#whump snippet

[withdrawingramen]

"You've changed. Alot." "Well, I've gone a bit insane over the years, and it's become sort of a personality trait now." Whumpee laughs out, dryly.

[cpt-winters]

Forced Surrender - Leader Whump

"I knew you'd come."

Whumper's lips curled into that familiarly sickening smile as the metal gate rolled back, creaking on its hinges as Leader approached.

"I'm here, so let them go," he ordered.

Whumper's fingers waved a vague motion to the henchmen behind, promptly followed by kicking and scrapping against the gravelled ground.

"Get the hell off me!" Teammate One shouted, jerking against their restraints.

Three froze in their tracks, eyes widening as they landed on Leader. "Leader? What are you.."

"We had a deal," Leader answered, steely gaze refusing to break under Whumper's tangible glee.

"What? No- You can't-"

He stood rigid as the henchmen pushed his team past him, holding Whumper's gaze as he got to his knees.

"Leader-" Teammate Two started, desperation seeping into their voice. "Leader, don't do this!"

He set his jaw, composing himself from his teammate's distant pleas as Whumper drew closer, cuffs in hand.

"Leader! Please!"

Leader let out a breath as he drew his wrists together, offering them up to Whumper. He closed his eyes as cold metal wrapped around his skin, the light click of the cuffs a death sentence.

[hurtwithallthecomfort]

Whumper had been wronged. Badly. Betrayed by an ally, captured, left for dead. When they got out, barely alive, they were beyond furious, and they wanted nothing but revenge. And so, once they recovered, they would go out to bring justice to the person who hurt them so horrifically: Whumpee.

Problem is, Whumpee didn’t actually do anything. They might have been framed, or happened to be in the wrong place. Or, maybe they did hurt Whumper, but they were being brainwashed, manipulated, or forced and threatened into it. Either way, Whumper’s going after the wrong person here, but they can’t say anything about it. Perhaps they’re protecting the real culprit, perhaps Whumper won’t let them speak, or perhaps they think they deserve it despite the circumstances. So, the suffering continues on, for an agonisingly long time.

And then, Whumper realises the truth. They find the real culprit, find some evidence that proves Whumpee’s innocence, or find proof of what happened to Whumpee before. And they’re sick to their stomach. Nausea doesn’t even describe it. Everything they had done was to an innocent bystander at best, and another victim of the real traitor at worst.

[holidayinhell]

Whumpee strained against the ropes binding his wrists, forcing his arms as far apart as they’d go. The cords bit into his raw skin, every micromovement shot pain radiating through his shoulders. It was no use. The ropes were too thick.

Both men fell silent as faint footsteps echoed down the hall, their rhythmic clicks barely audible through the pounding in Whumpee’s ears. 

He was close. Caretaker was only a couple rooms away.

Whumper’s eyes narrowed and flashed to Whumpee.

Before Whumpee could react, Whumper lunged at him, pinning him against the cold linoleum. He climbed on top of Whumpee, weight crashing down on his back, forcing his face forward into the floor.

“Don’t.” He hissed, his voice low and venomous. “Don’t even think about it.”

The impact rattled Whumpee’s skull and stars exploded in his vision. His eyelashes fluttered delicately as unconsciousness threatened to wash over him.

No. 

He couldn’t give in now. Caretaker was here. He was just a few rooms away, closer than he’d ever been. He was looking for him, he was going to rescue Whumpee. After all these months, he knew this was his only chance.

Ignoring the pain, Whumpee wound back and screamed at the top of his lungs. “HERE! CARETAKER! I’m in h---!”

The shout died in his throat, smothered by a length of filthy rag stretched painfully across his lips.

The coarse fabric of the gag scraped against his cracked lips, digging painfully deep into the corners of his mouth. The taste of old sweat and grime flooded his senses, making him retch against the filthy cloth.

“What did I just fucking tell you?” Whumper whispered. Whumpee could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. “You’re not getting out of here.”

Whumper’s hand held the rag firm, digging into Whumpee’s jaw until it felt like the corners of his mouth were bleeding.

Some time passed. Maybe seconds. Maybe minutes. The soiled rag remained in place, growing heavy with saliva. Whumpee’s muffled cries dimmed into strained whimpers, fading like the last echoes of hope.

A chilling quiet settled over the room.

The footsteps outside the door were gone.

"Like I said. You're never getting out of this place."

((more Whump))

[snakebites-and-ink]

Whumpee came to disoriented and hurting in unexpected places. This wasn't the last place they remembered being...? In their hand was an envelope. Inside was cash—an insane amount of cash—and an unsigned letter:

You offered certain services to a very rich person in exchange for the enclosed payment. Your memories of the past few months have been erased to protect their privacy. You may wish to consult a health professional regarding damages incurred.

[chaotic-orphan]

Heyy a writing request! How about a whumpee that wakes up on the side of a road and someone finds them (that someone can be whumper or just a stranger your choice :D)

Whumpee was shivering violently when they woke up. Had Whumper taken their blankets again? The rock of a mattress they lay on seemed more firm and cold than before and Whumpee moaned, reaching for the covers just in case they were kicked off the bed somewhere.

Whumpee’s hand wound through something wet and stringy and their eyes flew open.

They weren’t in the room.

They weren’t in their cell that they had called home for who knows how long? Whumpee shot awake, eyes wild and frantic. The darkness surrounded them and took a while for their eyes to adjust as they scrambled back on grass.

The memory came flooding back then and Whumpee stilled. They… they had escaped Whumper, they made a break for it and they ran and ran and ran, and ran some more and… they must have lay down to rest for a while or passed out or something. But they ran! They hoped they were far enough away now to be safe. They didn’t even remember the direction they were running from, they just kept running.

Whumpee wrapped their arms around themselves and shakily got to their feet. Their teeth were chattering uncontrollably, the sound grating a headache that was scraping itself around the edge’s of Whumpee’s skull.

They were still out.

They had broken out of Whumper’s home.

They had escaped Whumper…

That thought warmed their chest and Whumpee… for the first time in a long time, Whumpee smiled to themselves and laughed like a madman into the night air.

Okay, first things first, find a road and then follow it to civilisation. Whumpee could do that. They could do that. They could wave down a car with the sound of their chattering teeth it was so fucking loud.

They laughed to themselves again. Jesus, when was the last time they laughed?

They found the road pretty quickly, it was a miles walk away and then followed it along, walking hopefully in the direction away from Whumper. It was hard to tell in the dark where they were, but they were… they were outside. They were free.

