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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 months

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Salvation a Scream Away

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

Kira woke to a gentle tune cradling her as if she were still in her mother’s arms. It almost felt like sailing down a river, rocked to and fro, and she allowed the simple pleasure of peace to envelop her for the moment, drifting just beneath coming fully awake and aware.

She felt so comfortable. So sweetly held by the water, and yet she could still breathe air. Somewhere just beyond the waters was the panic of some predicament she was in, but the song kept her away from it and made her feel so safe. She sighed, smiling slightly, raising her hand to touch the air-

Her fingertips found, instead, the warmth of smooth skin. In her mind, clear as a bell, came a simply sung command.

Wake up.

Her eyes opened.

She gasped.

The siren’s inhumanly beautiful face was what she felt - her fingers were against his cheek, and she moved her pointer finger along the line of his cheekbone with her breath still caught in her throat. The creature loomed over her, staring down, his face only inches from hers as his last note faded, vibrating between them, as much in her lungs as his when she breathed him in. His hands were flat to the floor on either side of her, boxing her in. The worn-soft linen of his shirt brushed against her.

He was so close he could have kissed her. She’d have clawed his face off if he had, disemboweled him with her fingernails, beaten him to death with the nearest object capable of it.

But he only watched her, with a look of something like confusion or lingering frustration in the furrow of his brows.

Kira, still a little hazy from the song-spell, pressed her thumb lightly against the little wrinkle there between his eyes, just above the bridge of his nose.

He twitched, but he didn't pull back.

Kira realized she was holding her breath and hitched in an inhale, feeling her corset as a kind of soothing structure over her ribs, giving her support. The siren smelled like salt-spray, but not seawater. Cleaner than that. As if he carried a version of the sea with him that had never been polluted by the shipwrecks of men.

Her heart raced, the foggy comfort of the song turned to the sharper, cut-glass terror of being so close to something that could rend her limb from limb if he chose. And yet…

And yet.

He didn’t.

She dropped her hand. His eyes followed its drift downwards, then went back up to meet her gaze. She could be lost in them - and she knew why sailors would dive into the water to follow the song of a siren and think themselves in heaven as their lungs filled with saltwater and the sirens pulled them into the dark.

She might have followed such a lovely face and beautiful song to her death gladly, too.

And isn't that, more or less, what Guilford Wentworth intended to make her do?

She shook herself a little, like a dog shaking off water. “... you are-... very close,” She managed, voice half-whispered. She didn’t know why. “W-... why?”

The siren paused. Then, he said, slowly, “I do not understand you." . He pulled back, finally, and took his scent of sea-salt and the warmth of his skin with him. Kira found herself almost mournful at the loss, then her nose wrinkled with disgust at the thought. It must be the last dregs of the spell he’d had her under, mucking up her mind. She pushed herself to sitting, once he was far enough back, and looked around.

She was back in a bedroom, but not the same one. This one had different portraits of the same people, or maybe other people who looked like the same people. It had the large bed with different canopy and covers, and heavy iron bars on the window, thick enough that the sun barely made its way through. She could feel the hint of iron lacing every wall around her, somehow woven into the very walls. Magic-dampening, leaving her half-helpless, only able to cast spells that only affected her own body.

At least, until he put iron on that, too.

Would the wedding ring be iron? Or a bracelet, welded on, keeping her forever under the thumb of the Lord Guilford Wentworth’s heinous desires? Just another wife in a portrait on the wall, smiling like dumb livestock because her own needs and dreams had been summarily removed, and no way to defend herself-

No way out-

She swallowed the lump in her throat and rubbed her upper arms with her hands, trying to force her breathing to slow down, and her heartbeat with it. Panic was never of any use, and it never solved a problem. “I-I… what. Ah, pardon, but... what is it you don’t understand, then?” Her voice came out thready and weak, but if the siren noticed, he didn’t visibly react.

“You.” He waved one hand at her, thoughtful. He was bruised in so many places, and she blinked as she realized some of those bruises seemed new. Bright red rings around his neck. Had Guilford Wentworth choked him in his anger, after she had been put to sleep on the floor? Had he done worse than that? “You come to work for him," The siren continued, "You come to chain me with human magic like all the others, and now you fear living the same life you would have made me live.”

Kira blinked. “I-... that’s wasn’t-... that’s not what I came here to do, though.”

Areyto stared at her, disbelief written clearly in the twist of his lips and flash of his dark eyes. Either he wasn’t very good at hiding his feelings, or he wasn’t bothering to hide them from her. “Yes, it is.” He held out his right arm, as if she had forgotten about the spellwork slowly fading from his skin. "You come to make this dark again."

“Right, yes, but-... I didn’t know-... I didn’t know he had a man.” The argument felt weak, and his snort in response definitely emphasized how very weak it was.

“I am not a man,” Areyto said, voice flat. Fury bubbled just beneath his outward placidity. "How many times he tells me this? I am an animal, a dumb predator who will kill men for my meals and so can be made to do anything without guilt. It is no sin to rend and defile little more than a demon, he says. Yes? Is that not what a siren is? Wicked and wild?"

“No!” She groaned, putting her hands up over her face. “I-I mean... maybe wild, yes, but it’s not-... I didn’t know you were a creature who could think. The job was meant to be spelling a sea serpent-”

“That is what I am."

"You are not!" Why was she arguing? Somehow, Kira couldn't stop herself. She pushed up to her feet, and Areyto followed suit, the two of them close once again, each with a stubborn set to their jaws, each glaring daggers at the other.

Areyto seemed to realize the reflection they made first, and his expression shifted. He turned and went to the window. "The serpents also think. Not that it matters to men."

Kira told herself not to think about the scars she had seen on his back, down in the room with his pool of water. The scars… everywhere, beneath that plain shirt and pants he wore now. She could nearly picture them even now, barely hidden by the thin linen. He had been tortured, here, again and again and again. Because of magicians like her. “You just cannot speak to them to know it," Areyto muttered. "Your kind knows nothing about the waters.”

“Right… right. All right." She took in a deep breath, put her hands up to admit her defeat. "You say it truly, I am ignorant as to the ocean. But… I do promise, I did not know it would be one... one like you! I didn't know-”

“That you would do harm to a creature who could tell you the harm you do, that is what you did not know. You did not know that you would harm something you think to be pretty.” He looked at her over his shoulder, lip curling in disgust.

It made her hackles raise, to be looked at like that. Even if he had every right to loathe humanity, she couldn't stop herself from brushing the wrinkles from her skirt and then drawing herself to her full height. Her hair was coming loose, curling tendrils coming free and making the back of her neck itch. She set her jaw imperiously. "You don't know me so well as you think."

"Don't I? I know the ones like you. All your pity and your sympathies have never stopped you from making me his, again and again and again, you human magicians. You watch him keep me as a pet and a slave to his wants, whisper your sorries and make your sad faces and then watch me when the pain begins, and ends, and begins again. You are no better than the first one to hurt me. You humans are all exactly the same. You fear me or hate me, and if you feel anything else, it isn't enough to make you lift a hand to save me."

Kira opened her mouth to argue, and then slowly closed it again. “You have been-... ill-used by humans for a very long time,” She said, finally, keeping her voice low and a little soft. “I would hate us very much, if it were me, I think."

His expression stayed flat. "Indeed."

"But-... I would like to say that... that I don't like to think of myself as exactly like anyone or anything, and... I think I can do better by you than the other magicians have."

His face didn't move, but something might have softened around the glare of his eyes.

"But... can I ask-... If you hate us all so much, why are you in this room with me? Why not be… anywhere else, in this house, or however far you are allowed to go?”

Areyto did not answer her. He simply kept his eyes on the outside world, for long seconds ticking by marked by a clock on the wall. The sound might drive her mad, if one of them did not break it soon.

Just when she had drawn together her determination to speak again - having no idea what she would even say if she did - the siren turned around. He was close to her before she could do more than back up a few steps, bringing with him the heavy tension of his innate magic, a wild animal kind that the iron couldn’t dampen so well as it did her own. She swallowed, tipping her chin to meet his eyes as his warm hands closed around her upper arms. His irises shifted within themselves, like seaweed moving slowly in some deep dark place under the water.

“You could use your magic without marking a spell,” He said, voice low. “Without a song. Without the paints or the brush. You did it there, at the table. You could do it again."

Kira shook her head. “I-I don’t know how I did it. We are not meant to be able to-”

“But you did. You must do it again, use that magic. Use it to free me, and yourself, from this place. From this man. That is why I come here to you, and bring you awake so you will speak to me.”

He took her hand in his own, then, closing both of his other her fingers, and she felt an electric charge up her arm as if he were made of lightning. She tensed, her eyes searching his face for the sign of rage, or the rows of sharp teeth she knew were there, beneath the human mouth. But all he did was lean in close, and she felt the puff of his breath as he spoke, pleading with eyes locked on hers. “Please. You are different than they have been before. Be different now. Help me.”

“I’m-... I’m a prisoner as much as you are-”

“Please,” He whispered again. “Please, please help me. You have wild magic. He cannot control that. Not even with my song. Not at all. You must use it to free me, don't leave me here."

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, w-wild-... wild magic-... Look." She shook her head. "No one has that. Magic only works if it's directed-"

“Not yours.” He moved, then, around and past her, to the door. He left her standing there feeling as though he’d taken all the air with him. Left her cold and alone. The door opened and closed, and though when she tried it a half-second later, the doorknob did not turn for her at all, and the iron it was laced with made her palms ache.

She collapsed into an overstuffed padded chair in the corner of the room, a hand to her head, staring at nothing. The spell to make her body her own had faded, while she slept, but if he had noticed he hadn't said anything about that, either. Had shown no sign of even seeing the difference.

His words hung in the air as if he’d carved them into the walls, or painted them onto her skin. A spell, but one made only of terrible, frightened need.

Help me.

Taglist: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee

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99point9percentwhump · 5 months

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@whumpookies who pray tell decided 8 gif limits were the rule for these challenges

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO WORK IN THESE CONDITIONS?!?!?! 🤣

#whump community #whumpcember #amow #HOOOOOWWWWWW

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justplainwhump · 1 year

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The Prisoner

Tyler and Carly interrogate Tara's informant, and Tyler takes desperate measures.

Part of [Way Over His Head / Tyler's story].

Also, this is for @amonthofwhump 12 Days of Whumpmas, Day 6 - "Stress Position" and "Too Late".

Content / warnings: BBU, Facility Whump, Whumper PoV, captivity, stress position, interrogation, drugging (in an interrogation), torture, light notes of medical whump, syringe, memory loss, protagonist making some drastic choices. Seriously. Tyler is not a hero.

