#tw whumping of a minor

[miammey]

Jouno trying to make it back to the other Hunting Dogs after getting de-vampirized in the middle of nowhere completely by himself and also still injured

[aceofwhump]

Avatar the Last Airbender (2024) 1x06 "Masks"

[befuddled-calico-whump]

guys they are so unbothered

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast , @whumpsday , @regrets-realization-acceptance , @kixngiggles , @randomlifeunit , @darkthingshappen

[3-2-whump]

Whumpee Intro: The Auction Floor

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Thanks @dresden-syndrome for helping me bounce ideas off you! We talked about how pet stores display the fish in glass tanks, especially how some of the good stores display their betta fish in individual glass tanks. And I was like, "why not for pet whumpees?" Inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places.

TW/CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), noncon body mod (briefly mentioned), light gore (briefly mentioned). I also have little to no idea how auctions like this would work, so I'm skipping over some details. Enjoy, regardless.

The boy backed up as far as his glass prison would allow, but the hungry eyes of the bidders outside never left him. He hoped and prayed nobody would buy him, but his hope diminished with every scrutinizing stare and comment muffled through the glass. He slumped into the corner of his cell and curled into a ball, ignoring the handlers’ threats they drilled into each prospective asset before the auction began. He shut his eyes and buried his head into his folded-up knees. If he was just boring enough to look at, maybe the people outside would move on and buy somebody else.

The floor was cold. The glass walls of his cell were cold. He was bare, completely naked in the empty glass container. The back of his left ear was itchy, but he made no move to scratch at it. If he interfered with the tattoo as it was healing, they promised to pull out his fingernails. It had already happened to one girl; he had seen it. He dug his nails into his shins until the unbearable itching subsided enough to ignore it once again.

The murmurs outside died down, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. The boy dared to peek out from his hiding place. He locked eyes with a man standing right in front of his cell, staring at him with a glass of whiskey in hand. He was a big man, broad shouldered and solidly built underneath that crisply pressed suit. He was easily two heads taller than his father, and up until that point, the boy thought his father was pretty tall. The man had short, dirty-blonde hair and sharp, steel-gray eyes. His mouth was downturned into a frown, the only indication of what he may truly feel behind the blank expression he bore.

Two more men –presumably his friends- materialized alongside him, jovially poking at him and gesturing inside the boy’s cell. It was next to impossible to make out the words they were saying from within the cell, but the boy got a sinking feeling in his stomach. The whole time, the man’s eyes never left his.

---

The auction part of the night had ended, their area of the black market had been closed off, and he (among many others) was retrieved from the glass box. The handler who fetched him threw him a pair of pants and a shirt. “Put those on, and follow me.”

So, I did get sold, the boy realized. He dressed quickly and followed the handler silently, dread weighing down each footstep. He mentally ran through the faces he dared to look at while he wondered who among the crowd had bought him. His mind circled back to the tall man with the scowl. Please, God, please, not him, he begged.

He stopped in his tracks when they came to the exit. The very same tall man turned around to meet him. The handler quietly disappeared from his side. Those steel eyes looked far colder and sharper up close. The boy averted his eyes, staring at his bare feet while keeping his hands folded in front of him.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly. Faint freckles danced across the man’s pale cheeks, and an old scar grazing across his left temple disappeared into his hairline. Those sharp steely eyes continued to flay him. He was so scared he nearly forgot his new owner had asked him a question. My name? He dropped his gaze back to his feet. “Khaled,” he all but whispered. “But you may call me whatever you want, sir,” he added, remembering the ‘correct’ answer.

The man above him murmured his name a couple times to himself as the boy stood ready to accept a new name, if his new master so wished it. “Luckily for you, I like your name,” he said decisively.

Before Khaled could breathe a sigh of relief, the man placed a broad hand on his shoulder. The boy tensed; his palm covered his whole shoulder blade. “Come with me, Khaled.” Not like he had a choice, when his master’s hand pushed him out the door into a future of unknowns and uncertainties.

[firapolemos05]

@augusnippets Path of Hurt

Day 10: execution/fake execution/begging for mercy

CW: minor whumpee, mock execution, government corruption, abuse of power, imprisonment, framed for a crime, future captivity

Itzal (he/him)

Word count: 756 (a bit longer but I couldn't resist)

The Champion taglist: @emmettland , @ostensiblywhump , @scoundrelwithboba

They don't listen when he says he hasn't killed anyone. When they shove the gag into his mouth and secure the strap at the back of his neck, Itzal realizes they're not going to listen to anything he has to say.

He doesn't want to die.

It didn't make sense. There wasn't a trial. No evidence given that tied him to the supposed death of whatever unnamed Lapis guard they mentioned.

Only twenty-four hours between Itzal getting brought down to this prison and learning they were going to kill him.

‘ “Rebels don't get trials,” ’ they had said, sneering laughs lapping up the tiefling's terror.

He cursed them. Would've trashed and clawed up his cell had the shackles at his wrists not held him down. Would've tormented the guards with illusions had his magic not been suppressed. All he had were his words and he used them. Such fragile pride they had that they'd waste time and resources to silence a seventeen year old vandal who dared to insult them.

Itzal's anger spat until they gagged him.

He realizes now part of that anger had been fueled by denial. Armored guards clutch his bound arms as they drag him towards the courtyard, and dread clutches his gut.

He's going to die.

He tries so hard to fight. Bucks at the grasping hands until their grip is hard enough to bruise. Lashes out with his horns until one guard grabs one to force his head still. The blindfold around his head is wet with tears he failed not to shed.

He should’ve been more careful. Should've picked a safer, less public spot for his last graffiti run. Should've went home when his mother told him to and wait for a different day. 

His mother's face flashes into Itzal's mind. His father's. His little sister's. 

What's going to happen to them?

He won't even get to say goodbye. 

The screech of a metal door opening preceeds a waft of warmth as the sunlight hits his skin. The Crescentine sun is always harsh in the summer. The guards force Itzal to his knees in the dirt, latching the chains to a bolt in the ground so he couldn't stand. Couldn't flee. He balls his hands into fists to hide how much he's shaking. 

“Itzal Azarola,” a voice booms from behind. “For the crimes of treason, accomplice to murder of a government official, defacement of government property, government slander, and resisting arrest, you have been sentenced to death under orders from the Cerulean Constellate.”

Treason?

It doesn't seem real. It can't be real. This has to be a nightmare. He'll wake up home in his bed and be safe.

There's more noises. A rifle being loaded. His heart hammering in his chest. 

He will wake up soon. He doesn't want to die.

A click of the safety being released. A muffled sob escaping his lips.

He doesn't want to die.

“Fire!”

HE DOESN'T WANT TO DIE!

A trigger being pulled. 

A deafening blast sends him reeling, all other sound drowns under the piercing ring in his ears. His head throbs. His body collapses. He hopes it'll be quick. He hopes it'll be over before he feels it. He-

He's still alive.

The pain of a bullet tearing through his organs doesn't come. No smell of blood or burning flesh. The world still dark under a blindfold he can still feel on his face. Itzal is still alive.

More hands grab him. The chain is released from the ground and he is being carried away. His legs drag uselessly. His muscles feel like gelatin. His mind in a fog.

Why?

He should feel relief but instead there's a void. Nausea burning up his throat he has no choice but to force down because he's still gagged. 

What's happening?

Was there a mistake? Is he actually dead and his thoughts now are from his ghost trying to cling to life? Where are they taking him? He still can't see. No one's saying anything. What're they going to do to him now?

They drop him on hard stone. “Is this the one you wanted, Lady Matar?”

The blindfold is removed. There's a woman standing in front of Itzal. Short red hair and red eyes. Cloaked in the luxurious vestments of the Constellate. Lady Matar. High Martinet Scarlet Matar.

The master of judicial law stares down at the young tiefling, drinking in the tears on his face.

The way she smiles at him is the most terrifying thing he's ever seen.

“Yes. I will be taking him now.”

[just-whump-and-suffering]

The Screaming Staircase Whumplist

Lockwood & Co Book 1 by Jonathon Stoud

Synopsis:

Lucy Carlyle, a talented young agent, arrives in London hoping for a notable career. Instead she finds herself joining the smallest, most ramshackle agency in the city, run by the charismatic Anthony Lockwood.

When one of their cases goes horribly wrong, Lockwood & Co. have one last chance of redemption. Unfortunately this involves spending the night in one of the most haunted houses in England, and trying to escape alive.

Warning: Spoilers

TV series

Part 1: The Ghost

Chapter 3:

Lucy Carlyle

Is ghost-locked

Part 2: Before

Chapter 5:

Lucy

Injured and weakened from having to jump out of the upper windows to escape

Part 3: The Necklace

Chapter 9:

Lucy

Injured from jumping from Hope house to escape fire

arm in sling from being sprained and limps when walking

Lockwood

Mentioned to be ghost-touched

Ghost-touched hand heavily bandaged

Wobbles and almost falls but is caught by Lucy and George

Chapter 15:

George

Is punched in the face

Part 4 : The Hall

Chapter 22:

Lucy

Overwhelmed by the screaming

Almost throws herself down a well, being drawn to it by the screaming; saved by Lockwood

Lockwood

Overwhelmed by the screaming

Bleeding from his ears

George

Overwhelmed by the screaming

Cowering in fear

Chapter 23

Lucy

Caught in a explosion

Injured; Forehead covered in blood

Held at gunpoint

Lockwood

Caught in an explosion

Hit by a piece of masonry; bleeding from the head

Held at gunpoint

George

Caught in an explosion

injured; arm bleeding

Slapped by Lucy to get him to wake up

Held at gunpoint

[the-baby-storyteller]

Tw: slave whump, minor whump

Pt 2.

For a second all they could hear was ringing. The faint echoing of wrong wrong wrong chanting in their ear strung them through a trance as the world seemed to twirl around them.

And then it all came rushing back in.

They began to hyperventilate on their knees. The Young Master stood, rubbing his forehead and groaning. Their breaths picked up.

How could I do that how could I make a mistake already I fell into the master? I've already messed up I'm going to be beat and so soon-

Whumpee bit their lip to prevent the whimper threatening to escape. They heard the young master shift above them, and they shakily moved onto their hands and knees into a full bow before him. Angling their head down, they tremulously choked out,

"P-Please forgive me, Master! I promise I didn't mean to bump into you!"

They breathed wetly, not daring to look up or move, but still, against their will, trembling. they didn't know how to convince Master that they were so so sorry may they please not be punished yet it was too soon.

But it was their fault, they should never have been foolish enough to err this easily so they deserved it and they were just the type of slut to mess up so easily. They couldn't hear anything above them so they were just left to wonder what response the master would give as he stared and stared and stared at their trembling-

"Are you..."

Their body and thoughts froze when they heard his voice above them. He was now going to ream at their, to deal out their punishment-

"...scared?"

