#you better start talking

[whumpypepsigal]

Whumptober 2022 | No. 25: SILENCE IS GOLDEN

lost voice | duct tape | “you better start talking.”

Mute (2018): “Stop the pain.”

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober day 25 — “You better start talking”

Sharp swerve from yesterday, we’re back to the pain everybody :)

sorry twi

Warnings: injury, little blood, torture sort of? some sort of nonconsensual touching (nothing inappropriate)

Ao3 link

————————————————————

Twilight awoke in a cell.

Which he probably should have been more concerned about, but this specific situation had happened to him enough that after the initial second or two of panic, he merely sighed, and began twiddling with the ropes tying him to the chair he was seated in.

At least he wasn’t a wolf.

He strained his wrists, trying to break the ropes with sheer force, but the ropes were thick, and knotted rather tight. He couldn’t shift his wrists barely at all, and they already felt a bit raw. Whoever had tied him up had done a good job of it.

Maybe he could move the chair? It was a heavy one, uncomfortable thick wood that he had a feeling would be difficult to drag with his hands and ankles tied, but he had to try something.

He’d just started to pull at it when the door handle rattled.

Twilight froze, and settled back down as if he hadn’t just been planning his imminent escape. The door creaked open, and a woman strode in, a large bodyguard-looking man staying in the doorway.

“Oh good, you’re awake. Now we can get started!” she smiled, and the look of it sent nothing but dread up Twilight’s spine. Smiles like that never boded well for anything.

The woman strode up to him, her dark robes swishing, and stared at him, raking her eyes across him in a way that had Twilight bristling. Her gaze paused on his forehead, and she hummed, tapping a finger to her chin.

“I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, and you’re going to answer them, alright?” she said with a smile. “As long as you answer truthfully, no harm will come to you.”

Twilight barely held in a sigh and inwardly braced himself. There was no way he was getting out of this without at least a couple bruises.

The woman strode up even closer to him then, and took his chin in her hand, giving him an intent look. She brushed a thumb over the marks near his eyes, and Twilight couldn’t help his sharp flinch.

“These marks on your face,” she said curiously, tilting his head to the side, “they’re from dark magic.”

“It’s not dark magic,” Twilight growled.

The woman smiled, pulling him closer. “He does speak! Well then, care to let me in on the secret of what kind of magic it is then?”

Twilight went silent once again.

The woman tittered out a laugh and gripped his chin a bit more tightly, forcing him to look her in the eyes.

“Perhaps you don’t realize who I am. I’m a... scientist of sorts. A collector, if you will, of unusual magic,” she said lightly, but there was a dark edge to her voice. “I run experiments on magic used by those such as yourself, and I’m in need of information on this.”

And she held up Twilight’s shadow crystal, dangling it in front of his face.

Twilight’s eyes widened, then narrowed, and he watched in silence as she ran a slow finger along the crystal, the curse seemingly ineffective against her.

Who was this woman?

“Now then. You better start talking,” she smiled, and the expression she made was somehow more terrifying then most of the monsters Twilight had fought for most of his career. But he kept his mouth shut, turning his head away and refusing to meet her eyes.

Her hand suddenly settled on his shoulder, his pelt and outer layers gone, so he could feel her nails press into his skin a bit when she tightened her grip.

“I asked you a question.”

Twilight closed his eyes and kept his mouth firmly shut.

A hand hit him square on the cheek, making him reel as his head was snapped to the side. He blinked open his eyes in surprise, and the woman stood in front of him with her face narrowed and cold.

“Tell me what sort of magic this is. It’s fascinating; dark magic yet not, a curse worn as a necklace as though it were a tool, you’re covered in its essence. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

She grabbed his chin again, staring at his face with eager eyes. “Or you.”

“I’m spoken for,” he said shortly, and the woman raised an eyebrow at the fact that he’d spoken again.

“Is that so? Well then you have quite a bit to lose if you don’t tell me what sort of magic it is you possess,” she said in a low voice, and Twilight closed his mouth again.

The woman’s eye twitched, and she motioned the man in the doorway forward.

“Tell me what you know,” she asked yet again, “or you’ll regret it.”

Twilight almost snorted. You’ll regret it? Oh brother, somebody needed to teach this woman some better threats—

Pain slammed into his stomach and he let out a surprised cough, the bodyguard’s fist having socked him right in the gut. He’d knocked the breath right out of him, and Twilight wheezed, trying to suck in some air.

The woman grabbed his chin again and pulled his face up to hers, staring at him coldly.

Her fingernails were biting into his skin, and he let out a quiet hiss of pain as she tightened her grip, feeling blood bead on his chin. She abruptly raked her fingernails across his jaw, and Twilight flinched.

“Tell me what you know,” she snapped, blood on her nails.

Twilight ignored the stinging on his jaw and the fact that breathing was still a bit tricky, and glared at her, refusing to say a word.

She let out an annoyed growl and motioned her bodyguard forwards again, who slammed the chair Twilight was on backwards onto the floor. He winced as it jarred him, then grunted as the man kicked him in ribs.

Due to the ropes he couldn’t even curl around and protect his head or any other of his more vulnerable parts, only lie there and try not to cry out as more and more hits landed all over him. By the time the man finally stopped, every bit of Twilight was sore and tender, and he winced as the woman kneeled down next to him and grabbed his face yet again.

“Still won’t talk?” she asked mildly, and Twilight bared his teeth at her.

She huffed and pulled something out from under her robes, a long, slender rod of sorts, with swirling crimson designs on the tip.

“This is a magic rod of my own creation,” she hummed, turning it so Twilight could see better. “I haven’t had the opportunity to test it out yet. It’s use is fairly simple: it takes any pain the recipient is suffering from and multiplies it by about... mm, ten I’d say.”

She rested the cold metal under Twilight’s chin, and he froze, unable to keep himself from nervously swallowing.

“One last time. Tell me about your magic.”

Twilight breathed in a steadying breath.

He couldn’t tell her what the shadow crystal was, what sort of magic it was made of. Who knew what she would do with it if she knew exactly how powerful it was? He had to protect Hyrule from this insane witch, and he was willing to do whatever it took to do so.

“Never,” Twilight spat.

And his entire body suddenly lit up with pain.

The stinging scratches on his chin turned into pure agony, clawing gashes of white-hot fire. The countless painful bruises on his person were multiplied, nearly every inch of him radiating pain, and one particularly bad spot where he had wondered if the bodyguard might have cracked a rib turned to an agony so intense Twilight nearly blacked out as he screamed.

It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds before it stopped, but it felt like ages before the metal was removed from his chin and the pain died back down.

Twilight went limp, breathing in short gasps as he tried to get ahold of himself, and shuddered when a hand caressed his cheek.

“Impressive. Most men would be nothing more than a sobbing mess by now,” the woman hummed, then idly traced the marks on his forehead. “We’re done here. If you aren’t willing to talk, perhaps one of your friends are.“

Twilight felt his blood freeze.

He’d thought he was the only one here. How many of the other heroes did she have? Was she doing the same to them? Trying to figure out their various magical abilities and artifacts? He could only hope she didn’t have them all, and pray she hadn’t gotten ahold of their more magical members like Time, or spirits forbid Hyrule—

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on them,” he gasped out, and the woman smiled.

“I won’t. So long as you answer my questions.”

“No,” Twilight spat, and ignoring how much everything hurt, pulled at his bonds again.

He had to protect the kingdom from this insane witch, but he also couldn’t allow her to hurt any of the others. He refused.

“They don’t know anything, you won’t get any information out of them,” he panted, breathing still a bit difficult. “It’s pointless to ask them about it.”

The woman continued to smile, and stood up, dropping his chin.

“Well then,” she said, voice gaining a thrum of excitement. “If you won’t tell me what your magic does, and nobody else knows, I’ll just have to find out for myself. Your friends will be helpful I’m sure.”

“No,” Twilight gasped out again, weakly struggling. Pure protective rage for the others swept through him, and he gained back a tiny measure of strength, thrashing in his bonds. The woman merely watched him, looking almost amused at his weak attempts.

Her smile grew as she left the room, sending a shudder up his spine.

“They’ll make excellent test subjects.”

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

whumptober 2022 - day 25      ↳ silence is golden / "you better start talking"

Wreck, 1x06

[cha-melodius]

napollya + "We’re dating and I didn’t know you were a mobster/biker" (except replace monster/biker with "spy" or "secret police")

(Double dipping with Whumptober No. 25: "You Better Start Talking", which seemed appropriate for a fic about secrets. This is a canon-adjacent AU in which Napoleon is still an art thief and Illya is still KGB, and they start a whirlwind international affair where neither of them knows what the other is. I hope you enjoy, anon!)

A Hard Habit to Break

Read it on AO3 (M, 5.9k)

Napoleon should probably be more alarmed by being unexpectedly dragged off into a secluded corner and kissed within an inch of his life, but he’s long since passed that point by now.

It is, of course, not entirely unexpected. He’d gotten the message, called into the operator at a particular hotel in Rome, that Peril would be in Geneva for a couple of days. Given that Napoleon had been languishing in Lyon, fishing for his next job, it had been a no-brainer to make the trip. Ok, so he pretty much drops everything whenever he gets a message from Peril, but that’s beside the point. Judging by the speed at which his Russian lover sometimes appears after he leaves his own message at the hotel, the feeling is more or less mutual.

He hadn’t known for sure that Peril would be at this party, though it’s the kind of thing he often showed up at, full of political bigwigs and their trophy wives. People like that love to brag to each other about their latest art acquisitions, which makes these shindigs valuable scouting grounds for Napoleon. He’ll probably come away with at least a half a dozen good prospects, depending on what his usual fence thinks of the market. What Peril does at these parties, given that he’s neither a political bigwig nor a trophy wife, Napoleon couldn’t guess, and he doesn’t really care. They have an arrangement that works for them, and asking those kinds of questions of each other certainly is not part of it.

What is part of it is large hands dug into his hair and gripping his hip, the solid press of a muscular body against his, and the scrape of stubble across his pulse point. It’s Peril tugging him into a quiet room and locking the door behind them before he drops to his knees. It’s Napoleon being fucked hard and fast past the oversensitivity, until he’s somehow coming again with Peril’s teeth sunk into his shoulder. It’s probably-too-soft kisses stolen as they attempt to set each other to rights again, and whispered promises not to let it go so long until the next time, and knowing that they have no way to keep them. It’s a long, lingering look as Peril disappears into the crowd again, trying to commit every line of his beautiful face to memory, as if every part of him isn’t already indelibly written on Napoleon’s skin.