The miracle box, Doctor Wood called the collection of vials and syringes in the case Carly had sent Tyler to pick up for the interrogation.

He knew some of the color coded ones, single purpose to induce pain, panic or pleasure.

"All our specialties", the Doc had said. "Don't mix and match though. However much Handler Thompson likes to play. Give it at least two hour before you change colours. Otherwise, the subject's mind gets temporarily..." She mimicked an explosion. "Fried."

Tyler had just nodded. He'd only ever used one of them - purple, the aphrodisiac - to prepare 238 for her owner in the final stages of her training. He lacked the fantasy of what they'd need that one for, when dealing with the pet lib activist and he refused to delve into it any further. Nor did he think about why he had volunteered for this. He could've just gone home. Slept through his hangover. Kept himself from making just another stupid decision in today's collection of stupid decisions. He could've erased that note he'd written the fridge. Went on with his life.

But no, here he was in WRU facility 002, openly carrying a box of drugs, suitable to erase a whole person.

Here he was, covertly carrying a recording phone, barely able to say what he was expecting to find, much less what he would do with it after.

Tyler felt sweat collect in his collar, single droplets running down his spine. Don't let her see, he told himself. Don't make yourself suspicious. Be your normal workplace self. Handler Parker. Doing his job.

He forced himself to unclench his jaw, relax his shoulders, and just walk behind Carly.

Facility 002's interrogation rooms were on the ground floor, just on the other side of the staff cafeteria. Tyler had never been to this wing of the building, he realized, as matching the pace of Carly's easy stroll. He'd expected storage rooms here, or garages, or something maintenance-related. He'd not expected barred cells that were even tinier than the rooms they kept the trainees in. He'd not expected rooms so obviously fitted with hooks and chains and torture implements.

It made sense, in a way.

What they did to the trainees in the main wings happened in clinically clean white rooms, with uniform layouts and precisely inventarised equipment. Well documented, perfectly designed. They had chaptered handbooks and detailed reports. Rules and regulations. It was horrifying, how easily he'd adapted to that framework.

And now, here, in the not-even-secret, not-even-in-the-basement, wing C, the sheer cover was stripped to expose what it really was WRU did. They were torturers. It was nothing but a business model.

They were torturers, and Handler Tyler Parker was one of them.

His knees threatened to give in, and he leaned to a wall, as casual as he could manage. Keys jingled, when Carly opened one of the doors. Keys, not the perfectly white key cards with the handlers' ID numbers on them. Of course. No paper trail. Not even in their systems.

"I'd love to tell you she's a piece of work," Carly said conversationally, while pushing the door open. "But she's not. She's a weak and whiny cry baby, broken as can be. No idea where she got the guts to stand up to us, but I guess it was a person, and I guess she'll give us some names soon, will you, kitten?"

All she got in return was a pained, high pitched whine.

The woman was strung up in the middle of the room, bent forward, with her arms fixated to a metal bar that pressed against her shoulders. A chain from the ceiling pulled the bar up, while another to the ground forced the woman to kneel.

It looked like something he'd be disciplined for, using on 238. Too dangerous, too much risk for lasting damage. But this one? She wasn't an investment. She wasn't here to be sold, she was here only to be broken.

A garbled scream escaped from her throat when Carly rested a gloved hand on the prisoner's strained shoulder. "Zsuzsanna. Susy, I recall, to your friends?"

"Please," she whimpered. "I know nothing! I never did anything. Please, let me go."

Without so much as a change of expression, Carly backhanded her, watching as she screamed and her body spasmed in pain. "Drop the drama, Suzy. We all know you'll cease to exist once this is done. Question is, how long will your pretty body make it. Do we go through the effort to find pet 002242, the one with your face on it, a nice loving home, or do we use her as a bait in Guard Dog training. Personally, I favour the latter. Poetic ending for a pet lib slut, being torn to pieces by the very pets you wanted to save." She chuckled to herself. "But. This is not about me. It's your call. Will you give us some names, some of those pet lib friends of yours, or will you seal 242's fate?"

"Please!" The woman looked up, dark eyes searching for Tyler, silently pleading. Her face was wet, covered in a thin film of tears and snot. She looked horrible. For a moment he wondered, if that was normal. If all involuntary acquisitions went through that. If their perfect, pretty 238 had been messily begging like that, too. He'd made the lying to himself so easy.

Tyler shook his head, folded his arms and straightened his back. His grey handler's uniform felt too tight around his neck. The weight of the phone in his pocket felt too heavy. The prisoner didn't notice, though. Tyler was tall and muscular, didn't need much effort to be intimidating.

"Too late," he said. He was talking to himself, more than her, and it felt horrible.

Her sob turned into a scream when Carly's baton cut through the air and landed on her ribs.

"Tyler, give me some of the yellow," she said smugly, before bringing down the baton again, calling forth another cry. "Let's spice this up. We don't have forever. I want to watch the game at four."

Tyler opened the kit with numb fingers, while Carly paused her beating long enough for letting the prisoner see the vials.

Natural team work. As if they did this every day. And, Tyler realized, he did. Him and Alan with 238. A demonstration of scary effic, their routines gripping into each other like matched dials.

"Yellow," Carly said, as she turned to watch Tyler draw up the syringe. "It's for pain, you know. After that, the tiniest brush of my fingers will hurt you, more than my baton could. I can caress you into agony." Her fingers lightly wandered over the woman's arm, and she whined under Carly's touch. "Please, I... I don't even know pet lib, I just... I just try and protect the kids in my shelter, please..."

"Already getting talkative, huh?" Carly's fingers ran over the woman's neck playfully, up, until she cupped her cheek. "How about we start with this journalist you've been talking to, then?"

The syringe almost snapped in Tyler's hand. No. No. Not Tara, not so soon.

"Journalist? I haven't... I don't know what you're talking about, I... She's..."

"Ty?" Carly prompted.

He stared into the kit. Colours mashed into a blur in front of his eyes. 'The journalist'. She couldn't. He... He couldn't.

"She's got... nothing to do with this, please, I... I don't..." He heard another whimper. Carly had wrapped her fingers around the prisoners neck, leaned in obscenely close, as she whispered something into her ear. None of them looked at him. None of them saw, how he snapped open another vial with shaking fingers.

Don't ever mix and match.

He hoped it'd be fast. He hoped it'd be okay.

"Come on." Carly grabbed the woman's hair and yanked her head to the side, other hand taking the syringe from Tyler and jabbing it into the woman's bared neck.

She didn't even scream.

#amow winter whumperland 2022 #amow #stress position #bbu #facility whump #torture #manhandling #interrogation #drugging #memory loss #whumper pov #tyler parker #handler Carly Thompson #Carly

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amonthofwhump · 5 months

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It's that time of year again! AMonthOfWhump's Winter Whumperland event runs from December 1-12, with a collection of prompts for your inspiration each day. To participate, create in any medium and share your works on Tumblr. Use the event tags or @ us in your post to get reblogged here. Prompt list transcript, tagging info, and a free-to-use post header under the cut.

1: Santa Claus

Claustrophobia

Forced Celebration

Panic Attack

Comfort: Secret Santa Exchange

2: Krampus

Sensory Overload

Temptation

Whipping

Comfort: Decorating Cookies

3: George Bailey

"We've lost everything we have."

Disowned

Drowning

Comfort: Christmas Market

4: The Grinch

Sedatives

Blackmail

Yandere Whumper

Comfort: Ugly Sweater Party

5: Ebenezer Scrooge

Power Outage

Time Loop

Overworked Whumpee

Comfort: Snuggling by the Fire

6: Jack Frost

Post-apocalyptic Winter

Amnesia

Comfort turned to Fear

Comfort: Snowball Fight

7: Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer

Inhuman Whumpee

Exile

Self-sacrifice

Comfort: You’re Not Alone

8: John Mclane

Held Hostage

Russian Roulette

Forced to Watch

Comfort: Rescue

9: Jólakötturinn

Feral Whumpee

Left Behind

Collared

Comfort: Wiping the Other’s Tears Away

10: Tio de Nadal

Conditioning

Left to Die

Final Countdown

Comfort: Holiday Traditions

11: The Yule Goat

Branding

Stitches

Public Whump

Comfort: Trimming the Tree

12: Elf on the Shelf

Trapped

Bedside Vigil

Used as bait

Comfort: Mistletoe (or avoiding it)

Event Tags: #amow winter whumperland 2023, #day1, #claustrophobia, (tag the prompt you're using)

And lastly, here is a post header to use for the event if you like. Happy whumping!

#whump event #amow winter whumperland 2023 #whump prompt list #whump challenge #whump community

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sardonic-sprite · 1 year

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Home Alone

Some days, Tim was really fucking glad to have Batman for a next-door neighbor.

He couldn't exactly remember a time when he was quite this glad or relieved, though. He'd never been on the verge of being kidnapped before.

But that was ok. He wasn't going to be kidnapped.

He had a plan.

Call the police would probably have been more rational, but the power was all still dead from the snowstorm, and Tim figured the roads to Bristol were blocked up, too. At the very least, his driveway was, and it was long enough to be considered its own short road.

Stupid fucking snowstorm. It was its fault that Tim's parents couldn't get back in town, and that he was alone and trying not to end up kidnapped on Christmas.

But it was ok. Because he wouldn't. Because he had a plan. And about two hours to set it into motion. And if it failed, the kidnappers were probably just going to be so pissed they'd kill Tim, so technically his goal of don't get kidnapped would still be met.

Technicalities were usually much more fun.

Tim ran around the house in a frenzy, darting glances out the window every few minutes to make sure the creepy men hadn't gotten any closer. But no, they were still huddled around their fires out in the yard, waiting for him to surrender.

Big fat nope to that one. Tim didn't know who they were working for, or why that guy wanted an eleven-year-old kid, but he knew it was most definitely for something very bad, and he wasn't interested in the particulars.

He paused, shuddering at the thought that entered his head, then scattered a few more Lego pieces on the floor.

The thing was, Tim could neither call for help nor run away while the power was out and the bad guys were surrounding the house. But if he got them inside the house, and made sure they couldn't follow, then he could race across the half-mile stretch to the property line. Crossing that would trigger Batman's security, and he'd come and investigate and bring Tim somewhere safe and beat up the bad guys, and maybe even be impressed at how clever and resourceful Tim had been.

Of course, even getting outside hinged on how many bad guys actually did come inside, and how many got caught in Tim's traps long enough to give him a head start. The traps had never been tested, after all, and Tim only had time for so many math calculations to determine their effectiveness. Drake Manor was also so large that he couldn't sufficiently cover it. He'd have to guide the bad guys where he wanted them to go.

Which meant he was using himself as live bait.

... It was gonna be fine.