“…”

A pause. Whumpee blinked. Their hyperventilation slowed for a minute, and then quickly picked back up.

What kind of question was that?

Their eyes darted around, as their mind sought purchase on something that made sense in this confusion.

Whumpee…had no idea how to answer that. No one had ever asked them a question like that before. Were they supposed to be scared? Should they affirm being terrified, shaking in fear at the power their master held, at the knowledge that he could and would do whatever he pleased to them and that they must sit there and take it like a good slave because they were the one who messed up in the first place? He had total control over them and their life, after all, and they knew their place. Frankly, they were terrified and were certain it could be seen.

But maybe the point was for them to deny it. To say they weren’t afraid because how dare they be afraid of their master doing something he was well within his rights to do? Something they deserved.

Their head ached with all the battling thoughts and struggles, and they felt themself growing light with dizziness. What did Master want-

“Tell me the truth.”

Whumpee’s stomach flipped.

“Y-Yes!..”

Their breathing labored and they fought with the effort to keep themself still despite their shaking. They still didn’t dare look up, the confusion of the atmosphere weighing on their mind.

“Why?”

Whumpee blinked.

“B-Because…”

Why? Why was he asking them this? No one had ever cared. Whumpee didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to let it out and be more vulnerable than they already were.

But they had to answer. Their eyes drifted to the side.

“I’m s-scared of what you m-might do to m-me.” they stuttered out, not quite daring to whisper, but quiet all the same.

They immediately closed their eyes. Was that disrespectful? They shouldn’t have insinuated him hurting them. Oh, they were a fool for talking to a master about his decisions on them. Why couldn’t they have lied? Said anything less presumptuous, less risky. But, they sniffled, they were scared, and they’d tried to do it tactfully, they just really didn’t want to dare lie to the young master now but still-

Their internal fears and ramblings passed the eerily silent time until they heard a footstep. Peeking an eye open, they realized Young Master had taken a step closer on the floor.

To them.

Panic flooded them and instantly they squeezed their eyes shut again.

A light touch brushed their shoulder. Whumpee tensed. The sensation left and the anxiety automatically flowed out from their body. But then the touch came back, somehow even lighter and more gentle than before, but also more confident.

Idiot. How could they think they were safe-

A surprisingly strong arm quickly and softly pulled them, drawing them upwards off the floor. It maneuvered their shakingly pliant limbs, and before they understood what was going on, they were stood weakly, being held in Young Master’s arms. The young master wrapped his arm around them, bracing them against him as they shook so badly they could barely stand, his other hand holding up their face so they were face to face with him, if not for their still closed eyes.

What was happening. What was happening?

“What’s your name, and how old are you?”

“M-My name is Whumpee, and I’m 17, Young Master.”

Silence.

“Look at me.”

Shoot.

Slowly, Whumpee’s eyes quivered open. For the first time, they were face to face with the Young Master.

It was terrifying.

Dark eyes met them back. The Young Master was as they thought, young, and a closer look at his face only confirmed this. He was taller than them only by a little bit and his gaze was resolutely intent as he stared at them.

Their skin flushed at the closeness they could no longer try to avoid by not seeing. They really did not want to be forced to look at him. But they had no choice…

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Whumpee nearly choked. Their heart skipped a beat.

W-What? I-I…

Their eyes grew wild, searching Master’s face. His expression was just as serious and firm as before, something underneath it that they didn’t dare try to interpret. Fear seeped into them. They didn’t understand and not understanding was the worst thing that could happen when dealing with a master.

“You don’t have to be afraid.” His voice rang out.

Whumpee twitched. They hurriedly avoided eye contact with the young master, turning to the side and trying to control their breathing. It wasn’t working. They couldn’t keep their trembling under wraps because the situation was just so weird but they had to obey Master and not look like they were-

“I can tell you don’t believe me by the way you’re shaking.”

Blood drained from their face as their eyes darted back to Master, the fear making his gaze appear stone cold. He knew they were faking. They squeezed their eyes shut. Please no punishment.

“Have you…”

Their eyes peeked open.

“Been hurt before?”

Hesitantly, whumpee looked askance. “Yes, Master.” they muttered, quivering. As if they weren’t a slave.

They could feel him staring at them in silence.

Why is he asking me these questions? I-Is he really not going to…hurt me?

“Whumpee.”

Their shaky gaze traveled back to their terrifying master. Who was still holding them.

“Don’t be scared of me.” He spoke, vaguely, strangely, softly. For the second time they caught something odd in his eye. Something they couldn’t make out. They didn’t dare to. “I’ll never hurt you.”

Again, Whumpee found themselves not knowing what to do, how to respond. Could they trust him? He was their owner, after all.

He can still do whatever he wants with me.

Whumpee’s face clouded over.

After a pause, Master spoke. “I’ll let you go now.” But it was distant.

They were too caught up in their thoughts, brought back too much to the knowledge of all the things he could do to them and they would have no power to do anything about it because they belonged to him. Whumpee held their arm, drawing in on themself.

They waited. And waited longer. Master just stood in the silence.

“Don’t you want to leave?”

“I was waiting for your order,” they replied quietly, “or command, Master.”

“You…” they heard him sigh, “You can be excused. I’ll eat.”

“Yes, Master.” they whispered, bowing, and hurriedly turning to walk as quickly as they dared out of the room.

It was only after they left that they noticed Master hadn’t hurt them.

[shion-yu]

A Safe Place (part 4/4) [day 24]

Cliff’s past experiences in hospitals have all been bad. For @monthofsick day 24: Panic and @badthingshappenbingo Paralyzed by Fear. 3,698 words, original work, TWs emeto (mild x1), hospital/surgical content, child abuse/trauma. If you'd like to skip the first half which is a childhood flashback, control-find the word “eighteen”.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 - This is the final part! Thanks for sticking with me guys.

Cliff’s fear of hospitals first began when he was three years old. He’d been inside the hospital several times because his dad worked there, but he hadn’t really processed it as anything significant until one day when he went there with his mother, who’d been tasked with watching him because the nanny was off. Cliff had been doing everything “wrong” that day, and Hana Barrows had reached her limit after a spilled glass of orange juice. She dragged him by the wrist to the car and drove to the hospital, swearing loudly all the way there. Cliff was silent because even back then he knew that saying anything would just make things worse.

Hana brought Cliff up to Dr. Claude Barrows’ office without warning, ignoring the secretary shouting after her as she passed without signing in. She yanked Claude’s door open without knocking and found him hunched over a pile of paperwork.

“What in the - Hana! What on earth are you doing here?! Why is Cliff here?”

“I’m not a babysitter!” She shouted as she shoved Cliff towards his father, who would have fallen on his face had Claude not caught him. “You promised me I’d never have to babysit!”

“Keep your voice down,” Claude hissed. He sat Cliff on the chair he’d been sitting on and turned to his irate wife. “It’s one day in his entire life Hana, one goddamn day.”

Hana let out an angry groan of frustration and slapped her hands on Claude’s chest, grabbing the lapels of his lab coat and pulling him forward. “I never wanted this! I’m not doing it!”

They squabbled for another few minutes, young Cliff staring at his velcro-up shoes and distracting himself trying to remember how the last nanny had taught him how to tie laces. He’d forgotten how after his mom fired her, because Cliff had been too attached to her.

“You can’t leave him here Hana, I’m working,” Claude said finally, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Well figure it out, because I’m not taking him home with me,” Hana snapped back. With that she stalked out of the office, not stopping despite Claude shouting after her. He followed her out, and Cliff was left alone in his dad’s office, on his big spinny office chair, with no idea what he was supposed to do now. He was old enough to know that his parents didn’t like him, although he didn’t understand why. He didn’t talk much but they still said he was too noisy. His big sister Moira was nice to him, but that was when she was around. Usually she was too busy with her high school friends and sports to be home much.

Cliff tried to climb down from the chair, but it was really tall and he was afraid of falling. Still, he eased his lower half down, stretching his short legs to try and feel for the floor. He felt it all at once when he fell, smacking his forehead on the hard floor. He bit his lip, trying not to cry. His parents hated when he cried. Still, he couldn’t help it as a few little tears rolled down his chubby cheeks.

“Did you fall, honey?”

Cliff looked up to find a young woman kneeling in front of him. He nodded, wiping his face with tiny fists. “Aw, poor thing,” she said.

“He’s my son. Do you like kids?” Dr. Barrows was back, standing in the doorway - without Cliff’s mom.

“Yeah, totally,” the girl said. “Sorry Dr. Barrows, it’s just I heard a kid crying and the door was open so-”

“It’s fine,” Cliff’s father responded. “Actually, I need you to watch him for the rest of the day.”

“M-me? But, um, I’m a medical student, I don’t think...”

“Part of being a doctor is doing what your attending orders, and I’m telling you to babysit my kid until my shift ends at seven,” Dr. Barrows said sharply. “Is that a problem?”

“No - I mean, sort of, my clinical ends at four, and-”

“Great. I don’t care what you do with him, just keep him out of the way. I’ll pay you for your time.” Dr. Barrows ignored any further protest from the student and shoved two hundred-dollar bills in her hand before leaving.

The student shook her head in disbelief. “Alright, Cliff is it?” She asked. Cliff nodded, clutching the hem of his shirt nervously. “Right. Well, Cliff, I guess it’s you and me until seven...”

The student was nice, all things considered, but she clearly had no interest in babysitting. She had long legs and walked so quickly that Cliff had to run to keep up. A lot of times she’d turn a corner before he did and he thought he’d lost her, but she always found him again. They ate lunch in the cafeteria and she let him draw with a pen and a piece of printer paper while she did work. Cliff honestly didn’t understand what was going on, but he went with it because he was taught not to complain and didn't want to be left behind.

It was around 5pm when the student said, “You’d rather be with your dad, right? He has a pretty cool facial reconstruction starting now. Let’s go watch.” She led Cliff to the gallery, a large room with chairs above the surgical theater with a glass window for an audience. Cliff’s dad was scrubbed in, hyper focused and didn’t notice the spectators. “The surgery will last a few hours,” the student told Cliff. “I’m going home, so just stay here and don’t move until your dad comes and gets you.”

Cliff looked at her, confused. She was going to leave him here by himself? “It’s fine,” she said. “Your dad’s right down there. Just stay where you are and whatever you do, don’t move from this room, got it?” Cliff had no other choice but to nod obediently. Then he was alone.

At first, Cliff was excited to see what his dad did for work. A large woman was lying on the table - sleeping, Cliff thought - and everybody was dressed in funny clothes. His dad was wearing a long mint gown, goggles and a puffy scrub cap, which made him laugh. That laughter died in his throat when he saw his father take a long, silver knife and cut into the sleeping woman’s face.