It’s the fact that Napoleon is hopelessly in love with him, and he doesn’t even know his name.

~~~

The first time Illya sees him, he nearly walks face-first into a column.

It is, frankly, embarrassing. Illya is a spy, the KGB’s best, he shouldn’t be distracted by a pretty face. He shouldn’t be so affected by a laugh that somehow has the ability to turn his insides positively molten. But this man exists—sharp jaw, chin dimple, sparkling eyes, full lips quirked into a mischievous smile—and everything Illya should and shouldn’t be doing apparently goes right out the window. He has a job to do tonight, contacts to make, intelligence to gather, and yet he can’t seem to keep his eyes from seeking out the dark-haired man in the immaculately tailored grey and blue plaid suit. His attention does not go unnoticed, which is also embarrassing. Illya has spent most of his life watching people without them being aware of it, but this man clocks him almost immediately. Maybe it’s just that he also seems to be watching Illya. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s not polite to stare?” teases a smooth voice from beside him, and Illya doesn’t have to turn to know it’s the dark-haired man. Just when Illya thought this situation couldn’t get any worse, it does: he’s an American.

It’s late, now, the evening winding down, and Illya normally would have left hours ago but something had kept him there. Fine, there’s no use denying it: he’d lingered because the other man was still there, chatting up young heiresses and charming diamond-encrusted septuagenarians. Why Illya had stayed was another question altogether, because he hadn’t intended on making contact with the man; there was no operational reason for him to do so, and no personal reason he could justify. Still, leaving before him felt impossible, so Illya hung back and nursed the vodka he’d allowed himself once his job that night was done.

He hadn’t banked on the man approaching him, though. Illya was, typically, nothing if not unapproachable.

“It seems your mother also did not teach you this, Cowboy,” Illya counters, watching him carefully and trying to ignore the way his stomach swoops when the American grins. He’s not sure where the nickname comes from, nor why it seems to fit despite the fact that this man could not be farther from a cowboy with his sharp suit and carefully coiffed hair.

“Cowboy,” he muses as he tips his head like he’s turning the word over in his mind. “Haven’t gotten that one before.” He pauses, and if his earlier attention had sent a thrill through Illya’s veins, getting the full brunt of it is intoxicating. “I suppose it’s not unexpected, given the source. Whatever could bring the Red Peril to a fancy gala in Rome?”

“Work,” Illya answers simply. “And you?”

Cowboy’s smirk sharpens. “Oh, you know. The same.”

As Illya suspected, there is more to him than meets the eye. Whatever he does, he’s not about to go around advertising it, which Illya can certainly understand. It’s possible that he might be a spy himself, but there’s too much flash to him, too much indulgence. This is a man who is too used to luxury and getting what he wants, and in Illya’s experience men like that have no interest in intelligence work. There are unfathomable depths in those blue eyes—one of them, with a splotch of brown—but whatever they’re hiding, it’s not state secrets. Illya feels confident about that. Still, that’s no excuse for what happens next.

“You know, I’ve got a bottle of very nice Scotch back in my room,” Cowboy says, eyeing him slyly. “It would be a shame to drink it alone.”

“It seemed to me that you were not lacking in potential companions.”

“None of them were so… intriguing.”

“It is late,” is Illya’s token protest. He can tell that it comes out about as convincingly as he attempts to make it, which is to say, not very.

Cowboy sidles closer, close enough that Illya can smell the warm spices of his cologne, and looks up at him through long, dark eyelashes. “Are you going to make me beg?” he asks in a low voice thick with innuendo, and something impossibly white-hot flames up deep in Illya’s gut.

Fuck, this is a terrible idea. A worse one is how he lets Cowboy back him up against the wall in the elevator, leaving only centimeters between their bodies, his warm breath ghosting across Illya’s skin as his mouth skims teasingly along the edge of his jaw, achingly close but never quite where Illya wants him. Illya’s eyelids flutter closed and he closes his hand in a fist, vainly trying to get a grip on himself.

“You are,” Cowboy murmurs, “quite the specimen, as I’m sure you’re aware. Christ, I wanted you the moment I saw you.” He pauses, and pulls back just enough to look Illya in the eye. “Especially since it was obvious you wanted me, too.”

That should be distressing, to say the least. Instead, it’s exhilarating. They haven’t exchanged names, never even asked each other for them, and yet Illya feels like the American sees him like no one else. Yes, Illya wants him, and for once in his life, he’s not going to deny himself. Maybe Cowboy likes to tease; Illya plays no such games. He closes the remaining gap between them and captures his lips in a blistering kiss, immediately deep and hard and desperate, and Cowboy makes pleased noise low in his throat before returning it with equal fervor.

The drinks are forgotten, at least until after they’ve taken each other apart, until after Illya has, in fact, made him beg in the most delicious way possible, the broken oh christ, Peril on his lips as he comes sending Illya over the edge after him. Once they’ve come back down to Earth and cleaned themselves up, Illya expects that’s that, but Cowboy surprises him by disappearing from the bedroom, still naked, and reappearing moments later with a crystal decanter and two tumblers.

“You are offering me a drink? Now?” Illya asks stupidly, even as Cowboy pours two glasses of the brown liquor.

“Still a shame to drink it alone,” Cowboy replies with a shrug. He hands one tumbler to Illya and sets the decanter on the side table, then pushes Illya back down onto the bed and settles himself right in Illya’s lap, knees straddling his hips.

“I see,” Illya says, though he’s not sure he does. His free hand comes up almost automatically to grasp Cowboy’s hip, and despite their recent activities he feels his spent cock twitch in interest at his proximity again. “And then?”

Cowboy quirks an eyebrow at him as he takes a sip of his whisky, then kisses Illya deeply again, the slow, sensuous kisses more intoxicating than the sweet, smoky Scotch on his tongue. “Then,” he murmurs, smiling against Illya’s lips, “we’ll see.”

~~~

Napoleon isn’t sure what possessed him to leave a message at the hotel in Rome; in his world, impulsive nights of passion don’t usually result in trying to find each other later, no matter how mind-blowing the sex had been. Because it had been, truly, and to say he wouldn’t mind another such tryst would be putting it mildly. He wasn’t, however, in the habit of giving out information on his whereabouts, much less something like a phone number. He had a feeling Peril wouldn’t have used it, anyway. Instead he’d just told the operator at the hotel that if anyone called to ask after him, he’d be in Paris in two weeks time. He hadn’t even given a time or place, just figured that if fate wanted to draw them together again it would, or something. Maybe he just didn’t want to seem too desperate.

He hadn’t expected anything to come of it, but then he’d seen a familiar figure standing on Pont Neuf two weeks later, tall and windswept and so dashingly handsome it should be illegal. Not that Napoleon is particularly concerned with obeying laws. That had been the real start of their whirlwind affair, meeting up in cities around the world, sometimes for an evening together, sometimes for a mere few stolen moments. More than a year later, he still doesn’t know what most people would consider the basics about the Russian, and yet Napoleon would argue he knows everything he needs to. He knows that Peril is brilliant, and resourceful, and has a razor-sharp sense of humor that can leave Napoleon in stitches. That he’s a voracious reader and can debate the finer points of everything from classic Russian literature to pulpy sci-fi, but is stumped when it comes to popular music. That he’s deadly serious during a chess game but surprisingly playful in the bedroom. That sometimes he calls Napoleon solnishko instead of Cowboy and holds him like he never wants to let go.

He always has to, though, in the end.

“Mm, you should call in sick,” Napoleon murmurs, his voice still deep and raspy with sleep, and underneath him, Peril snorts in response. Even if they don’t have any idea what each other does, they both know they don’t have the kind of jobs you call in sick to. “Do you ever get any days off?”

Peril hums softly, and for a moment Napoleon thinks he won’t answer. “No. Not really.”

“Not even for these?” Napoleon asks as he trails a finger along a scar arcing across Peril’s shoulder. It’s a new one, still pink against his pale skin; Napoleon had frowned disapprovingly at the stitches when Peril had shown up with them a few weeks ago.

“I think you would not like it if I got kind of injury that gives days off.”

“You’re probably right about that,” Napoleon sighs, before burying his face half in Peril’s chest and admitting, “I wish we had more time.” It’s not exactly what he wants to say, that he doesn’t want Peril to leave, that he misses him too much when they’re apart, but it’s close enough.

“Yes,” Peril says, and somehow, Napoleon gets the feeling that he’s agreeing with everything he left unsaid as well. “Me too.”

Spending the night together—the whole night, and waking in each others arms—is probably a bad habit, but a hard one to break. Their relationship has limits, which are for both of their benefits, and which have been made more explicit over the time that they’ve been lovers. There are things they don’t ask about, discussions they don’t have, like how they both know that this doesn’t have an end date, but it doesn’t have a future, either.

Wherever he has to get to must not be too pressing, because he lets Napoleon push him into the mattress and kiss him deeply. There is heat there, but smoldering embers rather than a blaze; their movements hold no urgency, just the languid roll of their bodies together and the slow exploration of every inch of each other’s mouths, as if they were not already experts on the topography. They linger in bed, just being together, and Napoleon orders breakfast to be sent up to the hotel room during a lull between kisses in a last-ditch effort to keep him a little longer. Eventually, inevitably, Peril has to go, though.

“Probably going to be in Seville in a couple of weeks,” Napoleon offers as he walks Peril to the door, where he takes the opportunity to drag him into another lingering kiss as they pause.