The clock began striking nine as Tim finished his second-floor traps and double-checked the wiring. His heartbeat was going crazy in his chest, and he took deep, slow breaths in time with the chimes to steady himself. If he hyperventilated and passed out, he was worse than dead.

"TIMOTHY DRAKE," boomed the voice that had called out before, somehow magnified so that each word was perfectly clear, "THIS IS YOUR LAST CHANCE. SURRENDER NOW AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. REFUSE, AND WE WILL USE ALL FORCE TO APPREHEND YOU."

Tim threw open the nearest window and stuck his head out, squinting against the snow to see the nearest fire. He didn't know if the man was at that one or not, but it didn't matter. He was sure his cry of "FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE! EAT SHIT!" was heard by all.

He slammed the window shut as the voice yelled furiously and sprinted down the stairs, skipping over the wires and traps. He wasn't sure how many were going to enter in each direction, but the first landing was the best place to bring them all closer.

Tim had to wait there for several minutes, anxiety building, before he heard the first cry of pain. It sounded like it came from the front door, and Tim smirked, thinking of the heavy vase that had just gotten shattered over the bad guy's head.

Strangled swearing erupted from the kitchen where superglue had stolen shoes to bare feet to a sea of Legos. A howl rose from the living room where a hot plate had been set under the window.

"DRAKE!"

"Last chance to surrender!" Tim hollered mockingly, wiping sweaty hands on his pants.

Screams and a terribly loud bang meant that his flashbomb had successfully blinded someone, and the most creative swear Tim had ever heard in his life confirmed that sticking his mother's sewing needles into the grey carpet had been a stroke of genius.

"You will pay for this, you insolent whelp!"

"You want it in cash or credit?" Tim needed them closer. Besides, it was just a little bit fun to tease.

"In blood!"

The first man appeared at the foot of the stairs. He held his right hand close to his chest, but otherwise looked unharmed. He must have avoided the lighter in the hall, though by the sound of it, one of his buddies hadn't.

Tim gulped. All he could see above the black ninja mask was the man's eyes, and he looked furious.

"Um, how about traveler's checks?"

The man started up the stairs with a roar and immediately toppled backwards, slipping on the generous coating of oil over the hardwood.

"Oh, yeah, I just polished that."

One man staggered into the foyer from the front hall. He still had dust and broken pottery on his head and shoulders, and his eyes looked unfocused. Another limped in from the kitchen, barefoot and glaring. He drew a knife, and Tim scrambled backwards.

"No!" The first man grabbed the other's wrist. He didn't look happy about it, but he said, "Lord Ra's wants the boy alive."

"He can live without his arrogant little tongue!"

Tim tried to think up something clever to say, to get them to come up the stairs, but he really did not want them any closer than they were. Out in the yard, they couldn't hurt him, but here they could. They could hurt Tim very, very bad.

Two more ninjas stumbled in, one blinking and squinting, pant leg still smoldering. The other, who looked like a woman, was walking on the sides of her feet. She left a thin trail of blood behind her, and Tim both felt sorry and wished it were worse all at once.

"He's lost his tongue even without your blade, Hans," laughed the first man. "Not so brave now, are you, boy?"

Brave, Tim. Brave like Robin.

Jason wouldn't be scared of these goons, and neither would Dick. Dick would make fun of them, and Jason would cuss them out, so Tim did both.

"Like hell I'm scared of you shit-faces! The wax dummies at the history museum would make better ninjas than you!"

Hans yelled and ran at the stairs. He didn't hear the first man yell, "Fool, it's oiled!" until he was already flat on his back. Tim listened very hard, but couldn't hear anyone else in the house. He taunted, "Where's the rest of you? Maybe you could use the power of friendship to figure it out," to make sure.

"Thank whatever god guards you there are none others," the woman snarled. "Or you would choke on your blood even as you laugh."

"Dramatic," Tim quipped weakly, voice a bit too high.

"How did we fail him that Lord Ra's would punish us this way," moaned Pottery Man. "Being tormented and mocked by an infant."

"Hey!" Tim cried, indignant. "I'm eleven and five twelfths!"

"Enough of this!" Number One shouted. "Hans, the servant's stair, Edda, the back stair. Jethro, the dumbwaiter." They scattered, and One began stalking up the oiled stairs, clinging to the rail and motioning the blinded man to stay behind. "You think we do not know every hall and stair in this house, boy? Every entrance and exit? What do you think will be your salvation if you stall us?"

Tim swallowed, edging into the hall and carefully pushing open the first door. He may have to adjust his escape plan.

"Indiana Jones, Raiders of the Lost Ark, Steven Spielberg, 1981!" Tim hollered. He dove out of the way as his father's massive, prized floor globe, the one twice the size and weight of Tim, rolled down the improvised ramp and onto the stairwell, gathering speed every second.

Tim took off, running down the hall to his bedroom without looking back. He heard screaming from several parts of the house, and would have jeered at them about not expecting him to know how to trap his own house, but he no longer wanted to give away his location. He'd need extra time now. Climbing down from his window was going to be a hell of a lot harder than climbing the rope he'd put in the dumbwaiter for himself.

Tim pulled out his army knife as he passed the dumbwaiter door and started sawing at the rope, grateful the set-up could double as another trap. He didn't even have to cut all the way through, the ninja's weight snapping the fibers in seconds once they frayed. He heard a yell and an awful snap.

The cry of, "I'll kill you, brat!" should not have been comforting, but Tim didn't want to have killed anybody, so it was.

He made it to his room, shut and locked the door, then shoved his dresser against it, grunting and panting. He had to lean against it for a moment to catch his breath, swiping the sweat from his forehead. He gave himself thirty seconds, but dropped it to twenty when the shouting drew nearer.

"I can do this," Tim whispered, stepping onto the windowsill and staring down. "I can totally, one hundred percent do this."

He sat down and shimmied around until he was clutching the window ledge with ungloved hands. His fingers were already freezing. His toes hung and flailed in open air for a few terrifying seconds before they found crevices in the weathered brick.

Tim took a deep breath.

Slowly, inch by inch, he worked his way down the wall until his feet hit the top of the first floor window. His fingers scraped and bled against the bricks, turning white with cold and terror. Sweat ran down his face and back, making him hot and cold both at once. Once he got his hand or foot on a hold, it was hard to make himself move again.

Carefully -- oh, so, so carefully, when Tim's feet hit the top of that window, did he turn his head over his shoulder. The snow rose to the bottom of the window, making the drop only about three feet into a cushion. Tim closed his eyes and jumped.

The snow crunched loudly beneath him, and he broke through it up to his knees. He didn't dare waste time celebrating, but immediately started off, hoping the blizzard would help to cover his tracks.

Half a mile due east. Tim could make it.

Half a mile through ever-deeper snow, in wind and dark, with only a coat and boots, and furious ninjas hunting him down.

Tim had to make it.

At first he tried to run, shoving his hands in his pockets to make them warm, but it was like trying to run through a pool, and Tim soon found himself basically swimming with his arms and legs. Within minutes (though each felt like an hour) he couldn't feel his fingers at all.

The snow was high enough to slip into the tops of his boots, melting into his socks and making his feet grow numb. Tim started crying, only realizing it when the tear tracks burned down his cheeks and froze there. Every breath became a white cloud in front of his face.

The whole world had turned into the snowstorm. Tim didn't know anymore if he was going east or west, north or south, up or down. If he was still going towards Batman and safety, or if he'd got so turned around he was about to run right into the ninjas' arms. He stumbled and staggered, knowing he had to keep moving no matter where he ended up. Fall down in the snow, and he was never getting back up.

Then finally, finally, Tim saw light in the distance.

"Help!" he cried, but his voice was ripped away by the wind.

"Batman! Mr. Wayne! Robin! Help me, please!"

A shadow blocked the light, and Tim sobbed in relief as arms hugged him tight.

"So this was your clever plan, was it, boy? No wonder Lord Ra's took an interest in you."

Tim screamed and started thrashing, but the ninja had his arms pinned, and the snow blocked his kicks. He tried to bite, but there was nothing in front of his face but thick cloth.

"Let go!" he wailed. He was so close, he couldn't fail now. "Let me fucking go! Hel--mmph!"

Tim was spun around and a hand covered his mouth, grip bruisingly tight, enough that Tim couldn't even move his jaw, let alone bite.

"Oh, no, boy," the ninja snarled in his ear. "You will be brought before the Demon's Head, and punished for every injury inflicted, and even the great Detective can't save you!"

"Can't he?"

Tim's heart leapt as a hulking shadow appeared out of the snow, Batman's unmistakable growl now a roar over the wind. He had done it! He'd gotten to Batman! He was saved!

And then he felt ice cold metal against his throat.

"Stay out of this, Detective. Lord Ra's cares not if he must resurrect his prize."

Tim trembled, even though he'd stopped shivering ages ago. He didn't know what that meant, but he never wanted to find out.

"He should care that Gotham and its people are under my protection. Let the boy go, or there will be retaliation."

"We do not fear your posturing, Detective," the ninja sneered. He started dragging Tim back, away from Batman and safety. "And we do not fear your allies. But continue to oppose us now, and we will strike you down--"

"Wanna bet?"

There was a loud thunk and the ninja's hold went slack. The knife dropped to the snow, its wielder crumpling, and Tim stumbled, grabbing for his throat to be sure it wasn't bleeding.

"Kid? Kid, what's wrong, are you hurt?" Robin hollered over the wind.

Tim slowly shook his head, staring at the ninja. He felt something warm and big and surprisingly soft drape over his shoulders, like a blanket, and looked up to see Batman leaning over him with his cape.

"You're freezing," he murmured, sounding much more like Mr. Wayne. "Robin, get him inside!" His voice dipped back to a growl as he said, "I'll deal with the League."

"Here, kid."

Batman was replaced by Robin, but the cloak remained wrapped around Tim. He was bundled tighter into it, then scooped right off the ground and into Robin's arms. He squeaked in surprise, but pressed closer because Robin was so warm.

"Geez, you're tiny!" Robin half-shouted, wading through the snow only a little faster than Tim had. "How old are you, kid?"

"Eleven and a half," Tim mumbled. Jason Todd was a fine one to talk about being small for one's age.

As Robin muttered something like, because the half makes all the difference, a big black shape loomed out of the snow right in front of Tim's face. It took him far too long to realize it was a Bat-Snowmobile; Robin had plopped him on top and climbed on behind him before he registered the headlights had turned on.

"Hang on tight!" Robin ordered, and the engine roared to life.

Tim yelped, grabbing Robin as the vehicle lurched and zoomed into the storm, throwing his arms around the older boy's neck and hiding his face against his shoulder. One arm wrapped around Tim's waist and gently squeezed.

"Just hang in there a few more minutes, squirt. It's not far."