Cliff screamed, but nobody was there to hear him. He started to panic and it felt like there was no air in the room. There was blood and the sound of a drill. Cliff began to cry, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the horrible scene. His father seemed to be tearing this lady’s face apart, and he did so for two hours before pulling the skin back up and sewing it all back together.

“Wonderful,” his father said in a confident tone. “Good work gentlemen.” Someone was helping him take off his bloody robes. At this moment, he finally looked up at what should have been an empty gallery, but instead he saw his traumatized three year old son. “What the hell? Is that my son?” Cliff heard him say loudly. Cliff was terrified. What if his father got mad and did the same thing to him? He hid under a chair in the corner of the gallery until his father flew into the room and dragged him out.

“I’m sorry, I stayed like she told me to, I’m sorry,” Cliff sobbed. He was so scared, pushing his father’s face away. He kept thinking of how bloody his dad’s hands had been. “Don’t hit me!”

“Cliff, shut up, you’re embarrassing me,” Claude said angrily. “It’s not your fault though, that stupid medical student - her career is over,” he growled. “Come on. Let’s go home.” He picked Cliff up and carried his crying child out of the hospital, and together they went home. They never talked about what Cliff had seen, but for years he had nightmares about it. He was scared of what his father was capable of, and every time Claude yelled at him or hit him, Cliff wondered if it would go further - if he’d end up on that table being cut up next if he didn’t behave.

By the time Cliff reached middle school, he understood that his father’s job was to be a surgeon and that he actually helped people, even if it was scary - and horrible - to see in person. But when he had his stomach ulcer and had to be hospitalized for a few days, his fear of hospitals was renewed and solidified. His parents were furious at him. Even with a fever and in so much pain, his father yelled at him every step of the way. Every time Cliff cried, or threw up, or panicked because he was afraid of needles, it was made ten times worse by his parents’ obsession with Cliff not spoiling their image of what a perfect son should be like. The pressure they put on him while he was in the hospital just made him sicker. It was a terrible experience, and Cliff vowed never to let himself get sick enough to end up in a hospital again.

Unfortunately, these sorts of decisions are not truly one’s own. Now Cliff was in the hospital with pneumonia, and although he was eighteen and told himself he was an adult who knew better, he was still scared. It was a different hospital, but everything smelled the same. The nurses acted the same - nice, but brisk. He felt the same helpless feeling of being surrounded by people who didn’t understand him, and most of all he was terrified of his father finding out he was here. He was sure he’d be furious if he discovered Cliff had ended up here after disrespecting his mother by leaving home. He thought about ripping the IV tubing out of his arm and making a run for it, but he didn’t think his legs would hold him.

When Elliot was next to him, Cliff felt like he could keep it together. After all, he’d never had someone like Elliot to hold on to during these scary moments before. But now Elliot had gone home for the night and Cliff was alone in a tiny room without windows in the hospital, and he was losing it.

Cliff didn’t realize he was having a panic attack until the nurse came in because his heart monitor was going off. She tried to settle him down, speaking to him in hushed tones and reassuring him that he was safe, but he didn’t believe her. All he could think about was his prior bad experiences in hospitals. His entire chest felt tight and he was crying, which made it difficult to breathe in conjunction with his already junky lungs.

“Cliff, you need to slow down your breathing for me,” the nurse said, but Cliff couldn’t. He couldn’t control it. He was just as scared as the day he’d hid under the chair above the operating room from his father, abandoned and afraid to trust anybody.

The thing that did stop him panicking was the uncontrollable coughing fit that came on. All the tears and snot that came with crying choked him, and then he couldn’t stop. He coughed until he vomited onto his lap, tears and mucus mixing into a horrible puddle that he could feel seeping through the sheets onto his legs. He was so disgusting, he couldn’t stand himself. Elliot was right to leave him here alone.

The nurse called the other nurse for backup, and soon they were changing Cliff’s sheets together, changing his nasal cannula to a simple face mask while he was so snotty from crying, and one of them administered something through his IV that made him feel sleepy. Cliff’s nurse asked him if it would make him feel better to call his boyfriend.

“What time is it?” Cliff asked, his voice hoarse from crying and throwing up.

“Eleven,” she told him.

Cliff shook his head no. He had already woken Elliot up enough times this week. “It’s okay. He’s probably asleep.” They hadn't agreed on a time that Elliot was going to come back, Cliff realized. Elliot had said he’d be back in the morning. The morning could be eight, or it could be as late as noon. That was, if Elliot came back at all. No, he'd come back. Elliot kept his word - usually. Then again, Cliff had never expected Elliot to trick him into coming to the hospital. He understood he was really sick and needed help, he did, but the betrayal still stung.

After his nurse did another albuterol treatment through the mask, she changed Cliff back to a new (not snot-clogged) nasal cannula and left him to get some sleep. Cliff couldn’t rest though. Even with the lights off, all the machines cast a glow that kept the room too bright. The faint beeping of his heart monitor and the drip of his IV fluids reminded him too much of the last time he was in the hospital, and he felt vaguely nauseous despite being sure there was nothing left in his stomach. He curled in a tight ball and held his knees to his chest, trembling. He missed Elliot and wished he was here to make him feel safer right now. Instead, all he had was himself and a very long night ahead of him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Cliff woke up drenched in sweat. He didn’t know where he was and immediately began to panic, but then he felt someone pushing him back down and shushing him.

“Elliot?” Cliff blinked in confusion. He’d finally cried himself to sleep in the wee hours of the morning but he hadn’t expected to sleep long enough that it was already within business hours. “What time is it?” His voice crackled, laden with wetness, and he let out a congested, barking cough. It made his sides ache and he gripped them automatically.

Elliot smiled at him and ran a delicate hand through Cliff’s damp hair. “Hi baby,” he said fondly. “It’s about nine AM.”

“Really?” Cliff glanced around, slowly remembering the details of yesterday. “I’m so hot,” he muttered.

“I think your fever broke,” Elliot said gently. “How do you feel?”

Cliff considered things. He felt significantly less achy than last night and it was easier to breathe. He didn’t feel like his brain was entirely full of sand - maybe just halfway. “Better,” he said. “Can I go home?”

“That’s up to the doctor,” Elliot said. “I ordered you some breakfast though. Do you feel up to eating? I got you oatmeal and toast.”

Cliff grimaced, remembering all the vomiting he’d done yesterday. “I’m not sure.”

“You can see how you feel when it gets here,” Elliot said. “The nurse said your breathing got a lot better after your second steroid injection.”

Only now did Cliff notice the lack of oxygen tubing on his face. He’d fallen asleep with it on and Cliff was shocked he’d really been so passed out that the nurse had been able to give him IV meds, do vitals, and remove his oxygen without waking him up. He must have been truly exhausted.

“Thanks for coming back,” Cliff said suddenly, looking at his hands instead of Elliot’s face.

“Of course I came back,” Elliot responded. “I promised you, didn’t I?”

Promises didn’t always work out, Cliff thought to himself, but he just nodded yes. “Well, I missed you,” was all he responded. “So thanks.”

He was surprised by the quick kiss that Elliot stole from him, even though he hadn’t brushed his teeth since yesterday morning. “E-Elliot,” he stuttered, red faced as he sat back and covered his mouth with his hands in embarrassment.

“I missed you too,” Elliot said. His smile was so kind and genuine. It made Cliff feel so much better. “You did incredible staying here overnight by yourself.”

Cliff understood that Elliot was babying him a little, but he also realized that he was unable to stop himself from smiling into his hands. Something inside him felt so content when Elliot was proud of him. He wanted to feel like that over and over.

Breakfast arrived and Cliff picked at the food, trying to get down a few bites mostly because Elliot was staring at him so hopefully. He really wasn’t hungry, but he managed half of a piece of toast and two bites of oatmeal before he couldn’t manage any more. It was difficult to eat when his cough was still so harsh, overtaking him at random moments and leaving him doubled over in bed, his arms clutching his sides in pain. At least he managed to keep the food down, though.

The doctor came by shortly after Cliff finished eating and examined him. He listened to Cliff’s lungs and cough, nodding along with his own conclusions. “I believe it’s safe to send you home, but you have to promise to rest and do nothing else for several more days,” he said finally. “How does that sound to you?”

Cliff nodded in agreement. He’d gladly stay in Elliot’s bed for another week if it meant getting rid of this awful cough - preferably, far away from any hospitals. Elliot awkwardly raised his hand a little before speaking. “Excuse me Doctor, but we start classes back at school in the city on Monday. Will he be okay by then?”

“Hmm. You’ll have to play that by ear, but as long as he gets proper rest and takes his meds, no fevers, then probably. Do you have to walk far to get to class?”

Cliff shrugged. Sometimes, not always. Elliot answered for him though. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t walk too much,” his boyfriend said confidently.

“In that case, I’m not concerned about discharging him,” the doctor said. “I’ll put in the orders and we’ll have you out of here in a few hours. I do recommend you keep using a nebulizer at home for a few days and as needed, do you have one?”

Cliff shook his head no at the same time Elliot said, “We’ll get one for him, we just need the medicine.”

“You’ve got someone taking good care of you, I see,” the doctor chuckled. “I’ll write scripts for that too then. Make sure you follow up with an asthma doctor as soon as you can.”

Elliot thanked the doctor several times, Cliff echoing the sentiment with a simple thank you, and then all they had to do was wait for paperwork. In the meantime the nurse helped Cliff get back into normal clothes, took out his IV and detached him from all the equipment. He had sticky residue on his finger and chest from the oxygen and heart monitoring leeds that didn’t seem to want to come off, but it didn’t matter. He’d have plenty of time to scrub it off later. Cliff was just relieved to be escaping this place without a longer stay or his father finding out and showing up.

At discharge, Elliot bundled Cliff up in a warm jacket and hat even though it was late August. He pushed Cliff in a wheelchair down to the lobby, then ran to get the car. Cliff insisted he could walk, but he wasn’t entirely convinced of his own strength right now so didn’t push the matter much. He waited patiently for Elliot and waited to feel relieved for when they had officially left the premises of the hospital. It had only been one night, but it felt like a long time. The fresh air felt good on his skin and he took a deep breath, appreciating it even as it made him cough.

Elliot pulled up at patient pickup and helped Cliff into the car, settling him in the passenger’s seat. “My mom’s gonna pick up all your meds and find a nebulizer for you at home,” he explained as he drove. “We’re going to follow all the directions to a tee, get you straightened up before we head back to school this weekend.” He sounded confident about this plan, as if it were foolproof. “Do you want to shower when we get home, or go straight to bed?”

“Shower,” Cliff said. He didn’t want to smell like a hospital anymore. “Sorry about all this.”

Elliot shook his head. “It’s okay. I mean... I was really scared. But you’re going to be fine, so...”

“That’s what I mean,” Cliff said, looking at Elliot seriously. “I’m sorry for scaring you. And being a burden and crying and... I guess what I’m really trying to say is thank you for being there.”