Holy fuck… they were free.

They were freezing; the socks on their feet soaked through and their feet more like two frozen, cement blocks attached to their legs but they were moving and they were away from Whumper, and…

oh god, was Whumper…

They stopped dead in their tracks.

What if the next car that drove by them was Whumper, looking for them? What if Whumpee accidentally flags them down and Whumper opens the door and tells them to get in, god, no. They couldn’t go back.

They couldn’t go back.

Fuck, fuck, they couldn’t catch their breath, it eluded them and they thought it was better to go towards the light. Go into the light. Whumper wouldn’t be in—

A honk of a car horn and the sound of brakes squealing and Whumpee turned away, their hands over their head as a car swerved around them. Whumpee flinched, eyes wild as they turned and looked into the car, but there was nobody inside.

“What the FUCK were you doing?!” A harsh voice demanded furiously. Whumpee backed up as a man approached them, they shook their head, hands flying up in front of them to make the stranger stay back.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry, please!”

“You’re in the middle of the fucking road!” The man bellowed. “What do you mean you’re sorry, I could have hit you! I could have killed you, you fucking—”

The man stopped when Whumpee whimpered. The man’s quiet was worse than when he was giving out to Whumpee. “Hey… sorry, um, sorry for shouting, you scared me is all. I was…”

“I’m sorry sir…”

“No, hey, no. Listen, I— sorry. You uh—” Whumpee looked over at the man. “You have no fucking shoes on. What the fuck? It’s almost freezing and you’re playing Tarzan in the fucking woods? Get in the car.”

Whumpee froze. “What?”

“Get in my car. It’s freezing! You need to warm up or you’ll get pneumonia or something.”

“No, uh, thanks.” Whumpee said, hard to get words out their mouth was chattering so uncontrollably. “I’m— I’m—”

“Look, you’re not okay. We both know that. Don’t insult my intelligence by saying otherwise either. I’ll give you a lift into town, and maybe some socks. That’s all I’m offering. You’ll die before you reach the nearest town walking.”

Whumpee stared at Caretaker. Something like realisation flashed across Caretaker’s face, though it was hard to see in the dark, Whumpee could feel the shift.

“Oh. Right. I’m uh, like… I’m not a serial killer or anything.” He laughed then turned, his hand going to the back of his neck and rubbing at the skin. “Although that’s probably what a serial killer would say.”

Whumpee let out a breath of a laugh. “Most people would say I’m not a murderer, how many people you killed?”

Caretaker’s head snapped up. “No! No, I didn’t, I haven’t— ahahah, I’m not a murderer either, my hands are clean! Look.”

Whumpee felt their fear leave their body as they laughed again. God they felt so light when they laughed. It had been so long since he did so freely.

“Okay. I’ll take the lift.”

Caretaker smiled. A flash of teeth. “Great. Come on, I’m fucking freezing.”

Whumpee followed him to the car and climbed in the passenger side. He was right. The car was warm. When Caretaker climbed in and shut his door he blasted the heat on Whumpee’s face, body and feet. Whumpee melted into the warm leather like goo.

“Oh yeah. Heated seats are nice, huh?” Caretaker asked as he moved the gear stick and reversed before the car pulled off down the road again and they were driving.

“Really nice,” Whumpee hummed, watching the blackness of trees melt into one constant loop as they drove.

After a while Whumpee could feel a question buried beneath Caretaker’s tongue brewing. Maybe because he glanced at Whumpee every so often, catching Whumpee’s attention from the corner of their eye. Maybe it was because his fingers drummed a beat against the steering wheel.

Eventually, Caretaker plucked up the courage and asked: “Can I ask why you were out here on your own? With no shoes? And looking five minutes away from death?”

Whumpee swallowed, and it seemed like the warmth was sapped from their body. The thought of mentioning Whumper sent a shiver down their spine despite the heat, and they debated whether or not they should tell Caretaker.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Whumpee said, their voice quiet.

A pause. “Okay.”

A beat. “It’s just that it’s dangerous to be outside in this weather. And alone in the woods? You’d never know who you’d run into. There’s dangerous people out here,” Caretaker said.

I know, Whumpee thought, but didn’t say. Whumpee shrugged.

Caretaker shaked their head. “You’re lucky I found you,” Caretaker said with a little laugh. “I mean, I wouldn’t even be out here usually. I guess it’s fate that I happened upon you. I’m Caretaker by the way.”

“Whumpee,” Whumpee replied.

Caretaker smiled. “Nice to meet you Whumpee. Are you warm enough?”

“Yeah,” Whumpee said with a smile. They were warm now, and toasty.

“Thank god,” Caretaker said and turned down the heat. “Sorry, I run hot,” he said by way of apology.

Whumpee laughed. “You should have told me.”

“I had to thaw you out first. Don’t want you dying on me in the passenger seat.”

He kept glancing ag Whumpee from the corner of his eye. “Hey, you look— well, like shit, but exhausted. Just relax and try to get some rest. I’ll let you know when we’re in town and we can bring you to the police station or something, okay?”

Whumpee hummed their answer. They didn’t know if it was a yeah or no, because the mixture of the heat and the hum of the car lulled Whumpee into a heavy, deep sleep.

They woke when the car turned into a driveway, slowing down as it went, the bumps jostling Whumpee’s head and they opened their eyes, blinking awake.

“Ah, sorry for the road,” Caretaker said with a little laugh as they continued down a tree lined road. “I just have to stop off at a friend’s before we go to the town, if that’s okay? It’s uh… kinda the whole reason I’m out this way at all.”

“Yeah, no,” Whumpee said nodding and stretching as they sat up properly. “That’s fine.”

“Thanks, my friend isn’t exactly known for being patient.”

Whumpee laughed, thinking of friend. “We all have some friends like that. It’s all good.”

Caretaker laughed too, his shoulders relaxing a bit as they took the last turn into a drive. “Yeah. I guess we do.”

Only when the house came into view did Whumpee stiffen in their seat. They were… that was… fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Was Caretaker— were they? Oh god, Whumpee got in the car willingly, like an idiot.

Whumper is impatient. Whumpee knew that.

“You— you—” Whumpee stammered. Caretaker smiled over at Whumpee but his eyes immediately widened, suddenly concerned.

“Hey, Whumpee. It’s okay! It’s— this is just my friend’s house.”

“I— you… Whumper—”

“Whumper?” Caretaker asked, a furrow forming between his brows. “How do you know Whumper’s name?”