A pleased hum rumbles in Peril’s chest, and he smiles into it. “I’ll do my best, Cowboy.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask,” Napoleon replies lightheartedly, even though he wants to ask for so, so much more.

~~~~

When he gets the call, Illya is in Lisbon and wrapping up an operation a couple of days early in the hopes that he might get away to Seville without the KGB realizing he’s done so. He’s started pushing the limits of what he might get away with to be with Cowboy, taking bigger risks, and he finds it hard to feel bad about it. For the first time since he enlisted, he’s started wondering what it would be like to have a life outside the KGB. Not that he believes he’d ever be able to leave, but… it doesn’t hurt to dream a little, he thinks.

Until it does.

He ends up in Seville anyway, there to clean up a mess that two junior operatives had made in what should have been a simple information extraction. All they had to do is break into a vault and steal the files, yet somehow they had ended up taking someone captive, an American. Moscow feared CIA involvement and didn’t trust the other agents to find out without triggering a series of retaliatory acts neither agency could afford, so they sent Illya. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can take care of this and still have time to find Cowboy.

“They told me you found him in the vault,” Illya says to the two visibly nervous agents, barely holding back from pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“Yes, sir. He was there when we arrived,” one of them—Illya has not bothered to learn their names—confirms. “We tried to question him, but he refuses to say who he is working for.”

“What does he say?” The two agents exchange a look. “Not much, sir.”

Illya begins to understand why Moscow sent him when he sees the captive. They are holding him in an old train car in an abandoned rail yard outside of the city, tied very thoroughly to a chair inside, as if he has tried (and nearly succeeded) in escaping before. Based on his condition, the two agents have clearly already attempted to extract the information the more usual ways, and if they gained nothing then the man must have something worth hiding. Now, though, whatever fight he possessed seems to have gone out of him; he sits slumped forward in the chair, as far as his bindings will allow him, his head of dark curls drooping towards his knees. His all-black clothes no doubt mask much of the damage inflicted by the other agents, but there are drops of blood littering the floor around him, and his left shoulder is hanging at an odd angle

Illya stands in front of him, arms folded in front of his chest. “They tell me you do not want to talk.”

The man’s head snaps up immediately at his voice, blue eyes blown impossibly wide in shock, and Illya only just doesn’t voice his own distress at the bruised face that greets him.

Cowboy.

It’s not possible. It shouldn’t be possible. Cowboy isn’t— he isn’t— 

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Illya doesn’t know who he is, not really. Or rather— Illya likes to think he knows who the man in front of him is, but he doesn’t know what he is. All those months ago he made a gamble that Cowboy wasn’t a spy. He supposes he’s about to find out once and for all. Before him, Cowboy’s eyes slide to the side, to the junior agents lurking in the corner of the room. They’d asked to watch, wanted to see a senior agent, the KGB’s best, at work. Illya might laugh if everything wasn’t so indescribably terrible.

“Right, well,” Cowboy says slowly, his voice rough. Illya tries not to think about what made it that way. It’s hard enough to look at his bruised face, or how his split lips quirk upward at one side—lips that Illya had delighted in kissing the last time they’d been in the same room. “Not much to say, is there?”

Distantly, Illya thinks he should have known Cowboy would be a sarcastic shit, even under torture. “I think you should reconsider that position.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Your life,” Illya answers honestly, trying to ignore the fear that flicker through the other man’s eyes. His hands curl automatically into fists against the tremors that threaten, and he takes a steadying breath. “You should start talking, Cowboy.”

Well, shit. That was an unfortunate slip. He doesn’t glance back at the other agents, doesn’t want to know what they might think of the unexpected nickname. Maybe they’ll just write it off as one of Illya’s quirks. He’s well enough known for being a bit odd as it is.

Cowboy looks back at the other agents and his tongue slips out to lick his parched lips before his gaze snaps back to Illya. “Just you,” he whispers. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. But not them.”

Illya knows it will raise questions, that his superiors will want to know why he didn’t follow protocol and he won��t be able to tell them the truth. He also knows that, as he has been from the start, Cowboy will always be the exception, the one person who can manage to make an unfailingly obedient KGB agent betray his orders. There is no question of what he is about to do, and it is not what it expected of him.

“Illya? Sir?” one of the agents prompts.

Illya sees the moment that Cowboy registers his name. It’s another thing he’ll never be able to get back, another reason that tonight spells the end of whatever they had before. He closes his eyes for a moment, then turns toward the agents. “Leave us.”

“But sir, shouldn’t we—”

“You have time-sensitive information to deliver, no?” Illya interrupts. “This”—he gestures vaguely toward Cowboy—“is a mess that could have been avoided. You are lucky I am here to clean it up so you can complete your mission. You are dismissed.”

He can practically sense the agents’ unasked questions, but they’re too well trained not to follow orders. With matching nods, they exit the train car and disappear into the night. Illya cannot afford to take any chances; he follows them, making sure they don’t see him, until he’s sure they’re not circling back around to monitor his interrogation. That’s what he would do, after all, if a fellow agent was acting as strangely as he is. Fortunately, these agents are clearly not made of the same stuff.

The moment he steps back into the train car, he can feel Cowboy’s eyes on him, watching his every movement. Cataloging all this new information and putting it together with what he knows about Illya, which, as it turns out, is quite a bit. Far more than anyone one person should know. Illya can’t bring himself to meet his gaze, not yet, and neither of them seem willing to end the heavy silence that’s settled over them, only broken by the sound of Illya’s footfalls ringing in the hollow space. He steps around the backside of the chair and pulls out his knife, slicing through the bonds in one smooth motion, before returning to kneel in front of the chair to cut the ropes at his ankles.

“So. You’re… what? KGB?” Cowboy finally asks, breaking the tension. 

He rubs at his abrasions on his wrists, and it is all Illya can do not to reach out for him. Every part of him wants nothing more than to draw him close and press soothing kisses to the raw skin. Instead, he sits back on his heels, putting more space between them. Maybe he was always going to let Cowboy go, but that doesn’t mean he can afford not to find out what’s really going on here. Illya forces himself to look up and meet his eyes, their innate curiosity and spark tempered by a heartbreaking layer of wariness and fear. Even if Illya could risk letting this continue afterward—which he certainly cannot—surely there is no way that Cowboy will ever look at him again the way he used to.

“Cowboy,” he says quietly instead of answering the question. “Why were you in vault? You are working for the Americans? CIA?”

“You know—” Cowboy starts indignantly, before cutting himself off with a huff. “Of course not.”

“And I am just supposed to believe you?”

“Yes. Yes, Peril, because it’s the truth.” He makes an abortive movement, reaching out as if he’s wants to take Illya’s face in his hand, but apparently thinks better of it. “It’s the truth.”

Illya has to close his eyes in a desperate bid not to give himself away. He is still kneeling at the other man’s feet, like a supplicant come to worship at the altar of his person, praying for a measure of grace. As if Cowboy, beaten and bloody, is still the one with all the power in this scenario. In a way, he is. The effect that this man has on him is frankly terrifying. 

“So answer the question. Why were you there?” he forces out through gritted teeth.

No answer. The only thing he can do now is walk away, if indeed he can manage that. Mechanically, he gets to his feet, slips his knife back into his pocket, and starts to move toward the door.

“Illya, wait,” Cowboy calls after him, Illya’s name on his lips ringing deafeningly in the small space. He turns back—what else can he do?—to see a surprising amount of desperation written on Cowboy’s face. Perhaps he thinks it’s a trick. Perhaps he doesn’t realize that he could leave at any time and Illya would not stop him. He doesn’t have to give himself away. And yet, he does. “Look, I’m an art thief, ok? I was there to steal a painting, not files or secrets.”

Illya blinks at him. “A thief.”

“Yeah. The best in the business,” he says, a shadow of his cocksure smirk flickering onto his lips.

“Why did you not say so earlier?”

“You don’t stay a thief very long if you go around telling just anyone.”

Illya lets out a huff of exasperation. “You also do not if you are dead.”

“By those two?” Cowboy counters, grinning now, as he shrugs his good shoulder. “Nah.”

His attempt at rising from the chair puts a damper on that insouciant confidence, though; he sways as he gets to his feet, and Illya has closed the gap between them and caught him around the waist before he even knows he’s moving. For a moment they just stand there in each other’s arms, achingly close once again and yet somehow not close enough.

“I have to admit I was a little worried about the guy they said they were bringing in, though,” Cowboy says into the space between them, and even though he clearly means it to come out as a joke, it very definitely is not.

“You should have been,” Illya murmurs back. His fingers itch to push back the disheveled curls from Cowboy’s forehead, and he wants nothing more than kiss him—one last kiss, before the end—but he knows if he starts he’ll never be able to stop. “Now you finally see I am not who you thought I was.”

Cowboy scoffs. “I see nothing of the sort. If you think anything about this has changed the way I feel about you, that I don’t—”

“Cowboy,” Illya interrupts before he says what Illya fears he might. He carefully extracts himself, leaving a steadying hand on Cowboy’s arm but restoring the distance he so carefully needs. “Can you walk?”

Cowboy stares at him for a moment, the realization of what Illya intends clearly dawning on him. “Yeah,” he croaks out.

“Good. You should see a doctor, tell them you got robbed. Several men beat you up, took your wallet,” Illya tells him brusquely, not meeting his eyes. “The chance that you will run into KGB again is low.”

“And what about you?” Cowboy asks. Illya pretends he doesn’t hear the tremor in his voice. “Will I see you again?”

Illya is silent, because the only possible answer is one he cannot put voice to. “Try to stay out of trouble, Cowboy,” he says instead, his own voice far too thick with suppressed emotion. Then, finally, he tears himself away and walks to the door.

“Illya,” Cowboy says again, just before he reaches it, and against his better judgement, Illya stops to look back. “My name is Napoleon.”

~~~~

It’s been two months since Seville. Two months since he’s heard anything from Peril—Illya, he reminds himself, turning the name over in his head. He’d left Napoleon with little else, beaten and broken in more ways than one. The bruises and the dislocated shoulder have long since healed, but his heart certainly has not. He can just about hear the pity in the operator’s voice whenever he calls the hotel in Rome now. It’s what he expected, of course, but he still hasn’t fully been able to cut the thread of hope that lingers on within him. Maybe if he just gives Illya enough time. Maybe things don’t have to end this way.

Maybe he should stop calling.

Napoleon can’t do it, though. He keeps on leaving messages as the weeks spell onward, though the gaps between them get longer and longer. He does a few jobs and strikes up an unlikely friendship with a mechanic in East Berlin who helps him out of a jam in her absurdly souped up car. Napoleon’s exceptionally good at smuggling stuff across the Wall, so he brings her all kinds of contraband and she doesn’t ask questions when he falls into his more sullen moods, just lets him stay at her shop and makes sure he drinks something that isn’t whiskey. He tries to keep busy, to keep his mind off it, but it doesn’t really work.

It’s five months since Seville, and Napoleon is back in Rome for a job. Because apparently he hates himself, he stays at the Plaza, room 807. It’s been nearly two years since that fateful day when he’d picked up the mysterious stranger who would upend his life in the most wonderful and terrible ways possible, and the room hasn’t changed a bit. The same ornate decorations, the same bowl of fruit, the same bedspread that Illya had pressed him into and taken him apart for the very first time. Well, maybe not the same one. They might have ruined that one.

This was a mistake. He’d come here hoping for some kind of closure, to put a bookend on that part of his life and move forward, but instead it’s more like picking a scab. The pain is just as sharp as it had been five months ago, the blood just as thick and hot as it oozes from the wound.

He’s contemplating either drinking the contents of the bar cart or going out to find company for the first time in two years—perhaps both—when there’s a knock at the door. He assumes it must be one of the hotel staff, because no one else would be visiting him, so he calls out for them to come in. Instead, the knock sounds again, as if they don’t have a key. With a sigh, Napoleon drags himself over to the door and pulls it open, then finds himself paralyzed when he sees who is on the other side.

“Peril?” Napoleon breathes, not sure he’s not imagining him.

Illya stands before him in a dark turtleneck and classic grey slacks, with a bottle of something cradled in his hands and a tiny, hopeful smile on his lips. “Same hotel room,” he says, a little tentatively. “I did not realize you were so sentimental, Cowboy.”

“What are you doing here?”