Suddenly there were tears running down Elliot’s cheeks and Cliff panicked. “Wait, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

Elliot pulled over on the curb and wiped his eyes. He sniffled and gave a tiny laugh at the same time, which sounded funny to Cliff. “I’m just really glad you’re okay,” Elliot said, taking Cliff’s hand in his own and squeezing it. “And you’re welcome. But you’re not a burden and it’s okay. I love all of you, Cliff. When you’re sick or scared and lonely... I want to be there for you. Do you understand that?”

Cliff didn’t answer right away, not trusting his own voice not to waver right now. But finally he said, “I’m trying to.” It was more honest than the automatic ‘Yes’ he had very nearly said.

Elliot smiled a little sadly and leaned over to give Cliff a kiss on the cheek. “Okay, as long as you’re trying to,” he said. He looked both fond and sad. “Now let’s get you home and in bed. We’ve got a big school year waiting for us next week and you’re not getting out of that bed until Friday.”

“The nurse said a little exercise is good,” Cliff pointed out.

“Some very light exercise,” Elliot said. “Bed to couch and back is plenty. Got it?”

Cliff smiled. He found it amusing when Elliot got bossy. “Sure,” he said. “You’re in charge, El.”

Elliot grinned and started driving again. “You’re damn right I am.”

Fin.

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

Number 30

TW: Blood, to some extent: gore, somewhat detailed description of injury, murder, angst, smoking, hero is a minor, knife usage, bruises, restraints, (I promise this is [hopefully] not as bad as it sounds)

Notes: No, I have not died. Apparently, I do not die easily. Enjoy tho < 3

Word count: 3.9 k

Today had been uncharacteristically dull for the villain so far. He wondered if he'd described it properly, though, because it had been like that for the entirety of a week. And sure, he wanted the fearsome reputation and days where no one was around to irritate him, but if total, action-free normalcy was his desire, he could have easily stuck with an average, brilliantly staid, white collar job.

And sure enough, fate had heard his pleas, and he found his lip involuntarily curling upwards into a lopsided smirk as he felt someone attempt to sneak up on him.

With his usual deadly efficiency, the criminal had grabbed their arm attempting to twist it backwards, almost successful until the figure broke out of his vice-like grip. They were much smaller than he was; a little short and somewhat scrawny, but the villain knew better than to underestimate someone simply because of size. However, his opponent wasn't just small, they were young. From the attempt to make the grunt sound a lot rougher than it actually was, he realised he was fighting a teenage boy.

Not being the sentimental type; the hero's age hadn't sparked a sudden pang of sympathy in the villain, but it was a little disconcerting fighting someone he practically saw as a child. Functionally though, that simply meant that the fight would end a lot faster than he'd anticipated.

The villain aimed a kick to the teenage hero's shins, only for him to dodge narrowly and counter with a kick of his own. It was barely strong enough, only slightly irritating against the older man's leg. The criminal simply slammed his fist into his adversary's face, leaving a trail of dull, purple bruises lining the cheekbone, more to assuage his pride than anything else. And the villain was no sadist, but it was just slightly amusing listening to the little hero grumble a filthy curse under his breath.

"Better watch your tongue," he mock-chastised, as he punched the kid's nose.

"Bloody hilarious," the teen answered dryly, having the audacity to roll his eyes, ignoring the sting in them as he maneuvered his body away from the villain's reach, managing to aim a harsh punch to his lip, and when the villain's fingers reflexively trailed down his lip, they came away stained with crimson.

For a brief, almost imperceptible moment, the hero's own shock matched the villain's, but while the little bastard's expression turned ever so slightly more smug as one of his eyebrows arched subtly, the muscles in the villain's face worked to pull it into a dark scowl.

His arms snaked around the younger's neck in a relentless death grip, the hero kicking and flailing uselessly in his grasp. "Playtime's over, short stack. Whose sidekick are you? Wouldn't want to break some hero's little toy," he growled, his hold still rough on the teen, but loosening only slightly so that he could speak.

"No one's. . .sidekick," he barely managed to breathe out as he gasped for air, taking in greedy breaths.

"Don't play martyr," he snapped, tugging slightly at the hero's hair, not meant to be awfully painful, rather just enough to pull him out of whatever foolish trance he was attempting to immerse himself in.

"I'm. . .not, I just st-started out as a hero. Sixteen's the youngest age."

"Like hell you're sixteen," the villain scoffed, even though to him that age seemed absurdly young to be anywhere that wasn't high school. He knew for a fact the hero wasn't lying because knowing the agency, they were just that desperate.

Or more accurately, just that scummy.

He let him go, the hero practically stumbling and slamming into the building behind him, wheezing and gasping for air, and yet there was a fiery look of absolute loathing burning in the grass green eyes as he held the villain's gaze for a few moments before storming away.

Maybe he wasn't feeling insanely surly, but a quick shower and being back home had lightened his mood just slightly. But for the most part, the villain wasn't sure what to make of the interaction. He wasn't so weak-willed that the hero's little lucky moment of bravado had intimidated him, letting out a cocky snort as he dabbed at his lip with a piece of cotton soaked in antiseptic, the familiar burn crawling across his skin still slightly irritating.

And sure, he wasn't exactly elated at having practically beaten up a kid, but maybe not every fight had to be rewarding. Then again, wasn't like most criminals would actually bat an eye over his age. If anything, he was doing him a favour showing him exactly what he was up against. The villain assumed that this was another minor irritation that would melt away as he pushed himself through rudimentary tasks and then slept through it.

And as the sky darkened into an inky black and stars littered the dark canvas, and he pushed himself into his sheets and let his exhausted mind finally rest, he'd proved his own theory correct once again. Even more so as the start of the next day went by as normally as it would for well. . .a villain.

But most theories had to be tested time and time again till they either persevered or shattered into a million shards like glass, and unfortunately for Villain, the latter was the punishment he was condemned to. Sure, he wasn't particularly appreciative of yet another slow day, but his daily dose of sanity-preserving action really didn't need to be teenage hero shaped.

Taking in a long drag from his cigarette and letting out phantom shapes of smoke in an impossibly slow exhale, an inconspicuous side-eye was the only acknowledgement he showed of the little bastard's presence.

And of course, as he predicted, the young menace didn't seem to appreciate the blatant trampling on his ego that the older man was handing to him, inching closer till he was practically in the villain's face.

"What? Got lost looking for your babysitter? I'm not even asking for trouble now," he drawled coolly as he breathed in the tobacco smoke, the familiar burnt taste numbing the inside of his mouth again, not that he cared much.

"You wouldn't be dressed like this if you weren't asking for trouble," the hero snapped back, raising a half-skeptical, half-annoyed eyebrow and gesturing to the villain's costume.

The snort the man let out was genuine. Sure, the kid was an absolute pain, but in all honesty, he had a point. He quickly sobered up from the mildly amused expression just to remind him he wasn't here to screw around. "What I mean is, I'm not really interested in playing with children. So in the nicest way possible, piss off, kid."

"Why'd you let me go yesterday?" the hero asked, aiming a punch to to the villain's stomach that he effortlessly countered, throwing his cigarette in the snow and crushing it under his boot.

"Because I felt like it? What would I gain from decking a goddamn kid? I've got better crap to do. The real question here, is why did you come back to try and fight me, Superbrat?" he countered flippantly, aiming a kick to the hero's shins.

The kid's eyes narrowed and he grit his teeth in such a manner that anyone would assume it physically pained him to answer. "Because you actually took me seriously."

At this, the criminal outright cackled. "You call that taking you seriously? Have you ever been in a fight before?" he scoffed, aiming a particularly harsh kick to his abdomen, knocking him to the ground. "This is taking you seriously. Don't like it much?"

Instead of the petulant remark he expected, all he received was a heavy wheeze as the hero tried and failed to lift his form up. And just before he could sneer at him, his vision was met with a violent spurt of crimson from a nasty gash across the boy's form, staining the snow a deep red as it seeped out across torn flesh, shredded layers of angry skin and muscle clumsily sutured to cause more harm than good, probably the kid's handiwork.

"I didn't do this to you," the villain half-whispered, unable to completely mask the horror in his tone.

"W-whatever," the hero wheezed out as he let out a weak, shuddering breath, biting down harshly on his bottom lip to stop himself from howling out in agony, still letting out a sharp hiss.

As if on instinct, the villain scooped his form up, surprised at how little he weighed in his arms. He himself had been on the skinnier side at that age, but he reckoned he wasn't this light. He tried his hardest to staunch the bleeding with one hand, muttering curses under his breath as his feet worked mechanically to get him home.

"Happy?" the hero breathed out, smirking almost cruelly at him as his head lolled back and forth, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

"No," he wanted to scream, but all that came out was a frustrated snarl from the back of his throat, desperate and almost animalistic in nature. He had no bloody idea what he was doing. But he didn't think of that. The hows and the whys were pushed to the back of his mind, far away from the conscious parts of it, his actions all purely reflexive.

If he wasn't so frantic, maybe the villain would have been irritated at the blood seeping into his leather couch, but right now, his attention was fixated on the still unconscious teenager as he cleaned out his wound as thoroughly as he could and started stitching him up.

And of course, mid-stitch, he just had to wake up again, his eyelashes fluttering gently as his eyes cracked open, and he let out a sharp gasp and the villain had to force his shoulder down as he tried to jerk away. "Stay down," he barked, like it made a difference.

But to his luck, the hero's gaze flitted down to his abdomen noticing the needle and while he hadn't completely relaxed, at least he'd stopped squirming. If he was being honest, he was surprised the kid was still holding out through the process, trying his hardest to release the tension in his muscles so as not to mess up the process. His jaw was clenched, his face set in a sombre expression that made him look years older than he really was. But his eyes held a look of fear and mistrust that mirrored the villain's younger self to disturbing degrees.

Still, he kept his attention on the wound and after what felt like eons he was finally done. He backed away, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, looking the wound over before cleaning up and washing his hands in the kitchen.

When he walked back in, he was met with the hero's stern expression. "What the hell?" he attested, raising a confused eyebrow.

"So manners weren't included in your agency training?" The villain raised an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest. 

The hero let out a laboured breath in response, his eyes practically boring into the floor before turning towards the villain. "Why'd you help me?" he questioned, rubbing his left temple and part of his forehead. 

"I'm not entirely opposed to killing, but I need a good reason to get my hands dirty. You aren't one. And you know damn well why a hospital is too big of a risk," he replied evenly. 

"Don't you think helping a hero would soil your reputation? They'll think you're going soft." An involuntary shiver racked the hero's form, his current lack of a shirt being the culprit as he continued trying to melt his headache away with his fingers.

