a door, and gestured for Ezra to walk inside, before lighting a candle on the counter.

An antique porcelain bathtub stood in the center of the rather large room. Ezra had never bathed in a tub deep enough to fit an entire adult body, and the idea appealed greatly.

"There are clothings in the cabinet," Christopher said. "Along with towels. I found shampoo and conditioning to work with your lovely curls. I hope everything is to your liking."

"I'm sure it is," Ezra said. "Thank you sir."

Christopher swept from the room, closing the pale wooden door behind him.Ezra stripped, thankful for the plentiful darkness shrouding his dreaded female body from his own view.

He turned the ornate brass tap, bringing the water to a warm temperature. He sat down in the tub, as it filled quickly, soon submerging him to his neck.

Leaning his head back, he relished the splendidness of the simple act. He slathered shampoo in his hair, then scrubbed his body clean with a sponge covered in lavender soap.

The longing to bathe for hours overcame Ezra, but the water soon grew chill, and he was forced to drain it. He considered filling the tub once again, but remembered that Christopher was waiting for him, along with his offer of food.

Ezra found a towel in a drawer of the standing cabinet. Getting his thick curly hair to stop dripping took quite some time, but he managed.

In the drawer below the towels, he found clothes. The textures were all lovely and soft, exactly to his preference.

His new binder, one of many, fit him much more comfortably than his old tattered one, bought secondhand like most of his clothes. The fuzzy cotton sweatpants and long sleeved shirt kept him quite warm against the chill air of Christopher's home.

Finally, Ezra noticed the lack of mirrors in the bathroom. It made perfect sense, of course. Especially if Christopher's home wasn't frequented by humans.

Brushing his hair was a bit tricky without a reflection to aid him, but on the other hand, he didn't have to look at his feminine face, far too thin from years of starving himself.

Perhaps the absence of his reflection was for the best.

Ezra carried the candle on its tray down the hall, feeling like a character from a period film, and found Christopher in his kitchen.

He was stirring a large pot of stew over a wood burning stove. Rough wood crates full of potatoes, onions, dried meats, and other food stuffs lined the walls.

"Dear Ezra," Christopher said with a large smile. "How are you feelings?"

"Better sir." Ezra sighed. "So, what's going to happen now?"

Christopher took up a ladle and filled a pastel painted, wood bowl with stew. He handed it to Ezra along with a brass spoon.

"You are to eat," he said. "Please, sit down."

Ezra sat up to a small round table and, Christopher sat across from him.

"How does it taste?" he asked. "And please be honest in full. It is for you, and I cannot taste it."

Ezra scooped up a piece of beef, a bit of onion and shredded cabbage, then took a bite. It tasted salty, yet not unpleasantly so. There was something oddly nostalgic about a home cooked meal, even though his family had never made borscht specifically.

"This is amazing," he said, as soon as he had swallowed. "I don't know how to cook, so I don't get to eat anything like this very often. Thank you sir."

"I will teach you," Christopher offered. "It is important to have such skills."

Ezra scarfed down the warm beef stew, hardly taking the time to breathe.

"Slow down," Christopher said. "You will choke yourself."

Ezra forced himself to eat at a reasonable pace. He noticed that his eyes were now adjusted to the darkness, aided by the fire, allowing him to see muted colors.

"I am glad you like it," Christopher said. "I will make you dessert later, yes?"

"Yes sir, thank you."

The fire began to die down, dimming the room. Christopher walked across the kitchen, kneeling down in front of the stove. He piled a few more logs, not needing to bother with carefulness handling blazing wood.

Ezra wanted nothing more than to fish for information. But where to start? Vampires lived for so much longer than humans, Christopher could have so much more to tell.

Ezra supposed, as Christopher sat down, that would make a perfectly fine starting point.

"If you don't mind my asking sir, how old are you?"

Christopher smiled at Ezra. "Three hundred and fifty six. I was born in the year of our Lord sixteen sixty seven. And you are twenty three, born in the year of our Lord two thousand. Which seems to me very strange."

"I guess so. I mean, a I watch a lot of sixties TV. Nineteen sixties, I mean."

"Television did not exist until the twentieth century. I understand when you are referring."

"Oh yeah. Well, anyway, tons of science fiction started with 'in the distant future of two thousand five' or something like that. Which seems bizzare now, comparing their version of the future with how things really turned out. I imagine it's even stranger, having grown up in the sixteen hundreds."

"How correct you are. So many things of your time delight me. Medicine able to cure the worst of pestilence, or prevent it entirely. Plague and smallpox eradicated. Electric lights and automobiles in place of fire and horses. Moving pictures showing people even after they have moved on with their lives, or even passed away. Devices capable of producing sounds from nothing, though such sounds were produced at one point for later listeners."