Illya’s smile falters, and Napoleon hates it, but he also can’t afford to let himself jump to conclusions. Sure, things look promising, but if Illya is just here for one last hurrah, to put things finally, unequivocally, to an end… well, he’s not sure he’d survive it this time.

“Can I come in?” Illya asks. He hefts the bottle in his hands and holds it out. “Brought a bottle of very nice Scotch. It would be a shame to drink it alone.”

Something clenches in Napoleon’s chest. “Ok,” he agrees as he accepts the whiskey, even though he probably shouldn’t. “Yeah, why not.”

He retreats into the room and heads to the bar for tumblers, trying to ignore the way his hand trembles, just a little, as he pours. The door closes with a soft snick and then Illya is standing behind him, close enough that Napoleon can smell his cologne. He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath before he turns back. Illya looks a little off-kilter when Napoleon thrusts a glass into his hand, like he wanted to do something else, but he accepts the drink anyway and takes a sizable sip before almost immediately setting it to the side.

“I never apologized for what happened in Seville.”

“And after?”

Illya flinches, but defiance flickers in his gaze. “You could not have expected any different. Both of us knew this was not supposed to last forever. It was built on not knowing what each other was.”

“If you think that after all this time that I don’t know you—” Napoleon starts hotly.

“Napoleon,” Illya interrupts, his voice soft, and Napoleon abruptly feels like all the air has been knocked out of him at the sound of his name on Illya’s tongue. Moving slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull away, Illya reaches up to gently brush his fingers over Napoleon’s cheek. “You are the only one who does.”

Napoleon wants to be stronger, but he can’t resist turning his face into Illya’s palm, can’t keep himself from pressing his lips to the swell of his thumb. That’s all it takes, apparently, because then he’s being pulled into a desperate kiss, and there is no hope on this planet or any other of him not melting into it. Illya kisses him with aching care and tenderness, with a softness that shouldn’t be possible, the kind of kiss that Napoleon would call a declaration if he didn’t know better. He’s missed this so much, and for a moment he just lets himself get lost in it, in the feeling that, finally, he is whole again.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? He’s not whole, and he won’t be whole again if this goes the way he assumes it will.

Napoleon forces himself to pull back and takes a deep, shuddery breath before he looks up at Illya again. “What are we doing, Illya?” he asks, searching his eyes for answers he both hopes for and fears. “If this was always meant to end, then why are you here?”

“Because I do not care what this was meant to be. I only care what it is,” Illya says. “I only know that I tried to give you up these past months and it nearly broke me.” He ducks his head to press a gentle kiss to Napoleon’s lips as he threads his fingers into his curls. “I am in love with you, Napoleon, and I finally understand that nothing matters more than that.”

“Oh,” Napoleon breathes, stunned. “What about the KGB?”

“I did not say it would be easy,” Illya cautions, “but KGB will not be forever. This is forever, for me.” At that, his expression goes cautious. “If it is for you.”

“I think it always was,” Napoleon confesses. “Ever since I left that very first message.“

It is Illya’s turn to look stunned. “Since the beginning?”

“Yeah,” Napoleon confirms, “the whole time. It’s the truth!” he adds with a laugh when Illya narrows his eyes in playful suspicion.

“Have you ever considered covert intelligence? You would make good spy, Cowboy.”

“I may not be particularly patriotic, but I’m not defecting, darling.”

Illya lets out a huff at him, shaking his head. “Not KGB,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate until Napoleon quirks a questioning eyebrow at him. “I was approached after recent mission by former British Naval Intelligence. He wants to start independent agency. Spirit of international cooperation or something like that.”

“Will do you it?”

“Maybe,” Illya shrugs. “You should meet him.”

“You really think he’d want to recruit an art thief?” Napoleon asks skeptically. It’s almost laughable to think about: him, a spy. Giving up a lucrative, if illegal, career and going straight. Well, straight-ish. Somewhat astoundingly, he is actually thinking about it, though. After all, if it meant they could be together all the time, rather than subsisting on stolen moments… well, that’s hardly a choice at all.

“I think you would be surprised, Cowboy,” Illya tells him, a carefully encouraging expression on his face.

“But what if I absolutely hate working with you, Peril?” Napoleon teases. “You are always complaining that I talk too—mmphf!”

His words are interrupted as Illya drags him into a kiss—one of his favorite methods of shutting him up—but even as he gives himself over to the delicious pleasure of it again, the thought lingers in the back of his mind: maybe, just maybe, Illya might be on to something.

[themidnightguardian]

Day 25: "You better start talking" -- Sasuke & Naruto

Uchiha Sasuke & Uzumaki Naruto | AU: they time traveled back to their genin days | Content Warnings: kidnapping, threats and implied violence, non-graphic implied murder

Whumptober Masterlist

---

Sasuke had seen some shit in his life. He knew that. The Massacre. Itachi torturing him. Having an insane snake-man abduct him and groom him. Killing said insane snake-man—mostly—and then getting involved with the Akatsuki. The entire bullshit that was the Fourth War. Zetsu. Kaguya.

When he and Naruto had made it to the end of the world and decided it wasn’t good enough—when they’d decided to go back and fix things—Sasuke had thought that would be the end of the shit hand he’d been dealt.

They couldn’t stop everything. They’d only had enough power to go back to the day before team assignments and no further. But it would be enough to stop the total destruction of the world as they knew it. It would be enough to keep their precious people safe—enough to pull Itachi back from the edge of his martyr complex, enough to keep Team 7 together and alive. Just…enough.

And this time, Sasuke told himself, without losing himself to the anger and hurt and trauma, he wouldn’t run away. He would stay, and actually have time with Naruto. Time they’d been cheated of during the war.

Just as soon as I get him back.

Because some poor miserable fuck had made the frankly terrible choice to abduct Naruto in the middle of the Wave mission. The fact that this hadn’t happened last time was throwing Sasuke for a loop, but that was shoved to the back of his mind to be picked apart later—what had they changed so much that it would spur on an unprecedented event like this?

But for now, the only thing that mattered was tracking down the unfortunate bastards who’d had the gall to take what was Sasuke’s and kill them. It wouldn’t even be hard; Naruto had only been missing an hour at most, and even Kakashi-sensei hadn’t noticed yet, probably assuming Naruto had fallen asleep in the woods again.

That gave Sasuke plenty of time.

---

He found some of Gato’s men in a small, ramshackle building that was clearly meant to be a bar. It was easy to pick them out: burly and well-fed where the people of Wave were starved, overconfident and loud where the locals shrunk in on themselves to draw less attention.

Perfect.

Gato had such a strangle-hold on Wave that there was no way anyone got in or out without him at least hearing about it. Even Team 7 figured that their presence in the village would be reported soon enough, no matter how sneaky they’d been.

Which meant that someone somewhere would know what had happened to Naruto. And even if these hired-muscle morons proved useless, they could at least point Sasuke towards someone who would know.

At twelve-years-old—and kami, that was a fucking nightmare, the prospect of going through puberty again; though at least this time he wasn’t going to be totally blindsided by his distinctly not fucking platonic feelings for Naruto—he was small enough to avoid notice until he was practically right in front of Gato’s men. They didn’t seem to see him at all until he’d stabbed his kunai through the nearest man’s hand, pinning it to the table.

“Aagh, shit! What the fuck—”

Sasuke didn’t give him even a second to collect himself, spinning another kunai around his finger until he pressed the blade against the man’s throat.

“Something of mine has gone missing,” he said coolly, almost pleasantly if not for the overwhelming killing intent that spilled out of him. He knew it looked entirely out of place coming from a child, but that was half of what made his threats so eerily effective. “Short. Blond. Loud.”

The man’s eyes darted to the side as he gulped. As good as a confession.

“So you do know something.” Sasuke dug the edge of the kunai deeper into the soft of the man’s neck. “You had better start talking.”

---

When Sasuke found him, Naruto was tied to a chair with ropes, conscious, and looking more than a little amused. He also hadn’t made any effort to escape despite the fact that Sasuke knew he could have done so easily. He paused for a moment, holding back and watching in case Naruto was working some angle. It would be just like the dobe to get himself kidnapped on purpose if it would get him to his goals faster.

Gato sat across the room behind a large desk, eyes glinting. “A real, genuine Uzumaki.”

“Yep,” Naruto said cheerily, unbothered.

“You’re worth a hell of a lot to a lot of people, kid.”

“Oh, trust me, more than you know.”

“I’m talking millions of ryo.”

Naruto hummed agreeably. “I know some people who’d go further than that.”

“Really?”

“Sure. You see, Gato-san, when you’ve got somethin’ real valuable, you gotta be careful. ‘Cause sure, some people’ll offer you a lot of money. But other people…”

“Other people?” Gato prompted, voice dripping with greed.

Naruto smirked. “Other people will just kill you for it.”

Sasuke sighed, exasperated and fond. Of course the idiot knew he was here. Still, no reason not to go along with Naruto’s theatrics.

And that’s my cue.

---

“Teme. You made a mess,” Naruto said, though his tone wasn’t nearly as chiding as he probably meant for it to be.

Sasuke rolled his eyes. “Tch. Gato’s dead. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Naruto hummed happily. “Now we can use all his money to revitalize Wave’s economy!”

“We could have just killed him. You didn’t have to get kidnapped.”

“Well—” Naruto’s grin was pure trouble. “—maybe I like having you chase after me for once.”

[circlique]

25. “You better start talking.” @whumptober-archive

Ah, finally, one of the main characters gets to be the whumper rather than the whumpee.

Anyway, Flamer has a history of being the party wildcard. Mostly I think of that time when he feared he’d blown Chai Li’s (double agent) cover to another undercover Dai Li agent. So, without any real plan to speak of, he just...kidnapped said agent. Cue everyone, including the agent, being super confused.

[orionares]

Whumptober, Day 25

Whumptober,  Day 25- "You better start talking"

NCIS: Los Angeles

—-----

A/N: Wrote a lot of pieces that I couldn't quite perfect as a solid 1,000+ word piece and  had let them sit in drafts for awhile.  However, I've decided to post these little guys anyway. Happy Halloween. =]

—-----

"You aren't what I had expected."

Investigator Marty Deeks slows to a stop at a man resting cross armed against a lone minivan sitting in a parking lot. At 4:45 in the morning, a lone vehicle in a lot isn't unusual.

A man seemingly waiting for him halfway through his run is.

"Do I know you?" Deeks calls out. The man peers at him without moving for a moment before answering in a faintly accented voice, "I'm someone with questions, Investigator."

Deeks steps back and tucks a hand in his shorts pocket. He can hear approaching footsteps from behind as his fingers brush and press against the Agent in distress button on his phone. He's outnumbered two to one but he isn't panicking.

That plan immediately goes out the window when both men charge him.

 Deeks sidesteps the man behind him and shoves him towards the van, giving him the space he needs to escape or fight: however, the move opens him up to the first man to deliver a kick to the Investigator's knees. The kick lands in the back of his right knee, causing the knee to give out.