"And you'll go telling? You really think I got here without knowing how to hide my dirty laundry? If I kiss up to the soulless bastards, the others will think I'm disgusting for murdering some child. If you can't play by your own rules, you might as well already decide what you want on your gravestone. God, why am I still talking to you?" He pinched the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut.

The kid said nothing, shivering again and staring at the floor. Manipulative little bastard. The villain tossed him a blanket draped on an arm chair as flippantly as he could before walking out.

Soft. He didn't like that word, didn't like its implications. He didn't like how the hero, with all his childish naivety, was still sharper than he expected. Sure, he was a kid, a bloody injured kid technically at his mercy, but the magnitudes of his trust in the hero and that of the ridiculous distance he could throw him had an awfully large difference between them. If he could spare this kid once and then nurse him back to health, what was to guarantee that with enough time he would melt into something unbearably weak and malleable? He tugged at the roots of his hair in frustration, wishing his mind could shut up for even a moment.

It looked like the kid had even managed to ruin a steamy shower for him.

"Where are your parents?" He asked, walking in, now in fresh clothes, not bothering with a mask since the hero practically knew where he lived now.

His head snapped up sharply, his shoulders tensing in apprehension underneath the blanket. "I don't know. We've never met," the boy answered with perfect emotionlessness, and the villain despised how well it mirrored his own attitude. The hero felt more like a pseudo-adult than a kid.

"Okay." He wasn't going to pry any further, and it seriously didn't matter to him if the hero was lying. But he imagined he wasn't. The kid didn't have the slightest idea what a sense of self-preservation was. But was it really the villain's job to give him one? To do any of this?

He found himself in the balcony again, his elbows resting on the railing, another cigarette between his lips. He was twenty-five, not intending on having any kids now, if ever, and here he was. "Just a merciful mood," he thought. That was all it was. The hero would recover, they would go on their separate ways and hopefully never encounter each other again.

Right now, however, he realised he was going to have to grit his teeth and play pretend parent for the little brat. "Go clean up. Upstairs, bathroom on the left. If you pop your stitches, I'm not bloody redoing them again, don't care how much you bleed out," he bit out tersely.

He was lucky he still had enough food left over from yesterday because even though he normally didn't mind cooking, he was in no mood for it today.

It wasn't so long before the hero was done showering, and in some of the villain's clothes, comically loose on his frame. "I swear if you ask me some dumb question about the food being poisoned, I just might do it for real," he warned, something entirely feral in his eyes. And if the hero had known the man better, he would've known the gesture was purely theatrical.

"Some place you've got," the hero attested, breaking the tense silence between them.

The villain couldn't help as his lip curled into a lopsided smirk. "I'd love to tell you that I'm in this field purely for my moral stance, or lack thereof, but the pay is just too sweet to ignore."

"Alright. No henchmen or servants to do your bidding?" He raised an eyebrow at him inquisitively.

"Nah. If you work alone, no one can stab you in the back or slack on the job and screw everything up for you."

The hero let out something between a tired sigh and a laugh, and the tension in the atmosphere resurfaced again, thick and uncomfortable but not at all unfamiliar.

The rest of the evening they'd spent in total avoidance of each other until the villain had practically thrown himself into his own bed, after giving the hero a room to sleep in. He'd tossed and turned so many times he'd lost count, the dark corners of his mind tormenting him with disturbing ideas of the consequences of his decision. He'd known he was paranoid, but was it really this severe?

His tired, red-rimmed eyes had cracked open only a little after sunrise, the jolt of waking up with a start infuriating to him. Grumbling under his breath, he threw a robe on his form, too lethargic to even put a shirt on, and almost instinctively he slowly made his way upstairs. . .

. . .to find the hero's room empty, his clothes on the bed, and just like he'd suspected as he went downstairs, the dirty suit missing along with its owner.

Well, the kid was out of his hair now, left to face the consequences of his own pathetically foolish decision. Any lingering feelings of disappointment in him had simply and efficiently been ignored as he went on with his day, completely teen hero-free.

"Just a merciful mood," he'd reminded himself every time he'd wondered if the hero would randomly show up and attempt to fight him again. And the day turned into weeks and then into almost a month or two, he wasn't counting, and the hero no longer disturbed the peace of his thoughts.

Until he didn't. . .

All it took was an inconspicuous text notification he wouldn't have even noticed if the phone wasn't in close proximity of him. Other Villain was at it again with trying to piss him off, subtle threats, trying to ruin his plans, all sorts of stupid garbage in a series of pathetic attempts to get back at him.

Well, he would give him exactly what he wanted, as a last wish of course. Kindness was a virtue.

The drive there felt longer than it actually was, but everything felt slow when he was pissed anyway. But there wasn't any reason to care about speed, was there?

He must've thought he was so clever, like Villain hadn't bypassed his fortress's crappy security a million times before, as he was doing right now. And he'd finally found the room where the prick was cowering away, kicking the door in effortlessly.

"It's playtime bast-"

His words were immediately cut off and caught in his throat as his gaze flitted over from Other Villain's sick, smiling face to Hero's diminished figure. If he'd believed the hero looked terrible before, there was a whole new level of hell written all over him, bruises on every inch of skin that his tattered suit exposed, tried blood caked over his lips and matted hair, the golden blond now a dishwater gray with filth. He was bound in ropes, and still through it all, his jaw was set, the muscles of his face tensed perfectly in place just not to show emotion.

And yet his eyes betrayed him as he looked at the villain apologetically, doing everything in his power to stop himself from breaking down in tears.

"Listen, whatever the hell you want, leave the kid out of it," the villain growled.

Other Villain merely let out a soft, genuinely amused chuckle. "So you do care for him. Well, you'll be happy to know that even after all this," he tugged on the hero's hair harshly, and the villain wondered if he could grit his teeth any harder, "he blatantly refused to give me your location. I'd almost thought you'd kill him, but when I saw you take him, and then he was back alive and well, I figured it out."

Of course. He was nothing, if not a cowardly rat. He couldn't possibly let Villain know he was being followed, rather deciding to drag him right here in his territory.

"Close your eyes, kid."

"Bu-"

"Close your goddamn eyes," he snarled, and the hero obliged.

He knew the kid could still hear everything, but it was better than nothing, no matter how much he hated it.

Once again, everything the villain was doing was reflexive, but this time, an inexplicable rage took over his limbs, spreading like wildfire all over his body, something akin to poison in his bloodstream.

He mercilessly kicked the other man down, and once he'd gotten up, the villain's switchblade was in his thigh, twisting it through the skin and flesh and tearing through it with reckless abandon, blood spurting everywhere.

He couldn't even hear Other Villain scream, seeing only red both literally and figuratively, as he pulled his knife out and pushed it back in so many times he lost count, till he finally pulled away from the other criminal's mangled corpse, bone and blood vessels sticking out grotesquely in some places, his breathing laboured and his shoulders tensed as though he were no more than a wild animal.

He wasted no time cutting through Hero's restraints. "Didn't I tell you not to bloody play martyr?" he choked out, pulling the kid into his arms as the knife clattered to the ground.

"Why'd you do it?" he said softly.

The hero had stiffened at first at the contact, but now he was practically leaning into the villain with all his weight, barely able to hold himself up as he shook like a leaf in the older man's arms, slowly reciprocating. "You c-could've let me d-die," he breathed out, tone uneven and shaky as the villain felt the fabric of his costume get progressively damper. "You didn't. Yeah, I ran away, I freaked. I can barely trust. . .people I'm supposed to trust, let alone a villain, and I'm sorry, didn't mean to screw you over."

"It's okay," he replied carefully, tears streaming down his own face silently, awkwardly patting the hero's hair. He was still fairly new to the whole affection thing. "Let's go home." The villain waited till the hero pulled away before gesturing for him to follow.

One year later. . .

"I take it your date went well seeing as you're back this late?" the kid, now seventeen, and a considerable few centimetres taller asked, sprawled out lazily on the couch, practically his now as much as it was the villain's.

"Was a bloody disaster actually," he said through a snort, sliding his jacket off on a chair, a bit too lazy to change right away.

The teen let out an amused hum, gesturing for him to explain further.

"She tried to poison my drink. Shame she was pretty cute, though." He sat himself down next to the vigilante (he still fought crime, but he selectively ignored what the villain was up to. . .), letting out a tired sigh.

"And you just. . .called it a day?"

"I told her if she led me to her employer, I wouldn't shoot her. never go anywhere unarmed if you can. See, I spilled my drink on the floor. And it turns out she works for a bastard, and well. . .hungry dogs aren't loyal. So he's dead, and I'm even with my sugar-sweet date."

The hero couldn't help it as his smile turned into a laugh, the villain soon following suit. Instinctively, the villain wrapped his arm around the younger's shoulders, mirroring the kid's grin.

Whatever that was between them may have been far from perfect. Sometimes, there were days when they'd accidentally aggravated each other's older wounds, days when they just didn't have the right words and days where they didn't fully understand. But maybe they didn't have to all the time, maybe they just had to try. They still had time, much to learn and a lot to figure out. But at least they knew for a fact you can find a family in people you can choose.

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[witchy-shortcake]

That one Jade drabble i promised i would write.

TW⚠️: This story contains mentions of drinking and substance abuse, if you find those themes triggering i advice you to Skip this.

I really hope you all enjoy my first attempt at a semi-decent whump drabble.

Jade came stumbling into the apartment. She didn't even bother to take off her boots, which were leaving muddy footprints everywhere.

Slumping against the wall, she managed to reach the couch and crah face first into the cushioned surface, letting out a small muffled sound.

She sat Up as best as she could, wincing in pain, and started undressing, tossing her blood-stained clothes aside, leaving on only her bra and panties. There's were still a couple hours before she had to pick up Sunny from school so she could clean It all Up later.

She examined the bullet wounds on her leg and forearm, she was sure she could dig the bullets out of there herself, she wasn't a newbie anymore, but, still, she would need a little... Numbing if she wanted It to work.

She crawled towards one of the drawers she always kept locked so her sister wouldn't try to play with it's contents, leaving a bloody trail on the floor, and took out some pills, gauze and a bottle of cheap liquor. Those would probably do the trick.

She stumbled back to the couch with the little strenght she had left and downed the pills in one go, followed by a big gulp of absolutely disgusting alcohol that tasted like rusty nails. She then closed her eyes and waited for the pain to subside, taking another hit from the alcohol bottle every time she felt the burning pain of her wounds, which were seemingly already starting to get infected.

Jade finaly started feeling the effects of the drugs coursing through her system. She bit into the shirt she had casted aside before to try and avoid screaming and started digging her fingers into one of the wounds. The pain made her see black spots but the alcohol and The pills were numbing the sensations down to some degree, and she sure was thankful for that.