“I have to— you—” Whumpee stuttered, hands flailing as they reached for the handle of the door. The car was locked. Oh god. Oh fuck. “Please, please, don’t send me back there. I’ll be good. I promise! I promise!”

Whumpee yanked on the handle over and over. “Please!” They wailed, tears streaming down their cheeks. “Please, fuck… I only— I just—”

The car stopped suddenly. Caretaker’s foot slammed on the brake and the two of them lurched forwards. Whumpee gasped as they were flung back against the seat.

Caretaker turned their body to face Whumpee. “Whumpee! Look at me! Look at me, now!”

Whumpee flinched at the harsh tone but obeyed. Caretaker’s eyes were still wide with concern but now something else lingered behind that concern, something horrified and confused.

“Are you… are you saying you look like death because of Whumper?”

Whumpee shook in the heated seat beside Caretaker. If they said yes, what would Caretaker do? Bring them back, drag them by the hair? What if Whumper wasn’t bothered to go out and look for them so he called his friend to pick Whumpee up on the way?

A knock on the window and the pair jumped. Caretaker turned, swallowed and rolled the window down a fraction.

“Hey,” a smiling voice greeted them. Whumpee froze in their seat. That was… Whumper, oh god. He was here. It was only a matter of time before he saw and when he did— “I saw the lights but then you stopped up here, just came to make sure you didn’t have a puncture or anything.”

“No,” Caretaker said quickly. “Sorry, thought I saw a deer. You never know out here.”

Whumper laughed. Whumpee swallowed a whimper. “Yeah. You’re right. Okay then, see you back at the house. It’s freezing out. I’ll leave the door open, just let yourself in.”

Caretaker didn’t hesitate. He kept up his friendly demeanour as he spoke to Whumper like they were old friends, which they were, Whumpee had to remind themselves.

“Yeah, of course. Go. It’s supposed to go below zero today, so get inside. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Cool,” Whumper said and tapped the car twice before his footsteps disappeared into the darkness. Caretaker didn’t roll up the window until he was sure Whumper was gone.

The pair of them sat like icicles, too afraid to move and break the weighted silence around them. Eventually, Caretaker snapped out of it and rolled the window up. Then he straightened.

“Did Whumper hurt you?”

Whumpee was silent.

“You can tell me, Whumpee. If he hurt you we are backing out of this driveway right now and I am calling the police.”

Whumpee sniffled. Caretaker audibly swallowed. “Okay,” he said with a breath that reflected in the car. “Okay.”

Caretaker nodded. Then he grabbed the gear stick and put the car into reverse. Whumpee’s cried got louder and more strangled as the house disappeared from view again, and the realisation settled heavy in their chest.

They were actually escaping.

They did it.

They escaped from Whumper, and now Caretaker, Whumper’s friend, was about to call the police to help Whumpee. Ready to throw their years of friendship away for Whumpee.

“Thank you,” Whumpee weeped. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” they blubbered. With every expression of gratitude they felt the weight of relief crush them further and further into the seat.

“It’s okay,” Caretaker said. “You’re okay. You’re safe now, Whumpee. Whumper won’t hurt you again.”

Whumpee continued to cry as they pulled out onto the main road, until the heat blasted again, and Caretaker told them to go to sleep. Whumpee obeyed, for the first time in a long time, they went to sleep with a smile on their face, warm and safe.

[whumble-beeee]

You Look So Much Prettier This Way

Poor Stan. What will you do to get out of this predicament, I wonder?

What will you do when fighting back isn't even an option?

Stan sat stunned. He couldn't speak. He couldn't scream for help, he couldn't complain, he couldn't quip, he couldn't stand, he couldn't struggle, hell, he could barely even move.

He wanted to cry.

His face hurt from where they punched him. His neck hurt from where they grabbed him. His entire body hurt from where they'd manhandled him to the ground and pinned him down and tied him up, choking him, punching him if he dared flinch, or god forbid he struggled against their grasp.

And after all that excessive tying, the rope that scratched against his tender skin and pressed in on his ribcage in a suffocating embrace.

They'd gotten out the duct tape. His heart stuttered, eyes wide. He started to scream, he kicked out at them.

Big mistake. As soon as they finished they mortifying ordeal of wrapping his mouth in layer after layer of duct tape, they slammed him down onto his back and hoisted his legs into the air, bent them into the most odd position, and by the time Stan realized that had still more rope, they were already wrapping it around his ankles and his thighs.

Over and over.

He tried to scream. They kicked him. He screamed some more into the duct tape gag. More blows. Tears. It didn't stop. He couldn't even curl in on himself to protect his soft underbelly.

Then they plopped him on the floor.

Surrounded him.

Appraised him, hungry eyes searching over his body.

Stan couldn't hold back the tears anymore.

The one he thought to be the leader stepped foreward.

Knelt in front of him, cupped Stan's cheek in their hand.

Stan could barely even find the strength to jerk away, and when he did, they just grabbed his collar and yanked him back, made him stare right into their ruthless shark-like eyes. And there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop them.

"You look so much prettier this way," they lulled. "I wonder if your friends will agree when they come to find you."

* * * * * * * *

Whumptober 2024 | Day 7 | The Bee's Whumptober Masterlist

Stan is an OC that belongs to The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping!

Whumptober Taglist: @whumperofworlds | @whumptober-archive | @regular-whump-sfx

(If you wanna be added or subtracted from the taglist, don't be afraid to ask!)

[scumashling]

Caretaker and Whumpee's First Meal Together

Past non con drugging, former Whumpee Caretaker

Caretaker has gone to painstaking lengths to make sure every aspect of the dinner is perfect, from the meat to the crispy potatoes to the dinner cocktail. It is, after all, Whumpee's first real dinner since they got away from Whumper, and after everything they'd been put through, and how skittish Whumpee still is, Caretaker wants more then anything for it to be a good one. The dinner is going well. Whumpee talks with their hands a lot, bright eyed and friendly, if a little nervous, a tight smile across their face. All seems well, except as Caretaker digs in they notice Whumpee isn't. They seem distracted, less interested in eating the meal and more into cutting it up into bite sized pieces and shuffling them around the plate. Whumpee is also spending an unusual amount of time observing the glass that holds their drink, holding the beverage up to the light, only taking scant, small sips, as if trying to taste for something.

"Is there something wrong with the food?" Caretaker asks, crestfallen at the idea that the first meal they prepared had failed to impress. Whumpee's eyes dart up, the forced grin they'd been wearing all night stretching further.