"What's not far?"

Not Tim's house. Please, not Tim's house. He didn't want to go back and run into the rest of the bad guys -- the League -- without Batman. Robin was awesome and warm, but Batman was powerful, and Tim didn't think the League would give up without more of a fight.

Robin hesitated before answering. "Wayne Manor is just under a quarter mile. They can look after you while I go back to help Batman."

Tim sighed in relief. Wayne Manor would be warm and safe, and until Batman and Robin came back to be Bruce Wayne and Jason Todd, Tim would no doubt be looked after by Alfred Pennyworth, and he was as powerful as Batman himself in Tim's book.

I did it, he thought happily, cuddling closer to Robin's warmth. I actually fucking did it.

"Eat shit, Lord Ra's."

Robin laughed.

After only a few more minutes, Wayne Manor appeared, looming out of the dark with a few cheerily lit windows. There was a glowing Christmas tree visible through one, and seeing it warmed something other than Tim's fingers.

Robin parked the Bat-Snowmobile outside the back kitchen door and swung himself off, then scooped up Tim to plop him on the ground. He kept an arm around Tim's shoulders as he went and knocked on the door. Tim could see the kitchen lights on, and it only took a minute before the door opened to reveal Alfred Pennyworth in a robe and nightshirt.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, and immediately backed up to usher them inside.

"Mr. Pennyworth, this is Tim Drake, your next-door neighbor," Robin introduced. "His home was attacked tonight by the League of Assassins, and he had to run a long way through the cold. If you would look after him and warm him up, Batman and I will be back before too long."

"I-- yes, of course," Mr. Pennyworth said, surprise changing to concern. "Thank you, Master Robin."

Robin nodded and ruffled Tim's hair. "You'll be safe here for a while, ok, squirt? Batman or I'll be back soon."

Tim nodded, and Robin grinned and left. Tim could hear the roar of the Bat-Snowmobile as it tore off outside.

Mr. Pennyworth turned to put a kettle on the stove, then told Tim, "Come, let's get you out of those wet things, Master Tim."

Tim nodded eagerly, stumbling a bit on frozen feet as he followed Mr. Pennyworth to a bathroom, still clutching Batman's cape around his shoulders.

"I'll set some of Master Jason's things outside the door for you. You're about the same size, I think. If you can find your way back to the kitchen, I'll have hot cocoa ready in moments."

"You don't have to go to any trouble," Tim said shyly.

"Nonsense, dear boy." Mr. Pennyworth smiled. "Tisn't any trouble at all, I assure you."

He left, and Tim stripped out of his sweats and socks. He hated to drop Batman's cape on the ground, but it had gotten soggy with snow just like everything else. He tried to fold it up, but it was like trying to fold his sheets, it was so huge.

A knock came at the door, and Mr. Pennyworth called that there were pajamas and a sweatshirt outside. Tim answered with a thank you and waited a moment before sticking one hand out the door to snatch the bundle.

He was startled into a laugh to see that the pajamas were themed like Batman and the hoodie like Nightwing. He wondered if Dick had gotten it for Jason. There were also a non-themed pair of slippers, and now that the feeling was coming back to Tim's toes, he could tell they were wonderfully soft.

Once dressed, he found his way back to the kitchen, where a kettle was starting to whistle before Mr. Pennyworth plucked it off the stove.

"Warming up, Master Tim?"

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Pennyworth."

The butler tutted. "Alfred is quite alright, dear boy."

"Thank you, Alfred," Tim corrected shyly. He'd never called an adult by their first name before.

A very loud yawn from behind made Tim jump, turning to look at the doorway, where...

Tim blinked.

Where stood Jason Todd.

He was dressed in Wonder Woman pajama pants and a red hoodie, rumpled like he'd been asleep, but his hair was still damp and his nose and cheeks pink from the snow and cold. His eyes looked bleary and sleepy, like he'd just woken up, but he most definitely scanned over Tim like he was looking for injuries.

"'S goin' on, Alf?" he asked, slurring his voice to sound half-awake. "Who's that?"

Tim just kept staring, dumbfounded, as Alfred said, "You recall young Timothy Drake, Master Jason? I'm afraid he ran into quite the spot of trouble tonight. Robin brought him here for us to look after until the situation is resolved."

Jason's eyes widened like he hadn't himself, as Robin, dropped Tim off ten minutes ago. "No way," he muttered. "What the hell were you doing, Timbit, that you got mixed up in superhero stuff?"

Tim hesitated.

"Batman! Mr. Wayne! Robin! Help me, please!"

"So this was your clever plan, was it, boy? No wonder Lord Ra's took an interest in you."

Tim hadn't had any idea just why he was being almost-kidnapped, except maybe for ransom or something, until the ninja had said that, and Batman showed up seeming to know all about that Lord Ra's guy and his ninja-kidnappers. At the time, he'd been too terrified to analyze, but now he wondered...

Did Ra's somehow know that Tim knew who Batman was? Tim didn't think that was possible. He hadn't even told his parents. But maybe Ra's was a mind-reader. Or had some kind of special powers. But then why would he need Tim to tell him who Batman was? Especially when the ninja sounded like Ra's and his League already knew all about Batman.

"Timber?"

Tim blinked and looked back at Jason. He and Alfred were both watching Tim, sharp-eyed. That was when he realized Jason wasn't just asking as a shocked civilian, he was investigating as Robin. In order to protect Tim, he and Batman needed to know why he'd been endangered in the first place.

"I...I don't know," he admitted. Jason's mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown, until Tim hesitantly added, "But I might have a guess?"

"Yeah? What do you think?"

Alfred set a cup of steaming cocoa on the table in front of Tim. It warmed his face, and he almost thought it burned his hands when he cupped them around it, but he didn't care. One sip warmed him all over inside, like he hadn't been cold or frightened at all. He wondered if Alfred was magic.

There was another clink of ceramic, and Tim realized Jason had gotten a mug of cocoa, too, and had sat down across from Tim. He held out a bowl of marshmallows, and Tim took two with a soft thanks.

Jason waited until Tim had taken two more sips before prompting, "Timmers? What's your guess?"

Tim took a deep breath, trying to calculate how mad Batman was going to be when he found out, and blurted, "I know who Batman and Robin are."

"What? No way! Who are they? How did you figure it out?" Jason gasped, face splitting into a grin, looking for all the world like someone expecting to hear the most amazing secret in the world.

But Tim saw the panic behind his eyes.

"I wouldn't tell you, if you didn't know," he promised. "But they're you. You and Mr. Wayne. I... I know because it was Dick Grayson first. He's the only person ever who can do a quadruple flip, and I saw Robin do it with my own eyes."

Jason stared.

Alfred stared.

Tim ducked his head and stared at his cocoa.

Then Jason said slowly, "You... you saw the first Robin in person? Doing a four-flip?"

"Yes?"

"How... how old were you?"

Tim frowned, calculating. "Nine?"

Alfred coughed.

"You were nine," Jason repeated. "And you were out in Gotham and saw Robin. Doing a fancy flip. And figured out one of the most dangerous and well-kept secrets in the city."

"Yes," Tim said, a bit more confidently. "Like I said, only Dick Grayson can do that flip. And if he's Robin, Bruce Wayne has to be Batman. And you have to be the next Robin. It's... it's just logic."

It's just logic, Jason mouthed. His lips stayed parted in astonishment as he turned to look at Alfred.

"That's... quite impressive, Master Tim," he managed. "Although, might I inquire... just what were the circumstances under which you saw Robin's flip?"

Tim hastily took a sip of cocoa. Jason raised his eyebrows and copied him, not setting down his mug until Tim did. Tim immediately took another sip. Jason and Alfred exchanged a glance.

"IusedtofollowBatmanandRobinaroundatnightandtakepictures," Tim blurted.

Jason blinked rapidly several times before suggesting, "A-again... slowly, please?"

"I... I used to, to follow Batman and Robin around at night. And take pictures."

"And your parents let you?" Jason yelped.

"They didn't... exactly know?"

"How...?" Jason's voice kept sounding more and more strangled. If Tim didn't know better, he'd have thought an invisible villain was throttling him.

"Well..." Tim ducked his head, shoulders almost rising to his ears. He stared intently at the melting marshmallows in his cocoa as he said, "They're not really around much."

"What exactly do you mean by 'not much,' Master Tim?" Alfred asked, both firm and kind, but also concerned.

Tim's ears felt hot. "They're usually on digs. They come back for a weekend or so every couple months. So they never knew I went out at night. I never told them I figured out who you are. I promise that I've never told anybody, and I never would tell anybody, even that Ra's guy, no matter what he did!"

He looked back up at Jason and Alfred, hoping they could see the honesty in his face.

Their faces showed a mix of shock and horror. Jason's eyes were wide and round, but Alfred's were pinched, and his mouth was drawn into a hard line. Tim swallowed nervously.

"You're a very impressive young lad, Master Tim," Alfred said in a carefully measured voice. "If you'll excuse me a moment, I think I ought to go inform Master Bruce of... these developments. I assume your parents were not home tonight?"

"Their flight got cancelled," Tim admitted. He wondered for the first time, as Alfred nodded curtly and stepped out of the room, if Batman had a mind-wipe machine or something. He very much hoped not.

Jason made a low whistle, then murmured, "Well, damn." He took a sip of cocoa, looking at the door Alfred had left through.

"What's 'well damn'?" Tim asked, voice too high.

"Alfie's 'bout'a go off," Jason chuckled, then, seeing Tim's expression, clarified, "not on you, Timberly, on your parents. And Ra's. Definitely also on Ra's."

"Why would Alfred be mad at my parents? And what does he need to tell Batman? Are you mad at me? Because I figured it out? Or..." Tim gasped in horror. "Or because I led them here? I led them here! Oh, God, I told a villain who Batman is! I--"

"Tim! Tim, calm down, it's ok!" Jason seemed torn between laughter and concern, but he reached out and put a bracing hand on Tim's shoulder. "You didn't do anything wrong. Ra's already knows who we are. Alfred just has to tell Bruce, um. Not to look for your parents. And why they're not there. And that's why he's pissed off, because nobody should leave a little kid all by himself for all but a few weekends out of the year."

Jason looked pissed himself when he said the last bit. Unfortunately, all of it just left Tim with even more questions. But even as he opened his mouth to ask them, there was a loud rattling and banging from above.

"What was that?" Tim yelped, jumping and spilling cocoa on the table.

"The storm," Jason said, completely expressionless. He grabbed some napkins from the holder on the table and dropped them on the spill, clearing it with one neat swipe. "Don't worry about it."

"You're sure it's not the ninjas?"

Jason snorted. "Don't ever let them hear you call them that. I'm sure, kid. Batman's got it covered."