She managged to dig out both of the bullets and poorly wrap both the open wounds in gauze. She got Up from the couch, skinny legs trembling with the effort to walk to the bathroom to clean herself without putting too much weight in the injured leg. When she got there she turned the water on to draw herself a cold bath and disposed of her underwear. She took the rest of the pills out of their bag and swallowed them before going into the bathtub.

She slipped into the bathtub, letting out a sigh of relief as the freezing water made Contact with her sweat-soaked skin, her wounds stung like hell but It wouldn't last long, the drugs were already starting to take effect and She could feel It, she only had to wait a couple of minutes more.

Before she knew It, Jade was barely conscious, her head kept above water but not for long. She felt hot and nauseous and her head felt like It was stuffed with cotton. She could no longer tell when or where she was anymore.

If she could have looked at herself from outside of her body, Jade would have though It was ironic, She looked almost like he did, when she found him in his apartment almost three months ago, feverish, high out of his mind and injured beyond repair, marinating in a mixture of old bathwater and his own blood for god knows how long, but, somehow, still Alive and kicking. But, if she didn't manage to get Up before the bathtub overflowed and her head ended Up under water Jade would not have the same luck.

She woke Up again almost an hour later. The water had thankfully stopped running, and The one that she was bathing in was a brownish red, from her Blood and all the dirt that she had come home covered in. She crawled out of the tub, leaving behind the drenched and bloody bandages and managed to take a few steps before she fell to her knees, overcome by pain and overwhelming nausea. She held back her hair as best as she could, even though It was damp and plastered to her face, and started spewing out all the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl. She had barely eaten anything for the past few days, but still, she felt like her body was purging out all her sins, along with what seemed like an endless flow of watery vomit.

When her stomach finaly stopped convulsing she fell to the ground, too exhausted to even cry in pain when her head hit the cold floor, falling into a far from blissful sleep.

[aceofwhump]

Wednesday (2022)

[whumblr]

Weapon

So, a lil while ago, @whumpedydump asked about Zayne working with Emery and why Zayne says it's better to be tortured by him than by Emery. Here we go.

Warning: Dead dove. Don't want to spoil, so if you're not sure, check the tags for warnings, if ya don't care, keep going.

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

-

“What the hell happened to your hands?” Jay gaped at the bruises and scratches over Zayne’s knuckles.

Zayne instantly pulled back and turned away.

“Punched a wall because I have to put up with your stupid questions.” His left hand – unconsciously – slid over his right, covering the worst of the bruises, the raw, reddish split skin, and lightly rubbed over it.

“Yeah, sure, a little one-two combo to a brick wall.”

“Now you’re just begging for a one-two combo to your face.”

“Just saying,” Jay held his hands up, “if you found someone else to torment, be my gu—"

Zayne sharply turned. “Don’t ask,” he snarled and pointed a shaky finger in Jay’s face. “Okay?”

-

“Did I say you could stop?”

“Sir, he’s… he can’t take much more.”

Zayne took another step back, revealing the man kneeling in front of him to show Emery the state he was in. He was quite sure that another hit would knock him clear out. Which, honestly, would probably be a mercy at this point.

The man barely had any strength left to stay upright on his knees, his clenched fists ziptied behind his back were trembling, blood poured from his nose, and even with gasps and heaves he couldn’t get his breathing under control.

Emery remained unimpressed and stayed where he was, just a few steps behind Zayne. He merely glanced down at the man, who struggled to look up but glared at him with all he had left. “Yes, he can. Keep going.”

Zayne hesitated. He felt disgusted having to do this. It wasn’t like he hadn’t beaten on someone before. But this was… different. Too random. Impersonal. He had no idea who the man was, what he’d done to deserve this, what Emery wanted from him. He’d just shown up to this warehouse as Emery had ordered, was presented with nothing more than a man tied up on his knees and the task to ‘make him talk’. That’s it.

But the man didn’t talk. And by now, Zayne wished the guy had actually passed out like half an hour ago. But he was stubborn, like a certain someone he knew. Emery, unfortunately, was also stubborn, and Zayne knew the guy was going to be the first to break.

And he had to do the breaking.

Emery never lifted a finger. He had others to do his dirty work for him.

While the man was obviously nearing a limit, he was not hitting a breaking point. He remained silent, unwilling to give up a scrap of information, and with the bits of strength he did have every now and then, just glared past Zayne right at Emery.

But Zayne felt that he was nearing a limit as well.

His hands were trembling and not just from the pain of bone striking unrelenting bone. But also from the sickening crunch that followed every strike, the blood that stuck to his hands, the grunts of pain followed by agonising silence in front of him, judging silence behind him. How much longer was this going to take?!

A coughing sound escaped the man’s lips, along with some blood as he tried to speak and Zayne found himself hoping he’d finally spill. But when the man found his voice he merely said:

“Yeah, man, keep going.” His voice was soft, tired, but the defiance in it was thundering loud. “Knocked out you’d get just as much out of me as you are getting now.”

Zayne peeked a look at his boss to see how he’d take this.

Not well. Emery’s face darkened.

“Your knife,” he merely said, narrowed eyes still on the man.

Reluctantly, Zayne reached into his pocket. He didn’t go for his actual knife, the one he used with Jay. That was his favourite, meant for play. This one was a spare, meant for work, to be put away after everything had ended and snap it closed to keep the memories of the job contained. All kept separate.

He held it out for Emery.

But Emery refused it and took back a step, making room for Zayne to stand over the kneeling man and positioning himself in just the right spot to watch over the whole spectacle.

Zayne wasn’t really sure what he expected. Of course he was going to have to do it.

He made a show of slowly folding the knife open, but his heart wasn’t into it. Usually he’d love the twitches of fear, the widening of eyes, the flinch as the knife clicked. Here he was just furiously hoping it would make the man relent. When he didn’t, he stepped behind him, kept him in place with a hand on his shoulder, and pricked the blade over the side of his ribs.

Last chance, man!

The man tensed under him, flinched hard when skin split and red soaked into the cut fabric of his shirt. But the warning by just cutting skin deep was not enough to make him either scream or talk. And before Zayne had to make himself go a step further, he heard a tutting sound.

Emery sighed, shaking his head, and stepped forward.

Before Zayne could pull away, Emery’s gloved hand was on his and pushed the knife deeper into the cut.

The blade sank in deep. Way too deep. Zayne startled and meant to pull back, but Emery’s hand clamped over his and actually pushed harder, dragging it along. The blade slid in up to the hilt, carving through skin, muscle, blood vessels; indifferent to what it severed. Blood immediately gushed free. A sickening scream rose up and Zayne had to force himself to keep the man down by his shoulders before his trashing made things even worse.

Emery finally withdrew his hand. “Stop petting him and get him to talk.”

With some effort – and with a disgusting squelching sound – Zayne had to actually pull the knife free. Blood kept running down the man’s side, sticking his shirt to his skin. If he had to dig that deep, the man would probably bleed out after about three or more cuts. This was no longer threatening a man to talk by torturing him; this was ‘talk fast or die’.

And the guy seemed to realise as well that he wouldn’t be able to walk away with this.

“No… no, don’t do that again,” he wheezed. “No!” He bucked again when Zayne held the knife under the first cu— he couldn’t even call it a cut; it was a full on open stab wound.

“Talk,” Emery said over the begging.

And something burst. Along with his tears, the man’s words spilled out of him, talking as fast as he could through gasps of pain and in-between heaving breaths.

Thank god. Zayne let him go and stepped away, relieved he didn’t have sink the knife in like that himself, that it was finally over.

Emery nodded, seemingly satisfied with the info he got. “Good.” And before Zayne could even fold his knife, he followed up with his final order:

“Slit his throat.”

Zayne froze up. “I… I don’t think that’s necessary—”

“I do,” came the cold reply, effectively ending any further protest.

The knife nearly slipped from his grasp. His heart skipped a beat and it felt like it just plummeted down into his stomach, dunking into the pool of dread that started to violently swirl around. It didn’t. After that world-stopping split-second it kept going, thundering against his ribs. Wide eyes shot from Emery to the man and back until Emery’s patience ran out.

“If I have to do it myself, I will do it twice. Do you understand me?”

Zayne clenched his jaw and tucked away all feelings before a hint of the despair whirling through him could slip free. When he turned his back on Emery, a tiny bit did slip out as he couldn’t help but glance at the two guards Emery always had with him, estimating his chances. Slim. And he had no doubt that the man wouldn’t follow up on his threat.

Something hardened inside him. Him or me. Or rather, him and me or just him. Survival instinct took over, wrapping all around him like a cloak protecting him. He did hear the man’s pleas, but the words just bounced off, like arrows against armour, never fully registering in his brain so that even if he wanted to he wouldn’t remember them later.

Besides, begging him was useless. He didn’t call the shots here. He was just the—

He stepped behind the man again, so at least he wouldn’t have to see the shock and betrayal in those eyes turn blank when— He firmly grabbed onto the man’s hair and dragged him back up on his knees, holding him up. All part of his determined, cold act.

But when he bent over, settling the knife just under the man’s jaw, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Then he let the blade sink in, immediately going in deep – letting him bleed out as fast as possible was the least bit of mercy he could offer – and he dragged the knife over his throat all the way to the other carotid artery, cutting both.

The trashing stopped as the finality of the act hit them both. The pull of gravity on Zayne’s hand turned heavy and he let the strands of hair slip from his grasp. The man slumped to the ground, wrists digging into plastic as he struggled against the zip ties as if reaching for his throat could somehow stop the bleeding, and Zayne looked away. Would rather look at even fucking Emery than watch the final moments of the man under him.

Emery watched impassively and with a certain disdain, cold eyes fixed on the man, following every twitch until he finally stilled. Then he abruptly turned and walked outside to his guards.

Taking just the slightest moment to compose himself, Zayne took a deep breath – that did fuck all like putting a band aid on one of those cuts he just inflicted – and followed.

Cold air swept over the river towards him. He didn’t notice the cold as much, but the breeze tickled over the cuts on his hands and he found that he was still holding onto the knife, fist clenched around it.

Emery glanced back at him, almost surprised that he was still here. “Someone will be along shortly to dispose of the body,” he said, tone dismissive and colder than the night air around them. “You are done for the day.”

A vague sense of immense relief that he didn’t have to clean this mess up hit him, but not as hard as it should. It was dulled, along with everything else. Zayne went along as if on autocue, making eye contact and nodding, hoping it would uphold a stoic pretence.

But as soon as Emery turned the corner, his mask shattered.

Every emotion that he had kept at bay all night burst free in a whirlwind of chaos, battling each other over which one would get released first. It was overwhelming. He didn’t know whether to cry or to scream his rage.

Because what even just happened?! Was he—did he just—

He refused to look back inside, just wanted to forget about that image as soon as he could. But even if he wanted to, to get confirmation on what he just fucking did, he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot. Completely paralysed, making him just stand there watch over the dark churning water.