"Oh no! You did such a good job, Caretaker! I'm very grateful." They reassure caretaker. Their voice does not sound genuine, words coming out in rapid fire as if they'd rehearsed them in their head. God damnit.

"If you don't like it, I can make-" Caretaker sighed. Whumpee's left hand slams downs on the table before Caretaker can finish, the right still clutching the glass in their hand tight. The way they slightly tremble shakes the table and sloshes their drink, voice quickening to a high pitch. Caretaker detects a strained note of panic, despite Whumpee's efforts to mask it.

"No, no no no, please don't bother yourself with that, you must've worked so hard and I'm so thankful for everything you've done-its just-I just-" Whumpee's eyes zip back to the glass in their right hand, studying the liquid inside.

It has been a long time since Caretaker had been with Whumper. Sometimes, the memories seem so far away that Caretaker wondered if the whole ordeal had happened to someone else, or if Caretaker had simply made the whole thing up. It didn't help that Caretaker had spent most of that horrible time drugged out of their mind, courtesy of Whumper, unable to move, barely conscious yet all to aware of what was happening at the same time as Whumper hurt them.

It suddenly dawns on Caretaker that Whumpee fascination with the glass might not be out of politeness in the face of an inedible meal. They were looking for signs, strange taste, a strange fizz, if the liquid was cloudy, searching for bits of pills or oil floating on the surface. Caretaker remembers doing the same.

Caretaker knows what they have to do. They stand up, striding to the other side of the table.

"Can I see your drink?"

Caretaker doesn't wait for Whumpee's permission before taking the glass from their hand, downing about half of the glass of the dark red liquid, and promptly plucking a bite sized piece of meat off their plate and eating it up. When Caretaker sat back down, they could see Whumpee's eyes had gone wide, their shoulders bunched in anticipation as if they expected Caretaker to explode. They both waited in silence for a minute, until Caretaker offered them a small smile.

"You should try some. It's really good. And you're so skinny."

When Caretaker failed to explode or collapse on the floor and Whumpee was sure it was safe, they exhaled, their shoulders relaxing, and they tentatively took piece of meat from the plate and began to chew. Their eyes immediately lit up in delight and they had another, and another, and another, washing each bite down with the drink until the whole meal was gone.

[unforgivenn]

The cold concrete floor sent shivers up Whumpee's spine as they lay there, wrists bound and heart pounding. Whumper's footsteps echoed in the dimly lit room, each step drawing closer, like the slow approach of impending doom.

"You thought you could escape," Whumper's voice dripped with malice, sending a chill down Whumpee's spine. "But you forget, I always find my prey."

Whumpee's breath hitched as Whumper crouched down beside them, a twisted grin etched on their face. The glint of a knife caught the faint light, sending a wave of terror through Whumpee's veins.

"I'm going to enjoy this," Whumper whispered, their breath hot against Whumpee's ear.

Fear consumed Whumpee as Whumper's hand tightened around the handle of the knife, anticipation hanging heavy in the air. In that moment, Whumpee knew there was no escape, only the icy grip of despair tightening around them, suffocating any hope of salvation.

[forwhump]

a/n; spoilers for the first three sentences : it’s been haaaaaaaard to always call silas “silas” because he calls himself “seven” for so much of the rest of the story that I get confused when I think about him & it alternates in my head LOL

tw/cw: captivity, medical torture, random acts of violence, gore, amputation, caning

living weapon whumpee

Asset Eleven Seventy Seven, they call him. 

Seven, he thinks of himself. 

Unfortunately, Seven has no will of his own. 

He spends a lot of consecutive time in that small, grey room, in that grey bed, under those grey sheets. Surgeons in black come and go to poke and prod at him — so do doctors, so do nurses, always in black. Seven’s hair is black; everything else is kinda grey, his clothes and his sheets and his pallor. One of his legs is a polished, silvery chrome. Everything else seems to be discoloured scar tissue. 

When he gets to leave the grey room, he gets muzzled with iron and taken further underground. They take him to spaces they call arenas, made to look like the wilderness or like cityscapes or desert landscapes, things Seven has never seen, things he doesn’t really understand. 

He doesn’t need to. They take him to these places, and they remove the muzzle. The shackles. 

They tell him to kill, so he does.

It’s fun. He’d be a filthy fuckin’ liar if he said it wasn’t. It’s the only bit of fun he has. It’s colourful, too. The arenas, too, colours Seven was unfamiliar with, but the colours of violence are his favourite. Splashes of red and pinks and yellows over the endless grey. He doesn’t care for bruising, the blues and the purples, the patterns of them. He doesn’t know why. He’s sure it’s something from before, something he doesn’t remember. 

He knows there was a before. They won’t tell him, and he couldn’t ask if he wanted to, but he’s sure there was. Doctors come to poke and prod at him. Soldiers come to escort him downstairs. Before they do, they muzzle him. They strap him down. Soldiers are always standing guard, hovering close when the doctors come to inspect him. They watch him, and they’re weary. He did something before, something probably horrible. He makes them uneasy. He doesn’t know why, but he likes that he does.  

Still, he does what they tell him to do. He sits in his little grey prison, and he kills when they tell him to kill. Time passes. He isn’t sure how much. 

The cityscape probably isn’t his favourite arena, but it’s where he’s most comfortable. There’s a lot of concrete, a lot of grey. It reminds him of home. 

The uniform they give him is black. It’s the only clothing they give him that’s properly fitted to him, a bulky silhouette that he imagines makes him look like a nightmare. Seven hears a lot of last words, and a lot of them are some version of what the hell are you?, or, amongst themselves, some version of what the hell is that thing? Or please, but that speaks less to Seven. 

Above him, hundreds of feet above him, massive fluorescent lights in the ceiling act as sunlight. The buildings are all hollow blocks of concrete, windows carved from the walls but hollow, emptied of glass. Seven is allowed weapons during these times, he’s allowed to inflict violence to his heart’s desire, but Seven’s never been allowed anything that might potentially show him his reflection. He couldn’t even begin to guess why. He also doesn’t care enough that he’s ever thought too hard about it. 

He doesn’t need his reflection, anyway. He knows well enough. He can see it in the way they always look at him. He can see it in the way the soldier looks up at him from the concrete, his helmet knocked away, his mask bunched up around his throat. He’s crying, and that always makes Seven smile. 

Slowly, he pulls his hands from the opened cavity of the other soldier’s stomach, shreds of tissue and his uniform. They wear black, like Silas. It’s almost funny. 