"Ahhh!" Deeks groans as he lands awkwardly on his right knee. Whoever's responsible for the kick hooks an arm around the Investigator's neck  and yanks him back against their chest. The attacker in front of Deeks settles and even smirks as Deeks struggles against the chokehold.

"You made this harder than this needed to be," the attacker in front teases. He's around Sam's height with a very familiar military buzz cut and hollow green eyes.

"Kidnapping…" Deeks gasps, "makes….me…a little…antsy…"

"Now you have some questions to answer," the lead attacker nods and the attacker behind Deeks tightens his hold over Deeks' neck. "About an old friend of yours. You can do this now or we can actually take you and you'll be more than a little antsy."

Deeks digs his fingers further into the second attacker's arm as he begins to see dots appear in his vision. His lungs are beginning to work overtime under the increasing pressure on his neck. By a quick estimate, he's got a minute or so and even less, if more pressure is applied.

"Tell me about Anatoli Kirkin and you better start talking ." The lead attacker steps closer to Deeks with an increasingly smug smile growing on his face. He kneels  in front of Deeks and asks, "Kirkin took something from me before he died and I'm guessing the only person who'd know where it is you."

"I don't -" Deeks' vision narrows and blurs- he's got a few seconds at best. "It was years….ago that he….died."

The smile on the leader's face grows into a Chesire-like smile. The Investigator gasps again as the pressure around his neck increases. As he slips into unconsciousness, Deeks hears, "Anatoli was a liar and it seems you are one too. We'll fix that."

[littleperilstories]

Whumptober 2022: #25 :: Silence is Golden

Whumptober Masterpost Lost Voice | Duct Tape | “You better start talking.”

Whumpee: Freddie Howell

Whumper: Kain Brockhurst

@whumptober-archive

CW: restraints (handcuffs), gag (duct tape), choking

Fen & Freddie

Follows Day 19 and precedes Day 23

Brockhurst breezed in, apologies on his lips as if he were late to a business meeting, not talking to someone with tape over his mouth and his hands cuffed behind his back. “You’re looking well. How are you feeling?”

Of course, after having his hench-people drag Freddie from that room—he refused to think of it as “Fen’s room”—Kain Brockhurst made him wait.

Freddie kept his eyes on the ceiling, or the floor, or anywhere he didn’t have to meet the gaze of the men standing guard. The woman had disappeared, and he wondered if she’d been given different orders, something to do with Fen. What if that’s where Brockhurst was? What if he was hurting—

“Sorry to make you wait.”

Brockhurst breezed in, apologies on his lips as if he were late to a business meeting, not talking to someone with tape over his mouth and his hands cuffed behind his back. “You’re looking well. How are you feeling?”

Freddie looked away and said nothing.

“Right, right. How rude of me. Let’s get that off, shall we?” In an eerily smooth motion, Brockhurst crossed the room and ripped the tape from Freddie’s mouth.

“Shit!” The curse word spilled out, involuntary, as the glue took half his skin with it. At least, that was what it felt like.

Brockhurst laughed. “Let’s try again. You’re looking well. How are you feeling?”

He really expects a fucking answer.

Freddie gritted his teeth. “Fine.” He wasn’t sure how much he should be toeing the line, here. The man seemed to be on a different plane of reality at least half the time. If Freddie just gave him what he wanted—what he could give him, anyway—would it make any difference? Or was there going to be pain no matter what?

“Really? Because you looked pretty rough last time I saw you.”

A shudder ran through Freddie’s body. This is a trap. Of course Brockhurst knew Freddie had been a wreck after being whipped. Yet now he was here, apparently “fine”?

He knows, then. If the thought had been voiced, it would have been accompanied by an exhausted sigh. He probably had Fen’s room–goddamnit, that room—bugged. Maybe he’d already heard Fen admit she’d healed his back enough to stop the bleeding.

Freddie couldn’t think of a single thing to say, so he clenched his jaw and fixated on a single point on the wall.

“Let’s start with a civil conversation, how about?” Brockhurst grabbed another chair and sat directly across from Freddie, breaking the laser focus of his stare at the wall.

Start…

“I’m awfully curious,” Brockhurst said, “about your relationship with my old friend’s little sister.”

The thought of verbalizing his feelings toward Fen Bailey-Song to this monster made Freddie want to hurl. Brockhurst must have seen the look on his face; a malicious smile pulled at his mouth. “What is she to you?”

Freddie glanced around, trying to read the faces of the men standing guard, hoping they’d give him some indication of what the fuck was happening in this conversation, but no one gave him even an inkling of context. Or guidance on how to respond.

It had to be another trap. If he said, Everything, that was an easy way to use her for…whatever it was he wanted. If he said, Nothing, it would take zero effort or creativity for Brockhurst to call his bluff.

That just left everything in between.

“We’re friends.”

Brockhurst pursed his lips and nodded, responding rather hyperbolically to this answer. “Good friends?”

“Yes.”

Freddie realized suddenly how damn hot it was in this room. Sweat clung to his brow, beaded on his bare skin—his torn T-shirt long gone now. Thirst was starting to claw its way up his throat.

A trap, this is all a trap, a game, it’s something. Brockhurst hadn’t simply called him here to gossip about his past with Fen. It had to be leading to something. “What the fuck do you want?”

Brockhurst grinned, wolfish. Not a hint of shame. “I confess I do like a good doomed romance story every now and then.”

Freddie couldn’t keep the embarrassment or the anger off his face, and Brockhurst burst into a laugh that filled the room—menacing. Suffocating. “‘Good friends’—sure, kid, whatever you say. You tried to infiltrate my compound on your own for a friend?”

“I couldn’t stand looking at those fucking videos you were sending anymore!” Freddie sat up straight, rage coursing through his veins. His arms pressed against his back, and he wondered if any of the wounds had opened again, blood mixing with the salt of his sweat. “And Bridget was doing fuck-all about it—” 

A wider grin spread across Brockhurst’s face, and Freddie knew he’d somehow messed up, somehow fallen into whatever trap had been laid for him.

“Ah, so you have been hiding out with darling B this whole time,” Brockhurst said. “I thought as much.”

Fuck. That’s what he wanted—information on the hideout. Where Bridget was hiding with his goddamn formula.

“I bet you could tell me exactly where it is,” Brockhurst said softly. “If you wanted to. We could make a deal, you know. You and Fen could walk free, live your lives, get married in an embarrassing, elaborate ceremony and have painfully adorable children together. If you wanted that.”

I do. I do fucking want that.

“You know,” Brockhurst said, “that bitch didn’t answer when I called her this morning?”

Freddie gulped.

“Maybe B isn’t going to come save the two of you. Maybe it’s all down to you, kid.”

Freddie closed his eyes. No. It can’t be. She’s not going to leave both of us here. There’s no way. No fucking way.

“Did B tell you what the formula was?” Brockhurst’s eyes gleamed. Fanatical. Unstoppable. “Show it to you?”

“Obviously not,” Freddie muttered. He wished he could back the chair away, but that would involve pressing his wounds directly against the back of the chair for leverage.

“It’s the most powerful serum the lab ever produced,” Brockhurst said. “That I produced. Perhaps the most powerful chemical in the world.”

Freddie rolled his eyes.

“The person who takes it—wields—” The glint grew brighter. “Why, they could change the world.”

“Maybe they could stop criminals.” Freddie couldn’t stop himself. “Kidnapping, torturing, all that shit. Just gone.”

Brockhurst looked at him, the light dimming, twisting into something hard. Angry. “You think this is funny?”

“Not at fucking all—”

Brockhurst reached forward and caught hold of his throat. Squeezing. “I think I want to know every little detail of your little stay with Bridget and the others.”

You and Fen could walk free.

A lie, Freddie realized. There was no way Brockhurst was going to let both of them walk away.

“Yeah—right—” he choked.

The fingers squeezed tighter. “You think I won’t get it out of you?”

He would, no doubt. But Freddie would hold out as long as he could.

Without loosening his grip, Brockhurst leaned in close, his breath hot against Freddie’s ear. “You better start talking, you dumb bastard. Or you’ll find out just how far I’ll go to get my formula back. I’m fucking done waiting for Bridget to get off her ass and bring it. This ends. Today.”

[whump-ventures]