The protective cloak of survival instinct ripped away. Immediately making way for something dark bubbling up, taking hold of him.

Guilt.

It clawed up inside him, whispering to him, calling him names, calling him murderer.

No…

No! This was not on him. It was not! It was Emery. It was all Emery!

If he hadn’t been here, Emery would have killed the guy himself. If Emery had called some other pawn to order around, the guy would still have been killed. Even if Zayne had refused, the guy would still be dead. And so would he. Every possible outcome ended up with the guy bleeding out on the ground.

This was not on me. It was on him, on him, not me! On him!

Because Emery already had his mind made up. And any bit of mercy Zayne’d tried to—

His breath caught.

If you hadn’t tried to spare him… If you’d just knocked him out… maybe…

No!

The blood was on Emery’s hands! Not his!

His knuckles ached as his fist clenched around the handle of his knife. Split skin burst open further, stinging, making him look down.

It wasn’t his blood… coating his knuckles, running over the flesh of his thumb.

And with a scream, he threw the knife as far as he could into the river.

-

Continuation here

Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror @susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime @freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion @afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8 @itsmyworld98 @scribbelle

[3-2-whump]

Whump Quote

Or, micro-dosing whump when I’d rather be at home writing than at work

TW/CW: rape/noncon, nsfw, minor whump implied, intimate whumper, victim blaming (?) (by victim)

“It wasn’t all bad, you know. Before I grew up and became so handsome that he couldn’t control himself, Master was really nice to me.”

“There is so much wrong with what you just said.”

[whumpsmith-participates]

Medwhump May 2024

Day 1 - Under Anaesthesia / Dislocation

TW: minor whumpee (16), organ theft, blood, strong language, verbally abusive whumper, physically abusive whumper, toxic familial relationship, tobacco

@medwhumpmay

Erick liked to think he was accustomed to pain. Living with someone who lashes out over the smallest things or locks you in the kitchen pantry for fun tends to do that to you. But hey, it could've been worse. He knew damn well what his short-fused caretaker saved him from, so he kept his head down, did what he was told, and tried not to complain. Though, sometimes, that still wasn't enough.

Fetch was a large man. Tall, well-built, with a decent exercise regime of carrying kidnapping victims or pushing Erick around to do the heavy-lifting for him. He was a doctor, once upon a time, still considered himself one. Not having a license to practice due to one misplaced liver was just a minor technicality if you asked him. And it certainly didn't stop him from misplacing even more organs...for the right price.

It also made him feel less guilty (read: not at all) about the way he treated Erick. He was more than willing to admit that he could go a little far sometimes, but the kid had nothing to complain about. He always patched him up afterwards. In fact, he should be grateful that Fetch not only could patch him up, but always did so. No matter how he got injured. It usually was his own fault, after all. If he didn't want to get hurt, he shouldn't have mouthed off.

Today was no different. Fetch had picked up a relatively simple job. All he needed was a kidney, and all he needed to get that kidney, was for Erick to get some more ice from the motel's ice machine. But he had the fucking nerve to complain about it.

"Even more?" he asked.

Fetch rolled his eyes, getting up from the bathroom floor and wiping his hands on a towel, leaving the white fabric stained red. Erick already knew he had messed up, quickly getting up from the bed and heading for the door with the empty bucket.

"I'm going, I'm going!" he said.

Fetch wasn't having it, following him outside and catching him at the top of the staircase, grabbing a hold of his shirt as he yanked him back and forced him to face him.

"You have one job!" Fetch hissed, "and that is to follow orders! You don't know how much ice I need, so who the fuck do you think you are to question me?"

"I-I'm sorry, sir—"

"Shut up, and get me the fucking ice!" Fetch hissed, before pushing him away as he let go.

Erick tried to catch himself, but the floor behind him abruptly stopped and he tumbled down the stairs. It could be worse, he'd probably feel it in the morning, he thought, until he tried to catch himself on the pavement at the end of the stairs. First it was the scrape on his palm that bothered him, that first burning sting of freshly broken skin. Then he tried to pick himself up, and he felt the most immense pain in his shoulder, spreading throughout his arm. He bit his lip to stop himself from crying out, letting out the most pathetic whimper instead.

Fetch cursed as he realised what he'd done. Great, now he probably had to get his own ice. With a sigh, he first pulled a pack of marlboro red from his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and clenching it between his lips as he searched his other pocket for his lighter.

Erick choked out a sob as he watched Fetch's face light up from the small flame that ignited his cigarette, trying to at least sit up while Fetch slowly made his way down the stairs. But the pain made it hard to move. He tried holding his shoulder, but that just made it worse. He tried supporting his arm, but that also made it worse. Everything he tried just fucking hurt.

"Don't tell me you broke something, I don't got fuckin' time for that," Fetch said, having reached the bottom of the stairs.

"I-I don't know," Erick said, trying not to cry. Fetch ignored him, though. Picking up the bucket he dropped and going to get his ice first.

Erick tried to sit up again in the meantime, alternating between holding his breath to stop himself from crying out and gasping for air, the occasional sob escaping along with some breaths. He finally managed, scooting backwards slowly to rest his back against the stair railing, while his injured arm dragged uselessly over the floor.

"Figured it out yet?"

Erick looked up. Fetch had returned with the ice, taking a drag from his cigarette as he towered over the teen.

"I-I can't move my arm," Erick said.

"Great," Fetch grumbled, crouching down and putting a hand over the teen's mouth. Erick was a bit confused as to why he started with that, until he also grabbed his injured arm and moved across his chest. Erick yelped, the sound muffled behind Fetch's hand.

"Hold it like that," Fetch ordered, "keep it across your chest like that, with your other hand under your elbow— That's it."

He carefully lowered his hand, making sure the teen would stay quiet, before grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him to his feet, nudging him to get back upstairs while he picked up his bucket of ice and followed closely behind.

Erick stumbled back towards the motel room, waiting for Fetch to unlock the door and let him in. Then he sat down on the edge of one of the beds, holding his arm while Fetch finished up with his victim.

When he finally finished, he stepped out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on the towel again, before placing a coolbox on the dresser next to the TV. He glared down at Erick, not an ounce of pity on his face even though the teen was trembling from the pain at this point.

"Learned your lesson, kid?"

"Y-yes, sir," Erick just said.

Fetch seemed satisfied, putting the towel down and pulling a chair closer, pulling Erick's sleeve up to see how his arm was dislocated. A bruise was beginning to form around the joint, but other than that it didn't look too bad from what he could tell without an X-ray.

"Okay," he said, unbuckling his belt, "I'm gonna put it back into place, and it's going to hurt like a bitch, so bite down on this."

He pulled his belt off, and folded it a couple of times, holding it up so Erick could bite down on the leather, before bracing himself as Fetch grabbed his arm again.

We've all seen at least one scene in an emergency room, or even in the middle of anywhere, where dislocated shoulders are pushed back with a quick but very painful move, right? Well...Erick wasn't so lucky.

Fetch didn't pull hard enough on his first try, so all he really gained was to inflict more pain on Erick, who bit down as hard as he could on the belt, but he couldn't help but to cry out in pain a bit.

"Shut up!" Fetch just hissed, before trying again.

Erick really tried to stay quiet, but the pain was so bad it dizzied him. He even tried to just pull away and bury his face in the sheet to at least muffle his cries. It felt like Fetch was trying to rip his arm clean off, when suddenly he stopped.

"Breathe," he said, to which Erick realised he hadn't been breathing. He lifted up his head, gasping for air a bit, coughing as he accidentally breathed in some saliva. Fetch helped him sit up, giving him a second to calm down, before making him support his own arm again while he looked at his shoulder.

"It's back in," he said, "it'll be sore for a while. Keep supporting it. I'll get you a sling after I finish this job, okay?"

"O-okay," Erick said, "I-I'm sorry..."

"You're fine," Fetch said, "c'mon, let's get out of here before he wakes up. And before his kidneys expire, or I'll give them yours."

Erick nodded, taking another second to breathe before getting to his feet. While wondering how to carry his own backpack, Fetch already picked it up for him along with his other things, before holding the door open for him.

"Come on, we don't have all fucking day," he hissed impatiently, to which Erick quickly followed him out, briefly glancing back into the motel room over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the blood left on the bathtub through the open bathroom door.

So,,,if you haven't read Villian's View on DA, meet Fetch and Erick. I wanna try using them for all the prompts, but might change my mind later ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The rules didn't say a valid MD was required for this event, so I decided to grab my whumpiest doctor :3

Also immediately had to switch out with an alt prompt because frankly, I just have no clue about aneasthesia. Never been under it and dislocating something just drew my attention way mooore

ok rant over, thanks for reading!

Masterlist Main account

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Nightingale's Song

Sigh Not So | Secrets Hid Away | Shed Tears Aplenty | Fire Down Below | Rolling Down | Won't You Go My Way? | The Seas No More | The Nightingale's Song |

CW: Dehumanizing language, use of ‘it’ as pronoun for nonhuman whumpee, sadistic whumper, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, fade-to-black noncon implied, magical whump, captivity, minor side character death

-

One year after the events of The Seas No More

Gilly, fingers itching to close around the old biddy’s skinny neck, settled for laying the cool compress over her forehead, taking pains to look like nothing so much as the devoted tenant helping his landlady through some terrible mysterious illness. 

It had been a very, very long eight months or so since he'd started this little act, feigning devotion and care for the old woman, and it was with very real relief that he finally saw the end in sight.

Mrs. Neumann’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her little yappy dog running circles below her where she was laid out on the chaise in her less-fashionable front room. It stopped, now and then, to lick at her fingers, and then ran in circles again. 

“Water, please, Gilly,” Mrs. Neumann croaked, and he smiled solicitously as he tipped the cup to her lips, allowing her only a few sips before pulling it back away. “Thank you, you sweet young man.” Her cold bony fingers closed around his wrist and Gilly suppressed a shudder only with effort. "You have been so good to me, in these hard days..." Her eyes, when they met his, were strangely foggy, as if covered with a sort of film that stood between her and the world. “You have been such a boon to an old woman with no one to care for her. There is some infection, I should think… We must send for the doctor, mustn’t we?”

“The doctor has already come and gone,” Gilly said, leaning close and half-shouting in the hopes she could hear anything he said. Her mouth worked aimlessly, and he gave her more water, although it didn't seem to help. “Do you not remember?” Her hearing had gotten even worse since her illness had taken hold of her - or since the siren's song had convinced her that she was ill, anyway - and soon enough, he thought, all this shouting could finally cease. 

“Oh, he did?,” Mrs. Neumann quavered, eyes watering. But then she seemed to forget her emotions and looked to the side. “I suppose so… He must have. Oh, but Gilly, who is singing? The voice is so fine…”

In the corner, Gilly’s siren sang, plaintive and mournful, as he’d been ordered to. He hadn’t wanted to turn his song to Gilly's will, but with a year of careful teaching he had taught the creature to obey him without hesitation, and they were finally ready to put Gilly’s plan into motion.