Even slower, Silas stands. He takes his time pulling his bloody hair back, tying it into a shitty knot at the nape of his neck with bloody hands. He toes the corpse at his feet over onto the open wound that was once his abdomen. Slower still, he steps over him. 

“What the hell are you?” The soldier snivels, pathetic, and Seven thinks, hah. 

He crouches next to him. With a shaking hand, the soldier reaches for his gun, and Seven catches him around the wrist. Crushes it. 

The soldier screams, flails with his other hand, and Seven takes him by that wrist, too. Braces his other hand against his ribcage. Pulls. The sound is as loud as any alarm, echoing off of concrete and metal, a crack and a wet, fleshy sort of sound as Seven severs his arm at the socket. He pulls it from his torso, threads of flesh and sinew that snap, veins pulled loose and stringy. 

The soldier doesn’t scream. The noise he makes is kinda soft and really wet. 

Seven digs his fingers into the open wound and he does scream, that time. With a grin, Seven holds him against the concrete and opens his throat with his fingernails. The soldier gurgles, something panicked, and Seven grins again as he pulls out a handful of flesh and his windpipe. 

He dies quickly. He dies messy. 

Seven stands. Wipes blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. Smears more blood over his face for his efforts. Steps over another body. 

There’s a specific target today. Seven doesn’t know why, what the point of any of this is, why they give him rules, sometimes, but it’s more to do than sit in a bland, grey room, so he does what they tell him to do. Today, he’s looking for somebody in particular. They’d had a picture of him, taken in front of a wall that looked a lot like any of the walls in the district. He was a particular threat, they said. Seven should be careful. Seven needs to do everything in his power to make sure that he dies. 

Seven finds him in an empty, grey building, one with a lot of windows, a lot of fluorescent sunlight. He’s bigger than the other soldiers have been. Noticeably. Not big like Seven is big, but he isn’t one of them, either. He’s somewhere in the middle, something between them. Seven starts to think he might be in for a better fight, and he’d be lying again if he said he hadn’t been itching for one. Slaughter is fun, but that’s because it’s his only fun. Monotony is monotony. 

He doesn’t get a fight at all. The soldier looks up at him, in a black uniform, but it’s different from the soldiers and it’s different from Seven, too. He looks at Seven different, too. He looks at him, and he looks at him for a long time. Seven doesn’t recognize the look on his face. He doesn’t say what the hell are you? or what the hell is that thing? 

He says, “Silas?” 

He says it with a sort of familiarity that stops Seven in his tracks. He doesn’t look tense, or like he’s scared of him at all. Seven doesn’t think he likes that. He thinks he’s disappointed. 

He closes the distance between them and takes him by the throat. The soldier flails, but not for a weapon; he grabs Seven around the wrist. 

“Silas!” He says loudly. “What are you doing?! It’s me!” 

He’s saying a lot of things Seven doesn’t know, but he says it like he should, and it makes him feel — Seven doesn’t know how it makes him feel. He doesn’t like it. He can’t quite breathe around it, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop. His lip pulls back from his teeth. 

“It’s me!” The soldier tries again. 

Seven lifts him off his feet. 

The soldier flails again. Grabs Seven’s forearm. “Silas,” he chokes out as his face starts to purple, “what are you doing? It’s me. It’s Hal.” 

Seven can’t explain why he does it, because he doesn’t think about it. It’s an instinct more than anything else, but with a snarl, he drops the soldier on his feet again. 

He inhales deeply, covering his quickly bruising throat with a shaking hand. “What the fuck was that?” He rasps. 

Seven snarls again. Takes a step back. 

The soldier watches him closely. His voice is getting rougher when he says, “what’s wrong with you? It’s me. It’s Hal.” 

Obviously, Seven doesn’t remember Hal, and he doesn’t like the way it’s making Hal look at him. There’s something doe eyed and pathetic about it, something pitying, and it makes Seven’s skin crawl with something like disgust and he doesn’t know why. His hands have been shaking since he woke up in that grey room but they shake a little worse with this. Again, he considers killing him. For some reason, he doesn’t. Takes another step back, instead. 

“It’s me,” he repeats, eyebrows pulling together in the middle, like he’s hopeful this time it’ll spark something. 

Seven angles his head. He doesn’t fuckin’ know. 

The soldier looks at him again. Studies his face. “Silas?” But his voice has gone unbearably soft. 

Seven’s shaking hands twitch. He takes another step back. 

The soldier drops his hand and Seven can hear him swallow. “You don’t know who I am?” 

Seven shakes his head once, just barely. 

“What the fuck?” He exhales softly. He pulls himself up a little straighter, looks at Seven a little closer, studies him like he’s looking to catch him in a lie. Seven doesn’t think he has it in himself to lie. Did he use to? 

Crushed, apparently, by whatever he finds in Seven’s face, the soldier exhales, “what the hell did they do to you, man?” 

But Seven doesn’t know. Seven doesn’t know fuckin’ anything, not before and not since. 

That feeling he doesn’t like, the one he can’t breathe around, the edges of it are sharp and they wedge under his ribcage and it hurts in a way that’s unfamiliar. Usually, these slaughters they send him on are senseless, violence for the sake of violence. All the soldiers killed in these places had been green, unprepared — they never stood a chance against Seven. It’s never even been close. 

Except this one. It’s bigger than the rest of them. It isn’t afraid of him. It remembers him, and it isn’t afraid of him. 

Maybe that’s what his problem is. Seven doesn’t remember a lot, but in all the grey time and slaughter he remembers, he’s never come across even a single person who hasn’t been scared of him. He doesn’t quite know what to do with that. What could he have done that the shadow of it is still splattered across the walls and ceilings of this place but this one, lone soldier isn’t still afraid of him? He looks disappointed, in fact. What does he know? 

What he says is, “we’ve been so worried about you, dude.” 

For some reason, it hurts under Seven’s ribcage just as much as the other thing. He can’t even begin to guess why it hurts. 

“You went to find Wren and you just disappeared,” he’s saying, and he says it with a sort of familiarity, like he’s already forgotten Seven has no idea what he’s talking about and Seven feels like he’s out of his element, Seven feels like he’s drowning. “You all just disappeared. Fuckin’ Point’s been gone, too. We thought —,” and he exhales sharply, “we knew something really fucked up had happened to you.” 

Seven snorts. He can’t help it. 

The soldier smiles, kind of sad, but he has a big smile, regardless. “I’m glad you’re not dead,” he says, and it feels like a punch to the chest for some reason. “Is Wren okay?” 

Seven tilts his head. 

“Wren,” the soldier says slowly. “Who’s been with you. Right?” 