Whumptober Day 1 and 25: Unconventional Restraints and “You better start talking”

~~~

He expects to wake up in chains.

In all honesty, he’s surprised to be waking up at all.

He messed up. He messed up so bad that he’s lucky that all his men weren’t slaughtered because of his overconfidence, charging into what was clearly a trap. He was a bit too eager, a bit too believing in his skill, and now… Now he may never get to see his beloved Sajia again.

Rahim blinks his eyes open slowly, every instinct telling him to leap to his feet and begin fighting, but he forces himself to stay relaxed for the time being. Running headfirst into a fight, not thinking things through, is what got him into this predicament in the first place. He must start learning from his mistakes if he is to be an effective leader. Assuming he can somehow get out of this situation, that is….

He’s in a cell- a prisoner of war, should have known that was to come- with two guards standing right outside the door, both armed with the classic Teyshirian colors and weapons. Neither say a word when they notice him stirring, but Rahim can sense the shift in their attention. The lack of chains is disturbing, especially considering what he knows about Batzorig’s terrifying magic.

“Hey, assholes.” Rahim snaps, his impatience winning out as he stumbles to his feet. When he has to lean against the wall to support himself, he can practically hear Sajia’s sigh of frustration in his head. “Got a plan here, or what? Capturing an emperor isn’t your smartest move, considering that my people will hunt-”

“Bragging already?” A cold voice slices through the air, interrupting him before he can finish his insults. The man that is approaching his cell is one he’s seen on the battlefield- One of the enemy general’s. “I was hoping you would be cooperative and chat with us, but this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Rahim narrows his eyes. “You’re speaking to an emperor, in case you’ve forgotten. But I guess this lack of respect and proper greeting is exactly what I expected from a Teyshirian low life like you.”

The man doesn’t respond but his eyes narrow and sweep over Rahim. He knows that the general is focusing in on his injuries. One from an arrow that scraped along his back. Another from a sword slashed across his side, neither are overly serious. The bloody wound on his head is what’s causing a wicked headache- the blow that knocked him out. He wants to remember more of what exactly happened- their swords clashing, he went down at some point, then he saw a rock raised above him and in that scuffle on the ground the world turned black in an explosion of pain.

The cell door unlocks and Rahim tries to push himself away from the wall in a vain attempt to lunge for freedom, but even that movement proves too much. A bolt of pain shoots through his head, causing his vision to all but go out and he makes a desperate grab for the wall as his legs wobble underneath him. A moment later a hand reaches for his shoulder to steady him.

“Stay still, and don’t struggle.” The voice hisses as he blinks to clear his eyes. “We’re going to have our little chat wether you want to or not.”

He knows immediately what’s at work. His body responding to the command against his will as his muscles seem to freeze in place. Rahim tries to force himself to move, to lash out as his captor, but trying to fight makes his already pounding head explode in pain. If the terrible mind magic wasn’t restraining him, he surely would have collapsed from such an intense pain.

A hand moves to the gash in his side, the other one still digging into his shoulder with a cruel grip. When he starts to lean on the wound, it presses his back harder into the wall, sending two twin spikes of pain shooting through him and nearly taking his breath away. He’s gasping in air, desperate to keep any sounds of pain absent as both wounds are slowly torn back open, blood running down his back and side.

“You better start talking.” The cold voice hisses, and Rahim continues to fight the magic as much as possible, feeling true terror of the thought of spilling secrets to the enemy. “I’ll get my answers one way or another.”

He tilts his head up, practically baring his teeth at his tormentor. There are too many people relying on him, too many people he must protect. He will not say a single word beyond his defiance. “Give it your best shot.”

“I was so hoping you would say that.”

A second later, and Rahim can’t see or breathe. He can only feel the pain as it crashes down on his mind, the horrible pressure and terrible agony as he wonders if his head is going to split open from the assault. His mouth opens in a silent scream, unable to make a sound with no air.

All he can do through the agony is continue fighting, in the slimmest hope that he will at least die without giving away any secrets.

[rivstyx]

whumptober nine; days 25, 26, and 27: "you better start talking", separated, and stumbling. i won't be coy here - it's a car crash fic! come on, you knew this one was coming eventually. it's like crack to whump writers. anyway, just how did they get back home after that crash? also, what part of an RC car is actually capable of exploding?

i look like hell (just to wear it well) on AO3

[i-love-you-all]

Whumptober 2022 Day 25

Jett gets caught in a trap.

~1k words, caged, trapped

On more than one occasion, Jett had been described as a bird. After all, she soared through the air like there was nothing that could ever pull her to the ground. She felt more comfortable when her feet were off the ground than when they were actually touching something. That was just part of her wind powers though, wasn’t it? While she was on the ground, she was tied up in expectations. The pull of responsibility from Brimstone and the protocol, the unflinching judgement of bystanders the day that Venice rose into the air, and the heart-pounding ambition that filled her own mind every time she looked out at a vulnerable world.

The nights where she was allowed to be free were the ones where she challenged heights and gravity. Her feet pounding the pavement one moment only for an updraft of air to send her flying over any of the buildings. She was free there. No expectations, no judgement, no ambition. She was allowed to just be. A bird indeed. Flying from one tree to the next at her own will. There was no one else to be worried about.

But the thing she never expected, living the life of a bird, was the hunters that were right on her heels. The arrow sticking out of her arm, and the familiar burst of electricity that followed shortly. Caught.

She fell.

She hadn’t fallen out of control since the day she first learned she could do this.

She hadn’t felt the slam of pavement on her body since that time she first met KAY/O on the opposite side of a mission. And in that moment, she had a familiar hand reach out to her to help her up and bring her to safety. That pair of safe hands were now aiming the bow at her.

In the distance now, she saw a familiar blue cape and matching blue glow from one of his eyes. In the back of her mind, she figured that she should’ve been grateful it wasn’t a gun.

But… a bird. Hah.

Jett was compared to a bird when it came to flight and freedom. Never when it came to metal bars and locked doors. She had been on her feet for at least a day now, even though she felt tired after hour two. This was starting to eat away at her rationality that was telling her not to say a word. The offer had been made at least four times already. Always accompanied with a smirk when she said no.

The door opened and she watched as Sova walked in with Viper at his side. In his hands, he was holding a glass of water. He noticed her staring at it almost immediately, but how could she not? Jett swallowed hard, trying to ignore just how dry her throat was, and she tried to focus on the issue. These were agents from another world, perhaps one even outside of the one she had been fighting all this time because she really didn’t think they’d be capable of something like this.

That, and Viper’s eyes, well, they were always green, but they never glowed like Sova’s blue eye. Even the mirror version that she had seen on occasion didn’t look like that.

She narrowed her eyes at Sova as he took a sip from the cup and licked his lips. He knew what she was going through, he had to. This had to have all been some grand plan from him.

“Sova, stop teasing her. You’ve done your part. Go let Brimstone know that I arrived.”

The man nodded then scoffed one last time at Jett before walking away.

“It’s only been one day,” Viper said. “And we both know that he’s more than willing to keep you here for longer.”

Jett knew Sova. Kind of well actually. They weren’t exactly friends or anything, but they got along well on missions and on their bonding trips after missions. But they got along best in the training range. Sova’s eyes and aim were perhaps the only ones who could keep up with her speed. Much to Sage’s dismay, she would wrap herself up and let herself be the moving target. It helped her practice her control over her powers, and it sharpened Sova’s aim. It was fun, and he was always there to support her on missions. But not once had she seen him look so… amused. And certainly never over something like this. She had seen him question other agents and she’s seen him take mirror agents down with such thorough ruthlessness that she’s gotten nervous being alone around him.

Cruelty was not something they practiced though.

“You better start talking if you want out of that cage he put you in.”

And Viper… She was warm for once. Kind maybe. If Viper and Sova walked into an interrogation, no one should expect her to be the nice cop role.

The Viper she remembered in the two worlds she knew about was… Cold was a little too nice. Between her and KAY/O, she was the robotic one. There were no emotions when it came to her decisions, at least none that Jett was privy to. She called the shots, dictated the plan, and controlled the field as she wanted, and she was always right. But here, her poster was relaxed, slouched to one side, hardly a power pose. And, again, she was being the good cop.

Jett tried to say something but stopped when her voice cracked. Her throat was so dry, from the chase, and into this cage. Only when she closed her mouth and tried to swallow again did she realize that her voice wasn’t coming back soon.

With all her might, speaking from the bottom of her lungs, she called out. “Go fuck yourself.”

Viper sighed. Then, she shook her head. “Very well. When you’re ready to talk, you should ask for me. You won’t want to deal with him again.”

Jett watched, slumped against the bars of this tiny cage, built just for her to keep her standing and prevent any movement at all. The door closed again, and she was left in the darkness.

Just a little bird stuck in a cage. Nowhere to fly to.

[seldomscilence16]

Whumptober day 25: Silence is Golden

Fandom: Ducktales

Prompts;

Lost voice

Duct tape

"You better start talking."

I mean really, how could I not torture (it came out more implied than anything…) Donald? Also; sorry in advance for anyone who likes good parents Hortense and Quackmore…. And sorry its kinda short! These things keep loosing length, where did it all go??

The family tree was all over the place, to say the least, but one thing thats pretty common, is the tempers. You'd think they'd stop having kids eventually, a recipe for disaster for anyone you asked.

When the McDucks joined the family, it was a surprise to everyone. Hortense and Quackmore were at eachothers throats as much as they were head over heels. And when she got pregnant? Lets just say you didnt want to see her angry.

They didnt know what to expect, for the parents or children, but the other generations so far had done their jobs, they were sure the kids would be fine. They may fight, but they loved eachother, and they'd love the children too.

Itd be fine.

…

Donald and Della are turning 6, and Grandma Duck is throwing them a party. She hasn't seen much of her grandkids, holidays maybe, in pictures sure, so she wanted this to be the best birthday.

Shes more than ready when her son pulls up. He takes a moment to leave the car, talking to the twins before helping them from the back seats. She bends down with open arms, but it takes a nudge from Quackmore for the two to come in for a- stiff- hug.

"I'm sorry Ma, but I have to go. Hortense and I have a thing, thanks for taking care of them today though!"

"Oh, uh of course dear. You know im always delighted to see family."

"Thanks, you two be good."

She watches her son leave with a frown, before looking down at two of her grandchildren,

"Well then birthday kiddos, lets go have some fun yeah?"

Donald hasnt said a word. And Elvira knows he can, she might not have seen them often, but she remembers the few times she had. Shes thankful at least, that he seems to get along with his cousins, though hes rare to leave Dellas side.

Fethry finally pulls him away, and Elvira is quick to sweep down and smile at the birthday girl.

"Having fun Della?"

"Yes grandma. Thank you." She stands stiffly, hands fidgeting with her skirt.

"Of course dear, can I ask you something sweetheart?"

"...sure." She answers hesitantly.

"Why… why isnt your brother speaking dear?"

"Oh… Donalds lost his voice grandma. I've been tryin ta find it, but daddy- father says, that we should forget." She admits quietly.

"Lost… I see. Well, lets look together then, shall we?"

"Oh really??" Her eyes light up, "you'll help us look Grandma?"

"Yes, I'm sure the cousins could help too, lets go find that voice of his."