Alfred came back into the kitchen muttering about reception, and took Tim's and Jason's empty mugs over to the sink to wash. There was a loud pounding from up above, first moving distant, then drawing near again. Tim realized it was running feet.

He raised his eyebrows at Jason.

"The storm, huh?"

Jason shrugged with a smile too mischievous to be innocent.

A moment later, Bruce Wayne appeared in the doorway, hair mussed and face pink, barefoot and wearing a red bathrobe that did not succeed at hiding the Batsuit underneath.

The way he blinked and squinted at the warm kitchen light appeared genuine, but he sounded far too awake as he said, "Alfred, what's going on? Who's this? Jason? I thought you went to bed."

Jason glanced at Tim, mischief peaking.

"Dad!" he exclaimed, jumping up and running over. "Dad, you'll never guess what happened! This is Tim Drake, from next door, and he was attacked by supervillains and Batman and Robin came and saved him and brought him here!"

"Oh! My... God..." Mr. Wayne faltered, glancing from Alfred (who's back was turned to hide his smile) to Tim (who was just as confused as he seemed) to Jason (who was grinning just a bit too wide), before narrowing a bit at the last one.

Jason beamed up at him, and Mr. Wayne apparently decided not to worry about it, because he turned to Tim and asked, "Are you alright, Tim?"

"I... think so," Tim said slowly, staring at Jason, who was mouthing at him. Mr. Wayne glanced down at his son suspiciously, but Jason shut his mouth in an instant.

"Are you hurt at all? Cold?"

"No, I'm ok now. Mr... uh, Alfred's hot chocolate warmed me right up."

Mr. Wayne smiled. "It does that quite well. Are..." He turned hesitant again, glancing at them all before asking, "Do you know if your parents are alright? If they escaped?"

"They weren't even there," Jason said, bright smile turning downright ferocious. "They leave Tim all alone in the house all year and only come in for a weekend every once in a while. And since that's criminal neglect, and Batman and Robin asked us to take care of him, I guess I got a little brother for Christmas like I asked for after all!"

Tim stared. Mr. Wayne stared. Jason beamed. Alfred coughed in a way that sounded much too much like a laugh.

"Um..." Tim started, but had no idea how to continue.

"It... I... don't think it's all quite that simple, Jay," Mr. Wayne cautioned hesitantly. Jason just stared straight up into his face, both grinning and glaring at the same time. It was mildly terrifying, and Mr. Wayne cleared his throat before turning to Tim. "But of course, you're more than welcome to stay with us until it's safe. We'll be glad to have you."

Tim stammered out a thank you, wondering if Mr. Wayne offered because he knew as Batman that it wasn't safe. He hoped not. As awesome as being Jason Todd's little brother sounded, Tim already had parents and a home, even if they were... distant. He also wondered why Jason was pretending he was an ordinary civilian, and that Tim didn't know better. And Alfred was going along with it, even though he'd been about to tell Batman everything just before.

"If you're quite warm and well, Master Tim, I think a good night's rest would do you good," Alfred said, "as it would the rest of us."

"Oh. Um, yes." Tim blinked and looked at the clock, which read 11:30 PM. "Sleep. Yeah."

"Great!" Jason chirped. He did a cartwheel over to Tim, channeling Dick Grayson, probably, and pulled him up, slinging his arm over Tim's shoulders. "C'mon, Timbers, we can have a sleepover in my room."

"Uh, sure."

A sleepover with Robin? Tim was equal parts confused and ecstatic. He followed Jason past a mystified Mr. Wayne, who wished them both goodnight, and up a small back staircase to the second floor.

It wasn't until Jason had showed them into his room and they got settled in bed that Tim finally asked, "Jason? Why didn't we tell Mr. Wayne that I know who you are? Isn't it kind of important?"

"Oh, Timmy Tim Timmers. Think about it. We only get to tell him that once."

"But-- oh. Ohhh."

"Exactly." Jason sounded smug. "Just you wait, Timbit. I have a feeling you and I are gonna be the holiest terrors this city ever saw."

#feral tim drake #ra's: 5 ninjas should do it right?#he's like a toddler itll be fine #tim: fucking bet you old assbutt #day 2 #home alone #tim drake #bruce wayne #batfam #fic #ao3 writer #sprite wrote #amow winter whumperland 2022 #day 5 #trapped in a blizzard #day 10 #hot chocolate #jason todd #alfred pennyworth

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cricket-reader · 1 year

Text

Sick Day

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox

Summary: Matt isn’t very happy when he comes home and discovers that his girlfriend had kept her sickness from him. He makes sure she is well taken care of before they go to bed.

Warnings: language, sickness, pet names, Matt being an overprotective simp, fluffy

Word Count: 960

Prompt: Sickfic, headache, cold/fever, blankets, hot drink (except I changed it to hot soup)

A/N: day 5 of March Trope-A-Thon by @amonthofwhump

Today had been horrible. She awoke to see that Matt had left early to go to work. On top of that, she felt like shit. Her head was pounding and she was burning up. Her nose felt stuffy, and her muscles ached.

She got up and took her temperature to see that she had a fever of 100.7 degrees Fahrenheit. She called into work and made her way over to the couch, not wanting to get the bed all disgusting from her sickness. Matt would still sleep there, after all. He didn’t need to come home to a bed that smelled like sweat and sickness. Whatever the hell “sickness” smelled like.

Matt frowned as he entered his apartment. He could hear the coughing as soon as he entered the complex. He could hear shifting on the couch, telling him his girlfriend was camped out in the living room with some blankets.

“Sweetheart?” Matt questioned, setting down his cane. He heard a groan as he walked over to the couch. “Why didn’t you call me to tell you that you were sick?”

“Didn’t wanna bother you,” she mumbled, sniffling a bit. “I know you’ve been busy lately.”

“I’m never too busy for you, love. I would have come home earlier if you called.”

She sighed. “I know, and that’s why I didn’t.”

“Well you should have,” he admonished her. She always did this. Her needs were never one of her priorities. She put everyone before her, and it bothered the ever-loving shit out of him. Because Matt knew she deserved the world. No, she deserved more than that. The universe, maybe.

She just huffed in irritation, knowing that there was absolutely no way she was going to win this argument.

“Have you eaten today?” Matt questioned as he leaned against the armrest of the couch. She cursed how well he knew her.

“No, I didn’t wanna get up.”

Matt just shook his head as he got up to make some soup. He glared in her direction when he heard her shift, knowing that she was trying to get up to help him. “Don’t you even try, young lady.” He put a pot on the stove.

“I just wanna help. You’ve been at work all day while I’ve just been sitting on my ass!”

Matt turned his head in her direction and gave her an incredulous look. “You’ve been sick!”

“That’s no excuse!”

“What if I was the one that was sick?”

“That’s different,” she pouted, crossing her arms as she watched him pour a pre-made homemade soup into the warm pot. She blew her nose with a tissue, her nose already red and raw from blowing it so much.

“And how, pray tell, is that different?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because it’s you!”

“Your logic is lacking, hun.”

She just groaned and flopped back onto the couch dramatically. A cold spell made her shiver. She grabbed one of the blankets and furrowed into it. She had been having hot and cold flashes off and on all day. She couldn’t wait for it to be over.

Turning off the stove when the soup was finished, he put it in a bowl before moving over to the couch. Setting it on the coffee table, he noted that her breathing had slowed; she must have been asleep.

“Sweetheart?” Matt gently shook her awake. He felt horrible for disrupting her, but she needed to get food in her system if she wanted to get better. She groaned, turning to bury herself further into the couch. “Baby, you need to get some food in your body. Then we can cuddle and get some sleep, okay?”

She blinked awake, groggily lifting her hands to rub at her eyes. “Cuddles?”

Matt’s heart melted hearing her soft little voice. It’s moments like that when he falls impossibly deeper in love with his precious girlfriend. He never thinks it’s possible to love her even more, but somehow he does manage. “Anything you want, baby.”

She smiled and took the soup from him. Matt scooted closer to her body and she snuggled against him as she began to blow on the soup.

The soup was hot in her mouth, but it felt good, warming her insides. “Thanks, Matty. You’re the best boyfriend.”

“It helps to have such a great girlfriend,” he flirted with her, loving the skip of her heart whenever he would. She blushed as she lifted another spoonful of soup to her mouth.

When she finished the soup, Matt made her drink some more water. She just huffed in exasperation. “I thought you said after soup I’d get cuddles.”

“Sorry, hun, can’t I just take care of you?”

She shrugged, taking a sip from the glass. “I’m just not really used to it.”

“Which is exactly why I’m making sure you get the best treatment now,” he stated.

“You’re too good for me, Matthew,” she sighed, leaning her head against his torso.

He just chuckled, “I’m pretty sure you got that sentence twisted.”

“Let me win for once, please,” she pouted. Matt sighed and agreed to let her have that one. It was the least he could do after she had asked him so sweetly, after all.

When she finished the tall glass, she set it on the table, making sure to exaggerate the sound of it being empty. “Snuggle time!”

He laughed as he was ambushed by her. Wrapping his arms around her, he picked her up to bring her to bed. She protested, hating being picked up, but Matt just shushed her as he lied her down. He undressed and crawls in next to her. She burrowed closer to her boyfriend, and he could hear her sigh contentedly, smiling against his warm skin.

She really couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend.

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serickswrites · 1 year

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Reassuring

Warnings: referenced injury, referenced captivity, hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

“I’m fucking useless!” Whumpee growled in frustration as they failed to grab the cup set before them once more. “I can’t do anything!”

“Whumpee, love, it’s ok--” Caretaker said soothingly.

“It is not ok. NONE of this is ok.” Whumpee stood up suddenly. “I can’t do anything with this stupid useless arm!”

“Whumpee, love, I--”

“Why did you even bother saving me? I can’t do anything. I’m just a waste of space!” Whumpee’s voice got louder and louder with each word.

Caretaker could see the tears in Whumpee’s eyes. “Love, sit down.” They put a straw in Whumpee’s cup. “Here. That’s all I was going to say. It’s ok because I have a straw for you.”

“Oh,” Whumpee said anger suddenly deflating. They looked utterly defeated. Their time with Whumper had changed them. Physically and emotionally.

“And,” Caretaker sat down next to Whumpee, “I saved you because I love you. Not because you’re useful.”

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw referenced injury #tw referenced captivity #hurt/comfort #hurt/recovery #hurt/aftermath #caretaker and whumpee #amow #amow march-trope-a-thon #day 7 #prompt: angst #comfort prompt: reassurance #queue

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whumpookies · 5 months

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Amow, Day 1 Panic attack..