It began here.

His future would start here at Mrs. Neumann’s sickbed, where beneath the notes of the lovely song were the commands being worked into the elderly widow’s malleable little mind while she burned with unchecked fever. 

The doctor came and said there is nothing to be done now but rest. Gilly Wentworth cares for you now. Leave him everything you have. He deserves all you have and more. 

He deserves everything. 

“He's a friend,” Gilly replied to her question, shouting right against her ear and getting almost no sign she was aware of him at all. Her eyes shifted, moving as if following the notes of Areyto’s beautiful song. The clouds over her irises were thickening. “He sings well indeed! It was a miracle I found him!"

“As the hart on the mountain so was my love brave,” The siren sang, powerful tenor rising and falling. Its eyes were distant, its body relaxed in a way it never was otherwise. But even Gilly could see that the siren loved the act of using its voice, not only for luring wayward sailors but simply to sing at all. “So handsome, manly and clever. So kind and sincere and he loved me so dear - oh, Edwin, thy equal was never..."

“How beautiful,” Mrs. Neumann whispered, lips barely moving. He watched the fog on her eyes overtake them entirely as the spell in the siren’s voice took hold of her. “Oh, Gilly, you have done more than anyone could ever be asked to do for me… it's a pity, what happened with your father… you should have kept your riches…"

“Yes,” Gilly whispered, leaning closer. “Yes, I should have…"

"A pity," The old woman repeated, reaching blindly for him, unable now to see anything but what the siren commanded. "Such a pity… you deserve everything…"

Gilly shivered with anticipation, breathing harder. "Yes, yes, I do…"

Even the little yappy dog had gone silent, now, head cocked with its ears up as it listened, seated on the ground. Gilly wondered idly if the dog would try to give him all its stupid little bones or something, if the siren’s magic could speak to the hearts of animals, too. 

It didn't work on animals, everyone knew that. But then it wasn't supposed to work on women, either, and here was Mrs. Neumann wholly ensorcelled by it.

He would have to go see Atabei, and tell her, after this was over.

“You have been such a good and kind gentleman…” She murmured, and he held her hand in both of his, soft papery wrinkled skin cradled between his palms. “I will leave you everything, everything you deserve…”

“Yes," Gilly repeated, more insistently this time, leaning even closer. He could smell her now, the rosewater she dabbed at her neck and wrists each day like clockwork when she rose, the sour note of her sweat beneath. It wouldn’t be long now.

As soon as she signed.

“But now he is dead and gone to death’s bed,” The siren continued, “He’s cut down like a rose in full bloom. He’s fallen asleep and left me here to weep by the sweet silver light of the moon…”

Mrs. Neumann’s mouth had fallen open, a look of serenity overtaking her features entirely but for the clouds over her eyes. Gilly left her for the moment and went over to a table near to the door, grabbing the sheaf of papers there, an inkwell and pen. He returned, settled himself back next to her, and began to speak to her in a soft voice.

She heard, somewhere, deep beneath the deafness that had come on her with age and the siren’s song. The siren commanded her to hear him, so she did.

He explained how important it was that she leave her wealth to someone who would use it wisely, that her friends and the church could not be trusted with it - only Gilly Wentworth, who cared for her so faithfully, deserved her fortune.

She nodded, and wept a little at the selfless nature of such a man, and then she took the pen.

The old woman signed every paper he gave her, her signature unmistakably her own and unwavering, even though she never looked directly at any of the words. He’d had these drawn up himself by a solicitor who had remarked, also, on the fine quality of his friend’s singing, before his own eyes had clouded.

When they had left the solicitor's office, the man had remembered no such song, only Gilly himself, and how kind he was to care so for an old woman alone in the world.

He would file the papers, once Mrs. Neumann finally kicked over the bucket and went on to the endless pile of her previous beloved yappy dogs in the sky, waiting for their mistress to greet them. Really, it wasn’t like she was doing anything with her wealth anyway. 

Gilly intended to do quite a lot with her wealth.

“Roll on, silver moon, guide the traveler’s way when the nightingale’s song is in tune,” The siren’s voice shifted, went so painfully sad that tears welled in Mrs. Neumann’s eyes, moved by the mourning the siren could mimic but, Gilly thought, not actually fully feel. “Never more with my lover shall I stray by the sweet silver light of the moon…”

She signed.

And she signed.

And she signed.

When he had all he needed, he put the sheaf of papers back, poured a glass of a scarlet liquid into a crystal cordial glass, and then set it into Mrs. Neumann’s hands, closing her fingers around it. She didn’t seem to notice, frozen in place by the strength and power of the siren’s song. 

Smiling, Gilly walked slowly towards the corner where his captive magic creature stood, lit by the strong yellow sun coming in the windows. Despite the immensity of emotion in its song, there was an emptiness in its dark eyes that sent a thrill down Gilly’s spine and pooled a greedy heat within him begging to be released. The sun touched the edges of its black curls and turned them to gold, shone warm on smooth brown skin.

Naked, it was a vision, an ancient statue brought to life by the favor - or curse - of ancient gods. Gilly came to a stop beside it, looking over its finely-formed face, the imprints of his fingers still, eternally, written clearly in purples and reds around the slim column of its neck. His eyes moved down, following the complicated swell of magical symbols that held it firmly in check, bound it without question to his will. The siren looked down and away from him, the song… shifting just a little. 

The note of wistful loss that the words called for became something stronger but far more painful to hear, a wailing plea to the heavens for help trapped within its perfect pitch. And yet no help could come.

Not for such a monster, not with the magic keeping it still for Gilly’s every touch, for as long as he commanded it to be. 

“His grave I will seek until morning appears and weep for my lover so brave…”

Gilly laid his hand against the siren’s face, palm to its cheek, and its voice wavered a little as its dark eyes closed.

“I’ll embrace cold turf and wash with my tears the flowers that bloom o’er his grave…”

With avid delight and no small amount of desire he followed the trail of a tear that ran down its other cheek and settled at the corner of its mouth. He touched his thumb to the spot and then licked the salt off it. To see the creature at its wicked work was… truly beautiful to behold. To know that it wept because it could do nothing but obey him - him, Gilly Wentworth, just a man in a world full of men and yet now one of the most powerful men alive - was… incredible.

Awe-inspiring.

And they had only just begun.

“Never again shall my bosom know joy,” The siren’s voice dipped to low, a hushed and mournful lament. “With my Edwin I hope to be soon. Lovers shall weep o’er where we both sleep by thy sweet silver light, bonny moon.”

Gilly checked back on Mrs. Neumann, and smiled. She stared off into space, her chest moving fitfully with emotion. The money, the house, the horses even… all of it would be Gilly’s very, very soon.

Really, it was like she was investing in him.

Just like everyone else was going to do.

Pity she wouldn’t see the returns.

“Have her drink what’s in the cup,” He whispered. The siren took a breath and obeyed, changing its power minutely.

“Roll on, silver moon, guide the traveler’s way when the nightingale’s song is in tune…”

Gilly watched as Mrs. Neumann, seemingly in a trance, lifted the cup to her lips and drank it all, swallow after swallow, some of the liquid running from the corners of her mouth to wet her hair and the chaise beneath her. 

He smiled.

“And never, never more with my lover I’ll stray by thy silver light, bonny moon…”

The final note hung in the air, as Mrs. Neumann’s eyes slowly closed. She relaxed back into the chaise, her hand dropping, the cup clinking onto the floor and rolling away, the last drops of poison spilling like water to evaporate and leave no trace of themselves behind.

Gilly exhaled, then walked with purpose back to the siren. 

It raised its eyes, briefly, to meet his just as he grabbed it by the arms and shoved its back against the wall. A gilded mirror hanging next to it crashed to the ground, cracking into pieces, and the little dog took to yapping again. 

It stared at him with naked, unhidden fear. 

“Good,” Gilly murmured, an inch from its false man’s face. Uneven breath on its lips, those eyes like pools of deep water locked on his. There were still red welts on its back, new ones thanks to Gilly discovering that even its pain sounded pretty, and he enjoyed the soft sound the siren made as its back was ground against the wallpaper.

He put one hand around its neck, thumb pressing just over its pulse, and felt it flutter and jump under his touch as the siren bared its neck to him, as he had taught it always to do. To defy even this touch would result in a misery the stupid sea creature could not bear. Even the dumbest animals could be trained, after all. Even the stupidest, most stubbornly beautiful man-shaped things could learn. 

Its voice was thin and airy. “M-Master-... please-"

“You did wonderfully,” He breathed. “A perfect tool for my will. Now we must find someone to take the dog - it’s irritating but I won’t leave it to starve here, will I? I’m not so heartless as all that - and then we’ll sell the house and the horses and all this nonsense and frippery she keeps… and then we’ll be on our way, won’t we?” He leaned forward, speaking against the siren’s ear just to feel the way its body shivered against his. “You and I. Now. Kneel for me.”

“Yes, master.” Its voice went dull. Its mimicry lost its shine, and everything fell flat from its mouth like heavy stone. It always spoke like that, when he commanded it to its knees. 

Gilly didn’t mind. 

Behind him, as the poison took hold, he heard Mrs. Neumann's breath go suddenly rapid and rasping, heard her fall from the chaise to the floor, arms and legs rigid, muscles spasming.

It would only last a few moments.

Then she would slip into unconsciousness and finally to her death, and Gilly would be one step closer to everything he'd ever wanted.

He let go and stepped back, watching the siren gracefully sink down onto Mrs. Neumann’s expensive woven rug.

Gilly put a hand in its hair, gripped tight enough to make it whimper with the pain when he pulled its head back. “I need to write a letter to Atabei." His other hand worked at his breeches, and his eyes took in the way the thing shuddered at the sight with greedy, rising lust. "Have to tell her it worked on a woman. I should see if it works on other women... Need to tell Beibei I finally have the coins to come see her for a visit. Be dressed in real finery, for once."

"Yes, master."

"Sssshhh. Open your mouth for me."

He closed his eyes, buried both hands in the siren’s thick hair, and gave himself over to his triumph and the perfect pleasure of the siren’s tears. 

-

Taglist: @burtlederp  @finder-of-rings  @theelvishcowgirl  @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump  @bloodinkandashes  @squishablesunbeam  @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings

Covers @whumptober prompts 13, 14, 15

[livestockbird]

Sour Pebbles (Dead Dove Lemongrab Oneshot)

Lemongrab tries dark soda for the first time, causing small pebbles to form inside of him.

·  Genital Torture ·  Mutilation ·  Minor Character Death ·  Hiding Medical Issues ·  Adventure Time References ·  Whump ·  Short One Shot ·  Dead Dove: Do Not Eat