A lot of people are around Seven, pretty constantly. He doesn’t know a single one of them by name. 

His face is falling again. “You have no idea what I’m talking about,” he realizes. Seven kinda shrugs, and he asks, “do you remember…anything?” 

He heaves a wide shoulder. The soldier exhales like Seven hit him. Seven’s already forgotten what he said his name was, and he couldn’t ask again. It’s guilty, the pain this time, and that surprises him. 

“Oh, man,” he says softly. “Wren’s gonna be so bummed.” 

The sunlight, leaking in through the windows, turns red. The bellow of the alarms start to pound, so loud it makes the soldier jump as Seven’s lip curls away from his teeth. He’s familiar, unfortunately, with the sirens. His time’s up. 

The soldiers swarm not seconds later, and Seven scoffs but kneels obediently to be muzzled and shackled. 

“Silas —” the soldier starts to cry, and then he’s gone, dragged from the grey building with his hands tied behind his back. 

“What did he say to you?” one of the soldiers hisses, urgent, but Seven couldn’t tell him if he wanted to. Wouldn’t, anyway. 

With a growl, he cracks the end of his gun into Seven’s mouth, and Seven quickly tilts his face to spit blood at him before the muzzle is pulled tightly over his face. He smiles beneath it. Makes sure his eyes crinkle the way the soldiers’ always do. 

Seven is taken from the arena, but not back to his grey room. He’s taken to a different grey room, stripped down to his grey, thermal pants and led into another grey room, so cramped Seven can’t stand up straight, has to duck his head. He gets shackled to the ground by his throat. They shackle his hands the same. They don’t remove the muzzle. They leave him there. 

Seven can’t say for how long. It feels like it’s a long time. It might be days. 

Eventually, a soldier joins him. “Did you remember?” He asks. 

Seven tips his head back, bored. Of course he didn’t remember. He doesn’t remember anything. 

The soldier curls and uncurls his fist. He says, “why didn’t you kill him?” 

Seven couldn’t answer that if he wanted to. First, he can’t speak. Second, he doesn’t know why he didn’t kill him. He could’ve; he was bigger than the other soldiers, but he wasn’t like Seven. Not even close. What did he say his name was? How would Seven have known him, if that guy wasn’t one of these soldiers? What the hell is that guy? What the hell is Seven, for that matter? 

The caged freak. Was he a soldier once? Was he like that guy? Why would they do this to him? What could he have done? 

The soldier clicks his tongue, unimpressed. He’s been leaning hard on a cane, one that he apparently doesn’t need. He shifts his weight onto his feet and swings it up onto his shoulder. 

Seven doesn’t know a lot of things, but he knows weapons. He thinks, ah, fuck. 

“When the captain gets back,” the soldier explains, “you’ll be disciplined properly. In the meantime,” he says, and he swings his cane into Silas’ back. He can feel the way his skin splits around the impact, but he doesn’t feel himself starting to bleed so much as his back just starts to feel wet. “You’ve been a bad dog,” he says. “Point’s going to be disappointed.” 

He swings the cane again. Hits almost the same spot, and Seven can feel the way his flesh splits, all the way through the meat of his back, a pain that resounds in his bones. 

It’s probably not supposed to, but it makes Seven think. The soldier strikes him again, a solid strike to the chest, and this time, a steel barb at the end of the cane sinks through Seven’s skin and pulls a chunk of meat from beneath his ribcage. 

It’s a pain that's really, oddly familiar, and it makes Seven think. He has a feeling they think that he doesn’t, that he’s incapable of conscious thought, and he can’t speak to tell them otherwise, but it isn't true. He’s left on his own so often he doesn’t do much else but think. He thinks, now, of how familiar this pain is, as the soldier swings again and skins a good portion of his back, peeling flesh back from tissue with a slick sound that’s almost as familiar. 

It seems like an overreaction, really. To skin him for his failure? It makes him think. They’re scared of him, much more scared of him than he realizes, probably more scared of him than he can properly wrap his head around until he knows what he’s done to these people, until he knows what it is they remember when they look at him. They’re scared of him, they don’t trust him, and the field test was a lot more than just a field test. It has to have been. It was something else, something bigger, and Seven failed. Seven disappointed them. They didn’t like what they saw. 

Why? 

He can’t ask, and he doesn’t get a lot more time to think about it. This soldier is just like the other ones, and he’s seeing something in Seven he doesn’t like. He’s trying to get a reaction out of him, and he isn’t getting one. Seven kneels, shackled to the floor, and bleeds quietly, bleeds without a word of complaint. 

The soldier doesn’t like that. He swings a little harder, swings the barbed end of the cane into Silas’ neck. Pulls his throat out. 

Seven finally does make a sound, an involuntary gurgle. He slumps forward, watching the blood shimmer around his knees, and he doesn’t think much at all as he watches the way the colour shines in the fluorescence. 

The soldier groans in frustration. “You used to be more fun,” he says. 

He hooks the end of the cane into the hollow of Seven’s throat. It sinks through shredded tissue, scrapes the bone of his jaw from the inside. 

It hurts for only a moment. 

Mercifully, then, Seven bleeds to death. 

When he wakes up again, in that bland, grey room, under those bland, grey sheets, his chest, his throat, and his arms are all bandaged. Beneath, he feels tender and sore. He can't remember why.

[whump-since-2010]

Hey

Anyone who cares, I'm not dead. - In fact, I'm looking for Whump tropes to implement

-

Whumpee hunched in her cage, like a gilded bird, pulling her legs up to her chest to cover the skin so different from everyone around her. Her master. He'd ordered her to stay still, silent. To temper her defiance and her appetite. She hardly knew what he meant, since she had shown incredible restraint in eating nothing other than what little she'd been given.

But as she stared through the bars, empty, hungry, soulful eyes watching the clock. Three days time until the grande ball. A stylist outside the cage, studying every inch of her body like she was a rare gem to be mounted on the wall. Her wings twitched, and she simply stared ahead as the woman crouched beside the cage.

She said nothing. For she had nothing valuable to say. She did nothing. For she had nothing valuable to do. She ate nothing. For she had nothing valuable to eat. She was nothing. For she had nothing valuable to be.

And so she was a trophy. Only not one for the wall just yet.