#amow #whumperland 2023 #panic attack #no 1 #breathing hard #breathless #panic #comfort #angst

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 months

Text

Knowledge

For @amonthofwhump 12 Days of Whumpmas, Day 2: Krampus

Sensory Overload | Temptation | Whipping | Comfort: Decorating Cookies

Death Valley on AO3

CW: Past trauma, dissociative state, references to Noah's gaslighting and emotional abuse

Somewhere in Illinois, Present Day

It was a perfectly normal place to park his truck between jobs, while driving to the next meetup point. Nothing suspicious at all about choosing to stop here, in this tiny little town in the middle of nowhere. No reason for Noah to call, check into his phone, look at the keylogger on his laptop, or start digging through the scraps of a life Finn Schneider had - however painstakingly - built.

No reason for Noah to even think twice.

Even though he knew, he knew Noah would think about him. Would look at the location on the GPS tracker in the truck and see if the phone and the laptop matched up. See if there was any activity. Look at what Finn searched for, what keywords he might use.

Noah always knew everything.

Not this, though.

At least... not yet.

The man who had once been called Finn Schneider stared through the windshield of his truck into the diner that took up half of the enormous truck stop, settled snugly against an interstate highway with another, smaller country highway intersecting. Through the windows, a few booths held lonely truck drivers with eyes glued to a football game playing on a television up on the wall. A gaggle of teenagers giggled over shared plates of french fries and cups of weak coffee doused in enough creamer to turn it nearly white. A man with two small children watched with a tired smile as the kids gestured wildly.

On the interstate, traffic roared by - people heading home to their families after a long work day, as the sun began to set.

Here Finn sat.

His heart was in his throat, his knuckles white where he was still gripping the wheel. Beside him on the front seat, Little Mother yawned, her teeth clicking when her mouth shut, and slowly blinked at him. In the back of the cab, the kittens were playing with the catnip mice and other toys he’d bought for them. One made mincemeat of a stuffed penguin, casually ripping the stuffing out of with a predator’s zeal for a satisfied hunt.

He could do two things, right now.

He could walk inside, order dinner at the diner, have a shower in the facilities along the back, call Noah, sit and eat, and then head back into the truck to watch a movie and sleep. It would be the safe thing to do - what Noah expected him to do. What he always did, at the end of a day driving to his next task.

Call Noah, get the details on the next job, and keep living how he had been for so long, for almost two decades.

But... there was one other thing he could do, as well.

Riskier.

Not safe.

Noah could find out what he was up to, know that Finn had… doubts. Worries. That he wasn't sure what was real. He didn’t know what would happen, if Noah knew that there were things he said that Finn didn’t really believe any longer. Probably he’d just… talk to him, like he did sometimes. An arm slung over his shoulder, a hand rubbing his back, close enough to his face to make Finn tense with the memory of another man's diesel smell.

Noah would explain with casual certainty that the truth was a version of reality that didn’t quite match the one seen through Finn’s eyes.

But then, he couldn’t trust his eyes, his mind. Not anymore. Not since Robert. His mind invented shadows, his eyes saw shimmers of the bones in the basement, the bars of his cage. His reality was laced around every edge with too much darkness.

But...

That didn't mean Noah's reality was true.

How long he sat there, arguing with himself, he wasn't sure. People walked into the diner or out of it, laughing and joking, bundled up against the harsh winter chill. The teenagers left. Some truck drivers left, while others headed inside for their turn at hot showers and hot food, sometimes giving Finn a sidelong wave, thinking he was one of them.

He was.

Sort of.

Was he?

He felt like Adam and Eve, weighing the fruit of the tree of knowledge, knowing he shouldn’t take it. Holding it heavy in one hand, while the serpent whispered Ihr werdet mitnichten des Todes sterben... What if Noah was angry with him, for looking? What if he found nothing, only his own madness?

What if Noah was right, that he had lost his mind in Robert's house, that he could never reclaim it?

But... Noah lied.

Finn was more sure of it with each passing year. He couldn't trust his own mind, his own eyes, his own heartbeat, but... he could trust documentation, he could trust words written down, records... maybe Noah would be angry, but the idea of not knowing was an agony worse than whatever the knowledge he discovered might be.

Wasn’t it?

Finn must have left his own mind again, too lost in trying to decide if he wanted to know the truth or not, if he wanted to take a bite of the apple from the serpent’s hands. Or was Noah the serpent?

Somewhere in his panic, his mind and body must have split apart into two halves. It had happened before. His body went around doing things while his mind was locked in a cycle of thoughts he couldn't pull himself away from.

It was why Noah said he couldn’t be left alone, needed to be tracked. Sometimes he left his body, and stopped answering the phone.

He blinked.

The next time Finn was aware of himself, he wasn't in the truck. He wasn't in the diner, either.

Instead, he found himself walking past a water tower, halfway across the length of the tiny little town, crossing railroad tracks with the wind pushing against his back.

His hands were in his coat pockets - his body had put on his coat, apparently - and his face burned from the biting freeze of air around him. He’d pulled a knit cap down over his head, which he couldn’t remember doing, either. His cell phone wasn’t in his pocket, and his heart skipped and then picked up speed again.

He came to a stop so sudden his boots scraped on gravel along the side of the road, staring straight ahead.

He must have left it in the truck.

Noah would-

Maybe not know.

If he didn't call, he wouldn't know.

Right?

Someone drove past, slowed their truck down, watched him. It was a town small enough that even a single stranger walking through the tiny town square was noticed. His hometown had been small, a little like that, although not this small. His mother would have slowed her car down, known every cousin visiting family, every boyfriend or girlfriend meeting someone’s parents for the first time.

The town square was more of an oblong oval shape, vaguely uneven on one side. To his right, two big grain silos rose two stories high, gleaming metal that blinded him when the setting sun bounced off the exterior. To his left, old brick buildings that seemed to lean on each other for support, places that had once been a grocery store, some kind of antique shop now maybe. In front of one, where the brick had seen better days and some of it lay crumbled on the sidewalk, was a strange, incongruously gorgeous red sports car.

That building had a light on upstairs. He could see a man on an exercise bike through the window, watching a TV.

Finn headed straight across the road, passing through a small park in the center of the town square that was only big enough to hold a picnic area, two large trees - one decorated for Christmas - and a single stone bench.

In front of him now, there was a post office, the town library, and what seemed like a combination bank, place to pay utility bills, and… town hall. He frowned, the expression faint and barely-there, wondering what he was doing here.

There was nothing in this town. Nothing to it.

What was he doing?

Then his gaze went back to the library, the entire inside warmly lit against the outside chill. He could look right in and see a woman with two small children encouraging them to look at a bookshelf, a toddler playing at a table full of legos while her mother sipped something from a paper cup, the librarian moving one pile of books from one table to another with patient certainty.

Then, all at once, Finn understood what he was looking for:

A computer.

An old desktop,squatting on a folding table as if it were merely an afterthought, someone’s donated castoff. But the screen was on, the chair in front of it was empty, and Finn knew what he wanted to do, how he could keep Noah from knowing he'd done it.

He walked inside, steeling himself for the way all three women stared at him openly, without even trying to hide it. The weight of their gaze prickled on his skin; he was far more used to being ignored or going unnoticed.

“Welcome in,” The librarian said, in a tone somewhere between baffled and amused. “What can we help you with tonight?”

“I would like to use your computer,” Finn said, and pretended he didn’t see the sudden burst of interest in the faces of the women with children here, who glanced at each other when they heard his accent. “Mine is-... mine is broken.”

Why he bothered with the lie, answering a question she hadn’t asked, was beyond him. His heart beat so fast and so hard he was sure he must sound out of breath.

But she smiled, nodding knowingly. “Of course. You must be one of Bob Kaufmann’s cousins in for Greta’s hundredth, huh?”

Finn leaped on the excuse. He’d be gone in a few hours. No one would ever need to know. “Ah, yes, I am. How did you know?” He managed a grin, and the librarian laughed. She didn’t see it wasn’t real, was simply painted-on. He never smiled and meant it, unless it was for Little Mother or the kittens. Not anymore.

“Well, you know. There were some signs that you might not be local to the area,” She replied, dry as a bone, and he huffed a laugh - surprised to hear it, and realize it had come from him.

“I see. You don’t mind if I use the computer?”

“Oh, not at all. It’s got a sixty-minute limit and then it’ll kick you out, but just let me know and I’ll let you back in.” She waved a hand and went back to her work, and he nodded, moving through the small space packed with bookshelves on every side until he made it to the computer chair and took a seat.

It didn’t take the full hour.

He didn’t know Noah’s real name, but he knew the phone number his wife called him from, searched for where the area code for that number was located.

He also knew Noah’s license plate number. Then he started looking, city by city in the state the license plate was from, at vehicle registration lists.

The third city he searched within the area code popped up a name.

Searching for house taxes using that name gave him an address, he owned a home in a cul-de-sac, he owned three other cars besides the truck. There was a second homeowner listed on his house taxes.

Edward Paulson. Wife - Christina Paulson. Finn looked her up by name and city, found a nurse by her name listed as working at a hospital there. She had a facebook, an instagram, and on the facebook were pictures of the same woman, two young boys, and… Noah.

Smiling, an arm around her shoulders just like he did with Finn sometimes. Another photo with a hand to her lower back.

Did he rub her back, when she was scared? Tell her things weren't the way she thought, that she couldn't trust her own eyes?

Did she know about Finn?

He asked politely for a piece of paper and a pen, a noise like static rising in his mind.

When he made it back to his truck, a harsh wind had risen and his nose and cheekbones felt cut to ribbons by the freeze. Little Mother greeted him with a cheerful chirp, and he rubbed a hand over the perfect soft round curve of her head, his other hand holding onto the names and address he had written down folded inside his pocket, while he stared at what he had done but did not remember doing before he left the truck.

Sometime between the temptation and taking action, he had set up his laptop to play a movie. There was a fight scene, tinny voices shouting. His phone was charging beside it. If Noah checked, he would see what movie was playing. He would think Finn had not left the truck.

Unless he'd called and Finn hadn't answered.

Panic thrilled through him again, but there was no missed call. Noah hadn't tried to talk to him. He could still call him later, pretend everything was normal.

That he wasn't-

That Finn wasn't giving in to his doubts.

For a while, he sat and stared again, willing the static noise in his mind to soften, so he could hear himself think again. Then he took a deep breath and grabbed his backpack.

He headed in to get a shower and some food, taking his phone with him this time so Noah would see that when the movie finished, he headed into the diner.

Normal night.

Perfectly normal.

He would go to sleep early tonight.

He had a long, long drive to make tomorrow.