Later that year, Hortense and Quackmore die in a car accident. And Elvira takes the two in for a while, Scrooge had been in the will, but she wonders if he'll be up to the task. She'll be around either way, and she would find Donalds voice.

…

Donald wakes with duct tape around his bill. Its not a new occurance, he lives a life of adventure- whether he liked it or not. It seemed people really thought keeping him quiet scared him or something. He could understand if his voice annoyed them, but they always taunted the fact he couldnt communicate anymore like he didnt know at least 2 other ways to do so.

The villian of the week is monologuing, Della is sitting across from him, looking bored out of her mind. Donald makes a couple of eye and shoulder movements- twitches at best- that she responds with in a simular fashion.

"Hey! What are you two doing?!" He cuts off mid sentence to yell the question, as if they could answer with any more than a raised brow.

"You're not talking your way out of this. You'll be stuck in silence for the rest of your short lives, and I'll be living rich somewhere!"

Donald rolls his eyes, even as the guy kicks him for it. He was weak to say the least, though crafty enough to nab them. It was a chore more than anything though, Scrooge would come bursting in any minute, treasure in hand and ready to gloat and taunt for hours to come.

Two more minutes of angry ranting, Della mocking him everytime his back is turned, and Scrooge finally arrives.

"Get yer grimy hands off me wards!"

"McDuck! Er, no! I win this time! I have the upper hand!"

"Ye got nothing of the sort, these two trouble makers could have escaped ages ago." Their Uncle is wrong of course, Dellas pocket knife cut through her bindings a while ago. And Donald had gotten the knot undone a couple minutes after he woke.

Della shows off her free limbs cheekily, Donald rolling his eyes once more as he stands and stretches, gauging his injuries as he does so.

Scrooge does his whole thing, takes the guy down and turns to them with a lesson or lecture on his tongue, when he stops and gives them his equivlent of a worried look.

"Is the tape stuck?" He asks carefully.

Donald frowns, feeling the pull on his bill, and realizes he'd completely forgotten, and so it appears did Della.

The 12 year olds carefully pull the tape from eachothers bills, working their mouths to rid the ache. Apparently Donald was more used to it than he thought…

…

"You better start talking!"

Well thats a first. Donald could only remember a handful of people who wanted him to talk. There was far more times where people wanted him to shut up, and this guy wanted him to talk…

He looks to the kids behind him, six of them, all relying on him right now. He looks back to the villian with a glare,

"Let the kids go and I'll tell you." He says it slower than usual, over pronouncing to try and be understood.

"You're in no place to make demands Duck. Scrooge isnt coming this time, you start talking, or the kids start walking." He motions to the plank with a twisted smile, uncaring who he has to hurt for his gain. Gosh, this wasnt even an adventure this time. It was a reward trip for the kids, a vacation to help them relax and have fun like children. Scrooge wasnt coming, this was up to Donald, and he wouldnt let anything happen to them.

"The maps in the stars."

He gives instructions, piece by piece, keeping the kids behind him at all times. His hands stay behind his back, forming signs and shapes and tapping patterns. Donald is forced ashore with most of the crew, in hunt of the treasure, but he leaves the kids with clear instructions. He trusts them to complete them, while he handles the rest. After all, this treasure was still here for a reason.

The cave is shaped like a toothy mouth, gaping, dark and dank. Things move in the dark at the opening, but the further in they go, the less life there is. Statues in varying states line their path, Donald determinedly doesnt look at them, but he knows the crew is getting spooked.

"Its right through there." He says finally.

The captain swipes his blade and Donald goes down with a shout, arms pressed tightly to the slash across his body.

"Shut him up. Im tired of that voice. We have treasure to collect."

One of the men ties rope across his bill, and pulls his hands behind his back, aiming a kick to his wounded front, before the whole lot enters the last chamber of the cave.

Donald huffs and heaves, rope rubbing painfully at his bill and every breath pulling at his cut. Blood dripping from his collar bone to his hip in steady lines, he needs to get out of here and make sure the kids are okay. He hears shouts from within, cut off almost immediately after they start, and forces himself to roll onto his knees.

He stumbles his way from the cave, each statue a stablilizer as he goes. Horror and pain stricken faces on each, adventures and innocents long lost to the curse of this place. Even Glomgold had been wise enough to leave this one be, most saw the statues and wisely turned back. Scrooge had tried to go in, almost getting Della turned to stone in the process, before turning back.

One of the statues has a fallen sword by it, old and broken, but the jagged end still does the job of freeing his wrists. He presses his arms to his front once more as he hurried towards the ship. The kids are jumping off it as he arrives, running towards him. He drops down and catches the boys, the girls not far behind them, toppling them all over.

"Unca Donald! Youre hurt!" Louie is the first to notice, and Donald feels bad for the blood on their clothes.

His fingers move quickly as he tries to assure them hes fine. He feels the ropes slide off his bill and blinks a bit, Lenas hand stops glowing and Donald gives her a grateful smile. To prove he'll be fine, he stands, and motions towards the ship, he could get them going and find a first aid kit hes sure.

Donald had found his voice long ago, it had been taken from him often enough that he learned to communicate without it. And those that cared, had done the same. But they also took the time to learn his voice, luring it out of hiding and encouraging it. So that a lost voice would always find its way home.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

silence is golden

prompt: "you better start talking"

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi hello i will be honest this fic is not the best. but these things happen yknow? such is life etc etc.

He supposes it’s his own fault for not locking his bedroom door. Of course, it’s his apartment and there isn’t any real need to lock the inner doors, but still. If it had been locked, Solo would have been forced to knock, which would’ve given Illya enough time to put a shirt on. 

As it happens, though, the door isn’t locked. Solo barges right on in to his bedroom as Illya is getting dressed for bed. 

His back is turned to the door, and as soon as it opens Illya whirls around to face the intruder. 

“What are you doing?” he asks his partner. 

“I have a key,” Solo says, and then he just stares at him. “What happened to you?”

Illya realizes a little bit too late that the bruises covering his torso are on full display. He crosses his arms over his chest, as though this will do anything. He says nothing, simply turns around and grabs his shirt. 

“Just because you have a key doesn’t mean you can come into my room,” Illya protests, hoping to distract Solo from the bruises. 

His partner will not be deterred that easily. 

“Illya, those bruises are truly nasty. What happened?”

Illya remains silent and pushes past Solo into his living room. He doesn’t really know what he hopes to accomplish by this. Solo just follows him out. 

“You better start talking, Peril. Don’t think I won’t stay here all night to get you to tell me what happened.”

Illya shakes his head and sits down on the couch, for lack of anywhere else to go. “It’s none of your concern.”

Solo settles down next to him, just a little bit too close. “What are you talking about? You’re my partner, of course it’s my concern.”

Illya stares at him. What does them being partners have to do with this? It’s his injury. His problem. Solo is not at all involved. 

“It’s only my problem.”

“No, it’s not. Let me see again.”

“No.”

“Why do you have to be so damn stubborn all the time? I’m just trying to help.”

“You’re stubborn too. Leave it alone.”

“Why should I?”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

“Because I care about you, okay? Is that so terrible? You’re hurt. I want to know why. I want to help. That’s all.”

Solo sounds sort of angry, but he also sounds genuine. This gives Illya pause. He’s still getting used to it, this truthfulness, these sincere offers of help. 

He doesn’t always want to accept these things, but he does want to try. He has been chosen for UNCLE for a reason, after all. He needs to show that he can work in this environment. 

“It really isn’t so bad,” he emphasizes, lifting the hem of his shirt. 

Solo’s fingers ghost over the livid purple bruising that mottles his skin. All of it is tender and sore. Even this lightest of contact has him tamping down the urge to flinch. 

“Looks pretty bad to me,” Solo says. “Does it hurt much?”

Illya shrugs. “Not really.” He’s had far worse. 

“Have you iced it?”

“Why would I do that?” It’s only bruises. He doesn’t think they need any real attention. 

“It’s good for the pain. Reduces swelling, too.”

“I’m fine.”

Solo sighs. “Right. Any chance you want to tell me what happened?”

“Not really.”

Another sigh. “I don’t know why you insist on trying to make people not care about you. I’m not going to stop, you know, just because you don’t want to tell me anything.”

Illya stares at his partner again. This is kind of…a lot. He isn’t sure how to feel about the idea of Solo caring about him regardless of Illya’s attempts to brush him off. He figures maybe telling Solo something won’t be the worst thing in the world. 

“Fine. I will tell you. It’s not that interesting, anyway.”

It had really just been bad luck. He’d been cornered by a street gang, most of them just kids. They’d had numbers, though, and several had had weapons - mostly baseball bats and the like. They’d demanded his money, his coat, his watch. 

Naturally, he’d said no. He’d tried to walk away - he hadn’t wanted to beat up a bunch of teenagers - but they’d come after him in a swarm. The one with the bat had done most of the damage, though they’d all been horribly enthusiastic. 

He’d tried to simply push through them at first, but they’d been surprisingly resilient. Eventually, after he’d taken several solid blows, he’d hit one of them in the stomach at full force. He’d collapsed almost immediately. This apparently had startled his friends. Illya had hit another one of them, and they’d all run away. 

That’s it. Just a matter of poor timing and overzealous, overconfident kids. Really, he thinks it’s probably good they chose him as a target. No one had been seriously hurt, and they definitely could have been. 

He tells Solo all of this. 

“That’s not interesting?”

He shrugs.

“And you’re sure you’re alright? It’s only bruises?”

“I am fine.”

Solo shakes his head. “If you insist. How about you let me get you some ice?”

He’s already acquiesced to two of Solo’s requests tonight. What’s one more?

“Fine.”

The ice, as it turns out, really does help. It’s unpleasantly cold against his skin, but it numbs the pain. He lies on the couch with his feet sticking out over the armrest and several bags of ice covering his torso. Solo, meanwhile, sits in an armchair beside him with his feet propped up on the coffee table. 

“See?” he asks. “I told you ice would help.”

“Fine,” Illya mutters. “You were right.”

Strangely, Solo doesn’t take this opportunity to gloat. Instead, he says, “thanks for letting me help you,” and he sounds sincere. It’s still a bit odd, Illya thinks. The idea that someone really wants to help him. Nonetheless, it appears that Solo does indeed want this. 

“Thank you for helping me,” he returns. He supposes he might simply be forced to get used to having someone around that insists on caring about him. 

Maybe it won’t be so bad. 

thanks for reading! in Important Me NewsTM i cannot believe in a week i will be 20. the passage of time is truly the most fucked up thing known to man.

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 25: Silence is golden

"You better start talking."

1849 Words; The River Runs Deep

TW for discussion of trauma

AO3 ver

The situation is dire.

Alarms are blaring, pounding against Raz’ skull almost as bad as the psilirium. He has no idea where Loboto ran off to. Sasha is trying to wrestle a record from one of the fish creatures, Oleander is struggling with his tail, Lili is busy with Truman, and Milla is struggling to hold the base together long enough for them to escape.

And he’s still strapped to this chair.

It’s fine, it’s fine, he can unlock the Pelican through clairvoyance—

His mind rebounds back into his skull like a rubberband. Raz gasps, his whole head pounding. The world whites out, static filling his ears. He inhales sharply.

It takes a moment for his bearings to return. His whole head swims, pain jackhammering his skull to pieces.

Okay, so clairvoyance is a no-go. That’s… less than optimal.

But Raz has other skills! He’s got telekinesis and pyrokinesis and psi-blasts—surely one of those skills can help him.

He looks around, and struggles against the straps. He tries to use clairvoyance, to look through someone else’s eyes to see what’s behind him, but his mind stays firmly rooted to his body despite his efforts.

None of his other skills seem useful. There’s nothing to break or burn—the base is falling apart enough as is. He can’t concentrate enough for fine movements with his telekinesis—he can lift and throw objects, but he can’t undo the straps holding him to the chair.