[withdrawingramen]

i think shame & its manifestations in whump is not talked about enough. like i love when whumpee is physically unable to tell caretaker about all they went through, not only because it is insanely distressing to relive but also because it's humiliating. 'how can someone be so cruel?' is another question, but we're also talking 'how did i let that happen to myself?' from whumpee's perspective. often times post something traumatizing whumpees develop this deep-seated feeling of hopelessness & helplessness & misguided anger which is just in sweet words not cool

because think about it, the whumpee could not stop anything from happening to them. there's always this notion of having to stand up for yourself, but whumpee didn't even get the chance to. who should you be angry at? whumper? the system? yourself?

the fact that it happened is so terribly real and if paired with the conditioning of whumper & possible victim blaming, the shame eventually turns into this twisted form of denial, where whumpee is unable to confront the fact that they were hurt so bad and it just turns into oh my god i hate that it happened to me. i want to erase that it all happened. i wish i could live just one day forgetting it all and wake up thinking what was i so stressed about? i wish i could walk past whumper and think 'who were they again'? nobody should know about this because i cant deal with it myself and i don't know what i'll do if it all goes out

yk what im talking abt?

[cpt-winters]

Battle Aftermath - *Team Leader Edition* ofc

Leader let out a shaky sigh as he cranked the shower knob, shuddering as the lukewarm spray hit him, water stinging the broken skin littered across his torso.

He closed his eyes, letting the pink-tainted water trickle down his grime-coated form. His shaky fingers ran across the dirt clinging to his forearm before his gaze fell to the tiled floor, watching the red spill down the drain. 

He should've tried harder.

Youngest needed him, and he couldn't- couldn't save them.

Leader turned his front to face the water, promising himself that was the reason for the moisture slinking down his cheeks as he stiffened his jaw.

His teammate's once pleading eyes still bore a hole through his brain, the gruesome imagery bled into his head, spilling across his thoughts.

Leader's temple ached as he let it fall against the tile in front of him, leaning his head against the wall while his throat tightened.

"Boss? Leader, you alright in there?"

Leader straightened to the unmistakable voice at the other side of the door, hissing at the jolt in his side from the sudden movement.

"Y-" He cleared his throat, the hoarseness of his voice intolerable to be heard over the running water. "Yeah. Yeah, all good," Leader called back, calm and unreadable as ever.

Or maybe not.

He could practically hear Teammate's frown from the next room with the resounding hesitance.

"..You sure?"

"Yes- Dammit!" Leader sucked in a shallow breath, refusing to let a sound escape him before regathering himself. "Just go."

A coppery taste pricked his tongue as he bit the inside of his cheek, stomach knotting as he waited for the footsteps outside to finally recede.

He was fine. He wasn't the one who- He was fine. And if everyone would stop asking about it, that would be just fucking great.

He was quick to stifle the first sob threatening the break through, quicker still to muffle the next he failed to. His vision blurred, shoulders shaking as he pushed the back of his bruised wrist to his mouth, refusing to let a single sound escape him.

1/3 (Part Two , Part Three)

[hurtwithallthecomfort]

Ok but imagine: Whumper finds Whumpee when they’re alone and kidnaps them, presumably for interrogation purposes. It’s agony, they’ve never felt pain like this before, and worst of all, nobody knows they’re gone. But, Whumpee is resilient, and they stick it out. Grit their teeth, and refuse to give any information. Then, maybe a few weeks later, Whumpee manages to crawl out by the skin of their teeth, wounds bleeding profusely. Seeking out the rest of the team is the best move here, asking for some medical help and some much needed comfort. Yet, Whumpee is stubborn, and believes they’re entirely self-sufficient. So, they stop off at some grimy hotel, patch themselves up so at least they won’t bleed out on the street, and head to HQ pretending that everything’s just fine.

By some miracle, Whumpee makes it back alive, and the team somehow believe in whatever horrible lie they made up to explain their absence. The team are rather mad at Whumpee for just disappearing on them, but it doesn’t matter now why they were gone, it just matters that they’re here, with perfect timing too. There’s a high-stakes mission, that surely the capable, reliable Whumpee is up for. A mission that Whumpee will have to practically crawl through, injuries far from healed, trying to keep up the act that everything is ok. And they better start praying to whatever’s out there that the mission doesn’t involve Whumper.

[holidayinhell]

CWs: carewhumper, dubcon touch

“Sorry ‘bout earlier.” 

Whumper waved an apple in front of Whumpee’s face, shiny, bright red and perfect. But Whumpee sat in place catatonically, staring straight forward at the wall behind Whumper.

“Hey. Look at me bud.” 

Whumpee paid him no mind.

The tall man tried to swallow his annoyance. He knew it was important for Whumpee to feel safe and relaxed right now, but it wasn’t in his nature to be so… understanding. He was the impatient type, and the silent act was his least favorite form of passive aggression. 

“Hellooooooo.”

Whumpee shot a poisonous look up to Whumper, grimacing.

Whumper raked his nails across Whumpee’s neck, dragging them into the delicate flesh. It wasn't enough to draw blood, but enough to force a sharp gasp as Whumpee recoiled, scrambling backward. 

Fuck! Goddamn it!!!! He lost his fucking temper again. He didn't mean to. Why does this keep happening?!

“Sorry. Oh, fuck. I shouldn’t-- shit, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you really act like you’re fucking sorry.” Whumpee spat sarcastically. His good arm clutched the fresh scratches below his ear. It hurt, but the pain was nowhere in the same league as his violently pulsating arm.

A tear rolled down Whumpee’s nose, landing with a sting on his broken wrist. He glanced down at the black-and-blue marks. Perfect handprints were seared into the skin there, an echo of Whumper’s unforgiving grip. He'd never forget the sickening crack when Whumper snapped it—sharp and hollow, like stepping on a brittle branch in the woods.

“Well, I uh, couldn’t find any gauze at the Penny Mart. But I got this bandana I can use to wrap around it though. I’ll make a sling thinggy or whatever.” Whumper hesitated for a moment before pulling a crumpled bandana from his jacket pocket.

“Aaannnnd… this is the best part.” He presented the captive with the red apple again. “I got this for you.”

“Woah.” 

“Right? Isn’t it crazy shiny?”

“Yeah.” Whumpee ran his fingers over the apple’s immaculate, shining flesh. “It really is.”

He hated how fascinated he was with a simple piece of fruit. Then again, how long had it been since Whumpee had eaten something that was actually grown from the earth? 

Hanging from its stem pinched between Whumper’s fingers, it rotated in the air slightly, and it was so red it practically glowed, shining like a Christmas ornament. For a moment, both men were strangely enamored with the perfection of the apple.

Just as Whumpee outstretched his hand to accept the small gift, the fruit fell to the floor, bouncing against the concrete with a dull thud.