@whumperfully@pigeonwhumps @squishablesunbeam @darkthingshappen @whumper-soot @pumpkin-spice-whump @pardonmekreature @d-cs @whump-queen @sowhumpful

#amow day 2 #amow #12 days of whumpmas #temptation #traumatized whumpee #dissociated whumpee #referenced gaslighting #psychological whump #emotional whump #whump #death valley fic #finn schneider

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wolviecat · 5 months

Text

KRAMPUS

He would just let the medic patch him up, or maybe not even that. He knew how to take care of himself. But the generals had a different idea, and now he was standing in front of them, trying to ignored their shocked faces at the sight of the electoral-whip wound…

After Zygeria arc Rex because there is not enough Zygeria content

finally drawing from right year of Winter whumperland 😅 @amonthofwhump

#amow winter whumperland 2023 #day 2 #too late #captain rex #Star Wars #my art #fanart #clone wars

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99point9percentwhump · 5 months

Text

AMOW 2023 Day 4 - Yandere whumper

#amow 2023 #day 4 yandere whumper #power play #captive #pain #whump collage #soap whump

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chaotic-orphan · 5 months

Text

A Month of Whump: Winter Whumperland Day 8 - John McClane

Russian roulette // forced to watch // held hostage

LISTEN DIE HARD IS MY FAVOURITE MOVIE AND THERE IS JUST SOMETHING ABOUT HOW HE IS ALWAYS COVERED IN BLOOD THAT GAVE SEVEN-YEAR-OLD-ME WHUMPERFLIES OKAY!!!

Also I know it’s late, but time is relative, okay?

*~*~*~*~*

“I knew you’d come,” Whumper said with a smile, but Whumpee wasn't paying attention to Whumper. Instead their gaze was locked onto Caretaker who was being held by two of Whumper's henchmen behind where Whumper sat. Whumpee swallowed as they watched realisation dawn on Caretaker’s face. Black blood dried from his left nostril, caked and flaking down his lips. He had dark red bags under his eyes, that contrasted with his too pale face. A giant black bruise took up the bulk of his left cheek, his bottom lip split open.

He barely even looked like Caretaker anymore. Just a shell of who Caretaker was. It had only been two days… the guilt flooded Whumpee the moment Caretaker met their eyes.

“Whumpee no! No!” Caretaker yelled, wild green eyes angry and glaring helpless at Whumpee as he struggled against two of Whumper’s henchmen holding him. “I told you to run!”

“I couldn’t leave you here,” Whumpee said, voice quiet and cold, switching their gaze to glare at Whumper. “Not with them.”

“I do love a good reunion,” Whumper said, standing to greet Whumpee. Whumpee was stiff as Whumper walked towards them. Caretaker was anything but, struggling furiously in the corner his hands tied behind his back, the henchmen struggling to keep Caretaker down.

“Don’t touch them!” Caretaker growled, then suddenly threw his weight to the left and knocked one of the Henchmen into the wall. Caretaker was about to do the same when he saw Whumper grab Whumpee by the throat and slam them back against the wall.

Caretaker froze in place, half hunched ready to pounce on the other henchman but all he could do was look at Whumper’s hand around Whumpee’s throat.

Whumper glanced back at Caretaker knowingly, while Whumpee glared at Whumper and grabbed their wrist with both hands.

“Caretaker, do I have to explain to you again? Who holds the power here, do you need a demonstration old friend?”

“Whumper—”

Whumper sucked in a breath and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Wrong answer, Caretaker.”

“Wait, Whumper!”

Whumper blocked Caretaker’s view of Whumpee with his body, smiling down at Whumpee like this was a professional hazard.

Whumpee threw their body forward and got two inches of leverage before Whumper hummed and slammed them back, their head smacking off the wall.

“Whumper! Stop!”

Whumper’s right hook connected with Whumpee’s cheek and they cried out. Whumpee could still hear Caretaker’s struggles behind Whumper, even over the sound of their own as they tried to push Whumper off of them.

Another punch went to the bridge of Whumpee’s nose, then their jaw, then their lips and then again against their cheek. Whumper released Whumpee’s throat with the final punch and let Whumpee slid down the wall sideways, cradling a hand to their cheek.

He didn’t let Whumpee slide all the way down, grabbing them in the middle of their hoodie and half holding them up.

“Now, Caretaker, is that enough blood for you to learn your mistake or do we need more?”

“You’re a fucking bastard, Whumper!” Caretaker yelled, grunting with the effort trying to get free of the hands on him.

Whumper looked down at Whumpee apologetically. Then he grabbed Whumpee’s head and slammed it against his knee. Whumpee fell to the ground crying out and then gasped when Whumper slammed a foot on their ribs.

“Hurt me! Hurt me, not them!” Caretaker raged, helpless tears gathering behind his eyes. Whumper pressed his heel down harder on Whumpee’s ribs who blubbered, before turning their head as they gurgled a spit bubble of blood before spitting out a glob onto the floor. “Whumper please!”

“Ahh!” Whumper exclaimed happily, immediately taking his foot off of Whumpee’s chest and turning to face Caretaker. “There we go, and they say you can’t teach an old dog new manners.”

“Tricks—” Whumpee corrected, slowly getting to all fours.

Whumper turned and kicked Whumpee to the ground again without looking at them, instead drinking in Caretaker’s struggles.

“Mmm, I have some tricks, Caretaker. You’d know all about that wouldn’t you? I learned some of them from you after all,” Whumper said, something simmering behind the words, looking directly into Caretaker’s fury filled eyes. “Y’know, Whumpee, there was a time when Caretaker protected me this fiercely. A time before you came along.”

“It’s not Whumpee’s fault you turned into a psycho, Whumper.”

Whumper’s nostrils flared as he smiled. “Why, Caretaker, do you want to take the credit for it?”

Caretaker didn’t say anything, just stared at the face of his best friend and saw a stranger looking back at him. Whumper hmphed softly at Caretaker’s silence then turned back to Whumpee who was on all fours again.

Whumper leaned down and grabbed the back of Whumpee’s hoodie, dragging them to their feet with ease even as Whumpee struggled.

“That’s it, it’s alright, come on now, we’re going to play a game. That’s it, settle down now,” Whumper said shoving Whumpee down into a chair. Whumpee fixed their hoodie with a huff, wiping the blood from their nose on the back of their hand. They never took their eyes off Whumper as he walked around the small square table, only big enough to fit two people sitting at it. Whumper took the chair opposite Whumpee where he was sitting when Whumpee first arrived.

Whumper grinned at Whumpee when he finally sat down.

“God, you look so much like an old friend of ours,” Whumper said, looking over his shoulder at Caretaker. “Do you remember Friend? They always had that wildness to them, I only noticed now with the smeared blood and the murderous glint in your eyes. Caretaker was the one to put them down,” Whumper said turning his attention back to Whumpee and winking.

“I don’t care,” said Whumpee, voice cracking after being strangled. “Me for Caretaker, that’s the deal.”

“Whumpee—”

Whumper clicked his fingers in the air and wagged his finger at Caretaker’s protest. “Caretaker I swear to god I will gag you if you interrupt us again. Do you understand? The last word I want from you is yes or no.”

Caretaker let out a begrudging yes, and Whumper smiled again. “Good. Danny, can you get something to gag him with, I feel like we’ll need it before we are finished here.”

Whumper turned his attention to Whumpee again, a dazzling smile on his face as he interlocked his fingers on the table.

“Now, Whumpee. Your deal is a good one, however, I don’t like it because it’s only half good. Either I lose Caretaker or I keep Caretaker but that means I don’t one of you.”

“You can keep one of us though,” Whumpee argued.

Whumper smiled. “Yes. I know,” he replied calmly, then leaned forward, eyes twinkling with mischief. “But I have a better deal.”

Whumpee’s eyes flashed to Caretaker behind Whumper who shook his head before settling on Whumper again.

“Okay. What’s your deal?”

“My deal is far more favourable for both sides, Whumpee. I propose a game… a game of chicken you could say. If you win, I’ll let you and Caretaker go no strings attached.”

Whumpee’s heart pounded against their chest, hope fluttering it faster, harder, louder. They glanced at Caretaker again, whose suspicious eyes were focused on Whumper.

Whumpee swallowed. “And if you win?”

“If I win I get both of you.”

“No,” Caretaker said immediately. “No. Absolutely not, Whumpee walk away. Whumper—”

“Ah! Danny, just in time, shut Caretaker up would you?”

Whumpee stood up but a hand on each of their shoulders forced them to sit back down again. “Whumpee, don’t! Whatever it is don— argh— mmph!”

Whumpee shot up again but was forced back down and the chair pushed in further to the table keeping them sitting. The table edge pressed painfully against their ribs.

Whumper smiled at Whumpee. “Whumpee, I could just as easily take you both right now by force. You’re outnumbered. I could have killed you when you walked in the door but I didn’t, did I? Do you know why I didn’t Whumpee?”

Whumpee swallowed, eyes going back to Caretaker who huffed furiously around the gag.

“Because you’re a fucking monster?” Whumpee asked, raising their brows and dragging their gaze back to Whumper’s stupid smiling face.

“No. It’s because I invited you here for a negotiation in good faith. If you like we don’t have to play and I can just take you both—”

“No,” Whumpee said quickly at the same time Caretaker mumbled out something like a no behind Whumper.

Whumper smiled and sat back into his chair, smile turned smirk now. “So you agree to play then?”

“Yes,” Whumpee said again, not looking at Caretaker who cried out against the gag again.

“Good,” Whumper said. “Very good. Here’s the game.”

Whumper pulled out a revolver that Whumpee had only seen Whumper use once. Whumpee flinched back but didn’t go very far. Whumper grinned as he cocked the gun at Whumpee and Caretaker screamed and struggled with renewed energy against the Henchmen holding him back.

Whumper let out a soft laugh. “Just kidding. God, Caretaker, it’s so easy to rile you up.”

Whumper held the hammer and pulled the trigger before slowly lowering it until the gun wasn’t live anymore. Then he pushed his thumb against the ejector rod and took the round out of the chamber. Whumper then slowly turned the cylinder, and repeated this until all six bullets dropped rhythmically onto the table between them. The entire time Whumper kept eye contact with Whumpee, a soft smirk on his face as he watched Whumpee swallow back the lump in their throat.

“—umph—r—nn—” Caretaker screamed against the gag until the last bullet fell from the cylinder and into Whumper’s awaiting hand.

“You know this game Whumpee?” Whumper asked, cocking an eyebrow at Whumpee.

Whumpee’s throat was suddenly dry, so they swallowed again, before they replied nervously: “I thought you said we were going to play chicken.”

“A version of it,” Whumper said with a shrug. “Russian roulette. Caretaker, Friend and I used to play it all the time as kids.”