This is it, isn’t it? Raz thinks, desperately grasping for ideas. I don’t have any skills left.

The water trickles in, despite Milla’s efforts. Raz stares at it, dread and desperation rising up his throat.

Well, he does have one last trick.

But he can’t. Years of habit and warnings and fear claw at his mind and hold him back. This isn’t a skill he can allow himself to use, not here, not in front of everyone.

But what other choice does he have? Everyone else is trying their best, and Milla asked him to help them find a way out of here—he can’t let them down. He has to do something.

Still, terror clings to him, cold and heavy. It goes against everything he’s ever learned to control the water where others can see, goes against all of his Nona’s cautions and his father’s warnings and his mother’s worries. Goes against all of his family’s efforts to help him and Nona hide it, to keep it secret, keep it safe.

There’s no other choice. No third option that Raz can see. Either he—and everyone else, who are all counting on him—dies here when the base blows, or he goes against the one family rule he has yet to break.

The choice is easier than Raz would like.

Carefully, he casts his focus out to the water around him, listening to the ebb and flow. It’s all pressed against the facility with the need to pour in and fill the space, a million tidal whispers begging to be let in. Milla’s holding the base up—but the strain rings clear. Water trickles in, drops turning to puddles turning to inch-deep water across the floor, all of it reaching out to Raz.

Raz reaches back. Slowly, carefully, water rises up in the shape of a hand, the movement slow and unsteady from both the psilirium and Raz’ own uncertainty.

The Pelican is just outside. If Raz can just get free, if he can get it in his line of sight—

Distantly, he registers Milla gasping as the water swirls around Raz, tugging at the straps of his chair. He’s never been very good at the fiddly stuff, never been good at the more complex movements—

But the water is strong and acting on his desperation, swirling waves turning to hands turning to claws that rake across the straps until they come undone. The water grabs his arms and hauls him out of the chair. Raz stumbles to his knees, exhaustion heavy on his back. The water calls out to him, the connection strengthened by just how dire the situation is.

(His Nona had said, once, that hydrokinesis is a primal power, deeply intertwined with the subconscious instincts buried in the psyche. That to unlock its full potential, Raz would have to connect with his own survival instincts.

Nona had also told him to never do that, to limit his skill to the little things, lest he end up following her worst examples.)

Raz makes a silent apology to his Nona. Makes a silent apology to his whole family. There’s little else he can do right now, so surely they’d understand.

The water reaches out to him. It coils and twirls and froths, promising life-safe-escape-survive.

Raz forces himself to stand up, and reaches back.

+=+=+=+=+

Raz comes back to himself slowly, trickling back into his body as sensation returns.

The first thing to register is the pain. Ugh, it feels like someone hit his head with the entire caravan—

Milla is standing over him, her hand on his shoulder. “Razputin. Darling, come back to us.” She urges, smiling when he blinks open tired eyes and looks up at her.

Raz can vaguely remember what happened. Can vaguely remember reaching out to the water with everything he had, urging that it would help help help keep them safe protect protect help. Can vaguely remember being the water, for all that his body remained flesh and bone.

That’s…

Raz knows that hydrokinesis responds to deeper desires, to subconscious needs and wants and fears. He knows that the water would become an extension of himself if he were more skilled—but he’s never actually managed that before. Never felt his mind connect with the water around him so deeply as to convince himself that he is the water.

(Maybe it’s to do with the overuse of clairvoyance.

Maybe Raz pushed too far, and very nearly became the one thing his family fears the most.

He doesn’t know, and the uncertainty would strangle him if he had the energy to worry.)

“Sorry.” Raz fidgets his fingers. “I think I might have dissociated there.”

Milla nods. “Of course, and you were amazing! Now rest your body, and your mind.”

Raz nods and leans back in his seat.

“That was quite the maneuver you pulled there, soldier.” Oleander pipes up. “When did you learn hydrokinesis?”

Raz tenses. Right. He was seen.

(He was seen he was seen he was seen they need to leave the area now now now before word gets around and someone can act on it, he was seen he was seen he was seen—)

“That’s right.” Sasha’s eyes narrow. Raz sinks further into his seat. “But hydrokinesis, like herbaphony and other similar skills, is not a skill that one acquires.” His scrutiny feels like a scalpel, delicate and precise.

“Darling,” Milla begins, voice soft, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Raz shifts awkwardly.

He’s so tired. Today has been so much.

Milla would probably back down if he tells her he doesn’t want to talk about it. She’s already giving him such a gentle look, like he might break if he’s pushed any further right now.

Raz isn’t entirely sure that she’s wrong.

But he’s a Psychonaut! He can handle this kind of stuff!

(No he can’t.)

And really, if there’s anyone Raz could trust with this, it’d have to be the other occupants of this jet. He doesn’t even have to tell them everything, just—

Just the parts with the Deluginists.

“I wasn’t lying,” Raz begins, “When I said our family’s cursed.”

He pulls his knees up to his chest. “When my dad was—when it was just him and Nona, they… encountered some Deluginists.” He speaks quietly, his voice coming out in a whisper against the overwhelming urge to stop talking. “They wanted Nona, because—”

Don’t say it.

Don’t you dare.

“Because she’s…” Raz fidgets, waving a hand awkwardly. “You know.” He mumbles lamely.

“Hydrokinetic?” Sasha asks, filling in the blanks both faster than and just as quickly as Raz wants.

Raz nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Unseen by anyone, Truman’s hand twitches.

The senior agents wait quietly, their expressions a mix of concern and something Raz can’t identify. Suspicion, maybe? Sympathy?

Lili’s expression is equally indiscernible.

After a moment, Raz continues. “Dad and Nona got away in the end, but the horror of what happened never really left them.”

(Dad needing to retreat to the quiet of the caravan on bad days, eyes distant with remembered horror.

Nona’s hands shaking too badly to hold anything, her voice soft and worn as she recounted a watered-down version of her crimes.

They could scarcely remember life before the Deluge; whoever had tried to make Nona forget Maligula had succeeded in that much.

The mystery was probably the worst part about it all; they didn’t know how Maligula came to be, didn’t understand what it took to push someone falling from grace into genocidal war criminal. Didn’t fully understand how to keep Raz from the same fate.)

“And Deluginists,” bile rises in the back of Raz’ throat, “hate giving up.” His voice thickens against his will, prompting Lili to take his hand in her telekinetic grasp.

“The Aquatos aren’t cursed to die in water,” Raz pushes past the anxiety clawing at his windpipe, “but we are cursed. Cursed to spend our days hiding, tucking away every bit of our potential, because if the Deluginists find us again, they’ll—”

(Dion delivering a prophecy like one hammers a nail in a coffin, finality etched into the echoes of his voice. Frazie learning how to turn herself and others invisible, before she ever used telekinesis. Mom fretting over everyone in the family, working and working to keep the circus afloat just to take her mind off of the all-encompassing worry.

Nona pulling Raz aside after seeing him lift Sugarcube’s water with his mind, to tell him in grave tones the truth of her past and the cost of his new trick.)

Raz can’t continue. He’s said enough. He’s said too much, they’ll figure it out—

Sasha’s face is set in grim lines, his tone grave. “They’ll try to make another Maligula.” He finishes.

Pained understanding fills Milla’s expression. “Oh, filho.”

Raz curls in on himself. Today has been so much.

His eyes sting, but no tears are forthcoming. He’s too tired, too on the verge of falling over and not getting up.

Milla puts a telekinetic hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you trusted us enough to tell us, Darling.” She croons, “What you’ve told us will not leave this plane without your permission.” She assures.

“You’ve got that right, soldier.” Oleander adds, “No lousy Deluginists will be catching wind of you or your family under our watch.” The gusto filling his promise fills Raz with reassurance, however slight.

Lili crosses her arms and doesn’t look at him. Sits next to her father, talking quietly to him now that they’re reunited. Raz doesn’t intrude.

(Lili tells Raz, in a soft mental pulse, that she’ll help him keep his secret, too.

Raz is grateful for it.)

The jet flies on.

[much-obliged-timothy]

Whumptober #25

Borderlands - #25 - “You better start talking”

*

Timothy Lawrence ran for his life.

He fled through the casino, ever aware of the others trapped inside with him but more focused on those currently pursuing him. They’d caught a glimpse of him, brief as it was, and now they were determined to catch him.

He’d been hoping to find an escape from this place. But to see people come in here willingly was crazy. Even crazier was that they were goddamn Vault Hunters; the very ones who’d killed Jack.

There was no way they’d leave him alive now that they’d seen him. If he could escape to his base, he might be okay. Or…no, no, he couldn’t bring them to Ember. He’d be putting her in danger by doing that. 

He glanced up. If he climbed fast enough, he might be able to reach one of the double-only teleporters in the casino. They wouldn’t know where he’d gone.

It was his best chance. There was no way he could outrun them for long. He’d been on casino duty for too long to be in the kind of shape he needed to be to outpace them.

He swung up onto a ledge and leapt, clinging to a statue of Jack. He began to climb up to the arm of it, managing to get a solid foot perch to boost himself.

“He’s over there! Don’t let him get away!”

Shit, shit, shit. He hated this fucking job. 

And he wasn’t even being paid anymore. Shit.

He climbed faster, his Winning Hand slipping a bit before managing to get a grip on the statue. He managed to get up onto the shoulder of it, spotting the location he needed to reach over the rail. If he got on the statue’s head, he could make the jump and clear the railing. 

He’d just gripped the top of the statue when something struck him. He nearly lost his balance but managed to cling to the statue.

He risked a brief glance down. The Vault Hunters were approaching the statue, and one had thrown a gun at him, probably to distract him.

He climbed onto the top of the statue, braced himself, and leapt at the railing.

He was going to clear it. He was up high enough, and by the time they managed to get up there, he’d be long gone. He’d hide until they left, no matter how long that was. He’d-

Something caught him.

He cried out in pain as he was surrounded by a glowing blue light. Oh, the Siren. He’d foolishly forgotten the Siren.

Something slammed into him and he yelled as he fell to the ground. He was caught just before striking the ground, and he suspected it was only because they wanted him alive for the moment. The fall would’ve likely killed or seriously injured him.

And then he realized who caught him.

Wings spread and glowing, eyes blazing with hatred, Lilith held him roughly.

She lowered them just enough before throwing him to the ground. He struck it hard, the air being knocked from his lungs as the Vault Hunters surrounded him. They all had their guns aimed as Lilith landed on the ground before him.

“You better start talking,” she said, aiming a gun at his head.

“W-What?” he choked out. “I don’t- I’ve been trapped in here since you killed Jack!”

She gripped him by the shirt, yanking him upright. “This casino. What the hell was Jack hiding in here?”

“I don’t know!” Tim cried. “I swear, I don’t know! If he was hiding anything, he never told us! Oh, god, please, I just work here!”

She threw him back to the ground, firing a warning shot next to his head. He flinched away, hand instinctively going to his wrist. But, of course, his watch wasn’t there. It hadn’t been since Jack took it away from him, claiming he didn’t need it now that he was in a nice, safe job like the casino. 

“Please,” Tim whispered. “I don’t know anything. I’ve been trapped in here, just trying to stay alive. Notice the lack of doppelgangers? They killed them all for looking like Jack. But we’re not Jack! My name is just Timothy!”

“I don’t care.” Another shot, this one so close to his head that it made his ear ring. “You’re going to help us find out what he’s hiding. And if you’re lying to me, you’re going to regret it. Grab him.”

The Siren and the Commando grabbed him by the arms and roughly yanked him upright. He stared at Lilith in fear, having heard that Jack killed Roland in front of her and then used her to charge the key.

The look in her eyes promised she was going to make him pay for all that as if he was the real Jack.

[morrigan-cotk95]

The second half is out! Todays prompt? “You better start talking.”