Christopher strolled across the room and gestured to his record player, which still played faint soothing music.

"I could go on for hours. It is so spectacular. I remember when man sent a dog into space, then themselves. I also remember when the cosmos were considered untouchable, a place of gods and angels. Humans have grown no more intelligent, by any means, but have now the capabilities to perform miracles, leaving no room for their gods."

"Yeah," Ezra said quietly. "I can't imagine."

He had a hard time understanding when his grandparents complained of new fangled technology and explained how they grew up without as much as a land line phone or television. Now he was speaking with a man who remembered the invention of electricity and vaccines.

"So." Ezra cleared his throat. "Are you from Russia sir?"

"She is my motherland, yes. In great misfortune I had to flee. I lived in a time of Tzars, not self appointed tyrants slaughtering millions. I came to the United States of the Americas, where I was just as unwelcome. I listened on radios as men built nuclear weapons and threatened mass destruction. Such a terrible thing. I appreciate proper combat. Men on foot and horse, weilding bows and swords. Not business men in offices pushing buttons and issuing orders which dishonorably steal millions of lives."

"Woah..." Ezra contemplated this as he finished off his stew, wishing he hadn't cut history classes so often. "I can't even remember nine-eleven."

"A misfortune, as you surely remember the cruelty shown to your people for it."

"Well, I don't know about my people. My grandparent's people maybe. I was raised Christian, not Muslim. Oh, but the kids at school were just horrible."

Ezra sighed. God, how he liked to ignore the existence oh his childhood.

"Yes," Christopher said, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice. "I want to safe keep you from those sort of undeserved troubles. You are such a precious thing."

Despite himself, Ezra liked the compliment. He loved being reminded that he didn't deserve everything he had went through. And he especially loved being treated like he was special and better than those who had hurt him.

It seemed a misfortune that the only person who saw how "precious" Ezra was happened to be a vampire who had kidnapped him. But at the moment that aspect was secondary to how wonderful he felt.

"Your smile is simply brilliant," Christopher complimented. "Thank you for allowing me to enjoy it."

"Thank you sir. If you don't mind my asking, what time is it?"

"Five AM. Nearing sunrise. I will soon have need of rest."

"I'm pretty much nocturnal anyway sir."

"I know, and am glad. Now, do you require anything more to eat?"

"No sir. Thank you though."

"I shall show you to your room then."

Christopher stood, and offered Ezra his hand. After a tense moment of hesitation, Ezra accepted it, and they walked down the hall.

Beautiful art pieces lines the walls, ocean storms capsizing sailing ships, and peaceful bays full of swimmers. The subjects were in conflict, but complimented each other in design, color, and placement.

Christopher opened a door, and entered the room after Ezra, who took waited for his eyes to adjust before taking in his surroundings.

Warm looking fur blankets covered a large bed. The wardrobe was painted maroon with light purple highlights, Ezra's first and second favorite colors respectively. The soft woven rug felt wondrously soft under Ezra's bare feet.

"You may rest in here," Christopher said. "There are clothings for you in the wardrobe."

"Thank you sir." Ezra sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hand over the fur, smoothing down the appealing texture.

"Every dawn I am compelled to return to my burial place and sleep until dusk," Christopher explained. "For convenience, I moved a great deal of grave soil home, along with my casket. However, it would take intense physical injury to wake me, something you are quite incapable of. If you require my attention, it must wait until after nightfall."

"Yes sir."

Ezra's mind buzzed with questions about vampires. They were a subject he always wished was handled more thoroughly in school.

The folklore, books, and movies were all so contradictory, being all created by human hand alone.

Ezra's knowledge of vampires came largely from Bram Stoker's Dracula and its many subsequent adaptations. Though he knew they must have gone awry on some points.

After briefly wondering what Christopher would think of the Count, Ezra decided to make even more of an effort to project onto Jonathan Harker.

"Good morning," Christopher said. "I will speak to you in the evening when we both awake."

Christopher swept from the room, and Ezra heard the old brass lock click. He buried himself in the fur blankets, delighting in their comfort.

Sleep took him quickly, interrupting his regret of never having learned shorthand.

Taglist: @devourerofcheesecake @elim-flower @thedarkmongoose @whumpsday @whump-by-robin @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @annablogsposts @whumpshaped @seetheothersideofparadise @knittedeyebrowsandcardigans @whatwasmyprevioususername @boonasaurusrex @suspicious-whumping-egg @heavenly-whumper @melancholy-in-the-morning @suck-my-clit-loser @anomalys-taxonomy