“Goddamn it Whumpee.” Whumper muttered, voice low and frustrated. “I was tryna do somethin’ nice.”

“It’s okay.” Whumpee said numbly, retrieving the bisected chunks from the ground. The juices from inside the apple glistened under the light. 

“Huh. Almost expected it to be red on the inside, too.” Whumper anchored his head on Whumpee’s boney shoulder. He was pleased when Whumpee didn’t pull away, allowing him to rest his ear against his collarbone.

“So," Whumper said coolly, "do you still want it?”

“...yeah…”

“Mm, yeah, I’d eat it too.” Whumper growled into Whumpee’s ear. “Even smashed to pieces and ripped inside out.” 

Whumpee shifted on his feet, uncomfortably shrugging Whumper’s face off his shoulder. The man took a step back, eyes flickering over to Whumpee, his intense gaze tracing his body up and down, savoring the sight.

“Don’t do that.” Whumpee protectively shielded his broken wrist.

“Don’t do what?” Whumper laughed with a crooked smile, his voice teasing. “I was just sayin'. The inside of the apple is just as pretty as the outside. Maybe even more pretty. And ya know...” 

Whumpee didn’t know what to do when Whumper stepped into him, putting his mouth over the red scratch marks from earlier.

“I bet you’re like that too.” Whumper purred as he lapped at the skin. 

His tongue swirled over the scratches and glided up Whumpee’s neck until he met the fleshy lobe of his ear.

“It’ll be a nice day when I can finally rip you apart too. But I'll take good care of you 'til then.”

((more whump drabbles))

[inevitable-pretty-words]

Part 1, part 2

Content – intimate whumper, hero x villain, villain with magical powers, fantasy whump, psychological whump, memory alteration, forced submission, dub-con kissing

"I'll probably have to erase your memories. Just as a precaution" Villain's calm voice rang out in the small room as he paced back and forth, not even looking at Hero.

"You're joking right?!"

Hero didn't want his voice to sound so hysterical. He also didn't want to endure Villain's serious look any longer, which only made him more aware of what a terrible situation he was in.

His eyes lingered on random objects, desperately searching for a way out. But he didn't find it. The Villain was blocking his path to the door and Hero realized painfully that there was no chance of getting past him and escaping through the narrow corridor. Not when he's like this. Not now. The only exit was the window he was standing next to. His heart skipped a beat as he thought about what this meant for him, but still, against all reason, his hand slowly moved towards the window handle.

"I don't advise it. You'll break your legs. And then I will come down to you and erase your memories anyway. You will only suffer unnecessarily" Villain said in an almost completely indifferent tone of voice, but there was a hint of concern in it.

Hero snorted, even though he knew Villain was right. And he hated him for it. He also hated the concern in his voice. As if he ever cared about his life and happiness.

"So I should just let you do it, right? Do you realize how ridiculous you sound?!" Hero didn't want to scream, not again. But he couldn't help but be overcomed with emotions.

Villain stopped and looked at him for the first time since the incident.

"Yes. That will be better. For you. For me. I don't want to fight."

Villain continued to maintain his mask of indifference, and Hero hated the fact that he couldn't read his true emotions. He would have preferred anger because it was predictable, but now he had no idea what to expect.

"There must be another way. Anything else. I can stay silent and pretend I didn't see anything, I can..."

Villain interrupted him with a joyless laugh.

"We both know it won't work. You'll open your dirty mouth and blurt everything out at the end. Or worse, you'll try to help me. I won't let you do this." With each word, Villain got closer to Hero, who could no longer move back, pressed against the wall. He glanced out the window again, but quickly shook his head. The consequences would be too great.

So he risked looking into Villain's eyes and saw no uncertainty in them. He swallowed.

"I could at least try..." his voice was quieter this time, more shaky due to Villain's proximity. Great.

"Would you like to continue pretending to be a hero? It didn't work out last time."

Hero grimaced at the reference to recent events, but did not comment on his words, refusing to be provoked.

There was a sudden tension in the air, full of heavy memories that each of them preferred to keep silent for now.

“So you can see that I have no other choice, my dear,” Villain said after a long moment, breaking the silence.

Something about the way he said that endearment made Hero's heart skip a beat, but he quickly came to his senses, remembering his threat.

"You're an escapist, you know? You would do anything to avoid the consequences, to start over..."

Instead of the expected anger, Hero saw only calmness in Villain, with a hint of amusement at his feeble attempts to distract him to escape.

"What's wrong with escapism, hmm?" he replied, tucking a strand of hair behind Hero's ear.

Hero shuddered, his thoughts made no sense, and for a moment he focused only on the touch on his cheek, on the warmth of Villain's hand, on the knowledge that if only the situation was different, he could kiss him here and now.

"Don't try to avoid it," Villain whispered tenderly into his ear, aware of the effect it was having on him. "Just give up. Submit. It'll hurt you less than if I had to force you to do it."

But I don't want to have my memories deleted, Hero wanted to say, but the prepared words disappeared from his head as soon as Villain ran his hand through his hair. Hero sighed.

Villain suddenly pulled away to look into his eyes. Hero closed it in a sudden panic.

"What exactly do you want to delete? How many days?" he managed to say in a trembling voice.

"Just today," Villain assured him, smiling. "Removing more memories would affect you too much. And we don't want that, right?"

Hero just nodded, not noticing the strange gleam in Villain's eyes.

"And if you're going to forget anyway..." Villain approached him again and kissed him gently on the lips.

Hero had no idea what had just happened. His heart was racing and he felt that his cheeks were completely red. He kept repeating the question in his mind: why, why, why, why, why? But he received no answer.

Villain placed his hand on his blushed cheek again and stared into his eyes as if he wanted to remember the sight. And then he kissed him again, this time on the forehead.

"Sorry." Hero heard a quiet whisper and didn't know how to react. And if any of his reactions would have changed Villain's mind at all. Probably not.

That's why when Villain looked at him again, Hero didn't close his eyes.

A sharp, stabbing pain immediately shot through his head, and Hero couldn't help but hiss and crouch down as if it would protect him.

But Villain then moved his hand to his chin and forced him to straighten up and look him in the eye.

"You're unconsciously resisting, that's why it hurts. Stop it, Hero. Give up, enough of this fighting. It will be better for you this way" his sweet, calm voice made Hero start to calm down involuntarily. The feeling that he was going to cry disappeared. The pain subsided.

And then, as soon as he felt someone infiltrating his mind, searching through his memories, Hero submitted and everything went dark.