Caretaker had tired themselves out, now he stood limp in the hold of the henchmen, glaring daggers at Whumper. Even his stare didn’t have any real bite left to it. Whumpee looked at him with surprise written all over their face.

“Back when Caretaker was fun,” Whumper said, sliding one bullet back into the cylinder and spinning it with the palm of their hand before stopping it and sliding the cylinder back into place. Whumper grinned at Whumpee as he drew the hammer back, loading the chamber.

“I’m a good sport, Whumpee,” said Whumper handing Whumpee the gun. “You can go first.”

Whumpee went to grab the gun from Whumper but froze when they heard another gun cocking in the room. Whumper’s smile turned razor sharp.

“Just in case you get any ideas… if you try to kill me, Caretaker dies too.”

“I got it,” Whumpee said with an edge in their voice. Sick of all the threats Whumper had made in the last five minutes.

“Mmmm. Eager! Wonderful. I knew you’d be an interesting games partner.”

Caretaker cried out when Whumpee put the gun to their own head, swallowing hard. A shiver ran down Whumpee’s spine as they felt the weight of the gun in their hand.

If the shot was in the chamber they would be dead.

This would be it.

They never imagined they’d die from a stupid bet.

God this was so stupid, what were they doing?

Whumpee’s hand started to shake as the realisation slowly dawned on them. They looked at Caretaker who shook his head furiously at them, telling them not to do it.

Whumpee licked their lips trying to get some moisture back in their dry mouth enough to speak. “If I don’t do this, Whumper gets us anyways,” it was an explanation. An excuse that fell from their lips. “Thank you for everything.”

Caretaker cried out again when Whumpee pulled the trigger.

They let out the breath they were holding with a gasp as they dropped the gun to the table, trembling all over. Wild eyes went to Caretaker who had his eyes closed until he heard the gun clatter.

Whumper laughed and grabbed Whumpee’s shaking hands. “Look at that! That adrenaline spike, Whumpee! That’s how you know you’re alive. I barely get it anymore. Watch.”

As soon as the words left his lips, Whumper had the gun in his hand, while his other still held Whumpee’s and pulled the trigger without even blinking.

That stunned Whumpee more than their own turn had.

Whumper grinned and put the gun back on the table, then held out their hand. Whumpee’s eyes went down following Whumper’s movement but true to their word, not even a muscle twitched in Whumper’s hands.

“See why it’s fun now, Whumpee?” Whumper asked again, and Whumpee’s mouth went dry again, realising it was their turn. Again.

They had a one in four chance.

One in four.

25%.

Whumpee didn’t want to bet their life on the one in four chance that when they pulled the trigger they would die.

And yet, after seeing Whumper do it so casually, Whumpee found the familiar weight of the cool metal revolver in their hand once again. Caretaker mumbled out a pathetic “nnnuh” against the gag, but this time a strange calm overcame Whumpee as they pressed the barrel against their head.

They found Caretaker’s hopeless eyes and offered a smile.

“One in four. 25% chance I die, Caretaker. 75% chance I live.”

“Look at you, Whumpee,” Whumper cooed. “Playing the odds. I am so happy you decided to join me today. You are magnificent.”

Whumpee didn’t close their eyes this time.

They pulled the trigger.

The hammer shot against empty air and the recoil sent Whumpee’s hand back away from their head, letting their hand follow the movement to place the heavy hunk of metal onto the table.

“Safe again,” Whumper said, clicking his tongue against his teeth. Then he took the gun and Caretaker cried into the gag.

“-nuf! -umpr- s’enuf!”

Whumper paused this time. His eyes going to Whumpee but looking passed them.

“Someone take their gag off would you?”

Whumpee watched as someone drew the cloth down from around Caretaker’s lips and he let out a sigh of relief.

“Whumper stop this. Please. I can’t watch this. I can’t watch you die!”

Whumper didn’t move for a moment. “You mean Whumpee. You can’t watch Whumpee die.”

“I mean either of you,” Caretaker pleaded, voice genuine. “Please. Don’t do this.”

Whumper arched a brow at Whumpee. “Whumpee. Do you forfeit?”

“No,” said Whumpee. Whumper smiled.

“Sorry Caretaker. No can do.”

Whumper pulled the trigger.

Whumpee started forward, their entire body jerking at the sound. Whumper grinned at Whumpee and put the gun back on the table.

“What’re the chances Whumpee, eh?”

“Stop this! Stop! Whumpee! This is madness. It’s 50/50, you can’t logic your way out of that. Either you die or you don’t, please. Don’t. Whumpee please. Whumper! Listen to me, this is crazy.”

“I will gag you again, Caretaker. This is Whumpee’s decision.”

The words seemed so far away, muted from the blood drumming against Whumpee’s skull. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Fuck,” Whumpee breathed softly. Whumper’s eyes glistened when Whumpee raised their head to meet Whumper’s gaze. “You let me go first.”

“I let you go first,” Whumper repeated with a self-satisfied sigh. His grin grew to a knowing smirk, knowing this was how it would turn out all things going well. “You should have played the odds from the beginning Whumpee.”

Whumpee swallowed, eyes searching for something, something in the back of their brain. Some way they could still win, get Caretaker and themselves out of this.

Whumper let them go first. They were an idiot. The only way they could have won was to let Whumper go first, then if the game played out as it did and they came to the second last bullet Whumper would have had to stop the game and let Whumpee and Caretaker go.

Fuck!

FUCK!

Whumpee reached for the gun. Caretaker cried out. Whumpee savoured the look of surprise on Whumper’s face.

“Fifty-fifty,” said Whumpee, not trying to hide how bad their hand shook as they pressed the cool metal to their temple.

“Whumpee!”

“You’re bluffing,” Whumper said with a smile, but there was doubt behind his words. A game of chicken, Whumper had said. The game only really started when there was two rounds left unfired.

“Either I get free Caretaker and I, or I die and Caretaker—”

“Gets taken in by me,” Whumper said with a laugh. Whumpee narrowed their eyes at him. “Come on Whumpee, if you’re gone I have to take my anger out on someone.”

“You said we’re playing a game of chicken,” Whumpee argued. “If I pull the trigger and die then I didn’t lose.”

“Hmph,” Whumper mused, and maybe it was the crazy talking but Whumpee thought they sounded impressed. "If you're dead how would you know I'd keep my word?"

Whumpee narrowed their eyes and opened their mouth to reply, but Caretaker was the one to break the silence. “Whumpee, Whumpee look at me! Look at me!”

Whumpee fought to keep their gaze trained on Whumper’s face as he chewed on Whumpee’s words.

“Whumpee!”

Whumpee looked at Caretaker with sympathetic eyes. Caretaker had tear marks trailing down his cheeks which stirred up a wealth of guilt in Whumpee’s gut.

“Don’t you dare sacrifice your life for me.”

Whumpee swallowed, trying and failing to keep their voice even. “It’s my life—”

“If you do this and you die, you’re fine! What about me?! I’ll have to carry that guilt—”

“It’s my decision.”

“Really building the suspense here, Whumpee,” Whumper mused, “I’m on the edge of my seat. What a performance! You can pull that trigger now and die, or you can pull it and force my hand to let you both go. What’s worse Whumpee? Dying or living under my care again, hmm?”

Whumpee hesitated.

Whumper continued, “after all the lengths and hoops Caretaker had to jump through to get you out, you just walk back into my arms. Could you live with that guilt Whumpee?”

“Don’t listen to him, Whumpee,” Caretaker said. “He’s lying.”

Whumper’s smile was knowing as he spoke again, “we both know I’m not lying Whumpee. Caretaker’s fate was sealed from the moment he betrayed me, and he wanted you to be out. To be free from me. You come back here, you beat me at my own game you both walk free, the only thing holding you back from this happily ever after is that trigger there, with your index finger resting on it.”

“Whumpee don’t! Please. It’s not worth it.”

“Do it Whumpee. I know you want to.”

Whumpee’s hand moved faster than they thought it would as they aimed the revolver at the henchman with the gun on Caretaker. Whumper laughed at the turn of events as the henchman behind Whumpee grabbed the revolver and snatched it from their hand, keeping Whumpee restrained all the while.

“No! You fuck! Get off me—” Whumpee cried as the henchman handed the gun to Whumper. Whumper took the revolver in his hand with a small surprised laugh.

“I knew you had it in you Whumpee, but to be fair, I don’t think I would’ve pulled the trigger myself. Let’s see, shall we if you would have died or not.”

Whumper turned their body and pointed the revolver between Caretaker��s ear and the wall and squeezed the trigger. Caretaker didn’t flinch.

Whumpee did.

The chamber was empty.

The chamber was empty... Whumpee could have done it. They could have freed Caretaker, they could have freed themselves if only they had the fucking nerve of it.

“Whumpee,” Caretaker said. “It’s okay Whumpee. I wouldn’t have done it either, Whumpee. Whumpee?”

“Were they all empty?” Whumpee asked, voice blank and devoid of any emotion.

Whumper smiled. “Of course they weren’t. Watch.”

Whumper pulled the trigger again and this time Caretaker flinched and fell as the shot went off right at his ear, knocking his centre of balance off. Caretaker fell like a stone but was stopped by the Henchmen from falling flat on his face.

Whumpee started when they saw the blood trickle from Caretaker’s ear, furiously pawing at the henchman holding them back.

“You fucking dick!” Whumpee cried as Whumper reloaded his revolver whistling quite happy to himself. Whumpee twisted and turned and tried to get the arms holding them off so they could scratch Whumper’s eyes out of his stupid fucking skull.

When Whumper was finished loading the gun he checked the chamber and lowered it so Whumpee could see there was a round loaded before cocking the gun and pointing it at Caretaker’s head.

Whumpee immediately stilled and Whumper stopped whistling.

“There we go," Whumper cooed. His voice no longer jovial and mocking, but back to Whumper. The scary Whumper that had kidnapped Whumpee and tortured them everyday. The cold calculating monster. "You haven’t forgotten your training, of course, you’ll have to re-learn some of it, but I think this arrangement will be good for all of us. Something new.”

Caretaker was still half held up by the Henchmen on either side of him, face pale, eyes unfocused. He wouldn’t be able to move suddenly if he had to, and Whumpee was too tired to fight anymore, the adrenaline leaving their body in the same rush that it came with until Whumpee was deflated, body exhausted.

Whumper uncocked the gun, drawing the hammer up and clicking the safety on before holstering it again beneath his jacket. He walked around the table to where Whumpee was still held sitting on the chair and patted Whumpee’s cheeks lightly.

“No need to be a sore loser, Whumpee, you agreed to my terms. Fair is fair,” Whumper’s hand tightened on Whumpee’s cheeks tilting their head up to look Whumper in the eye. “I get you both. Bring Caretaker to the car, Whumpee’s coming with me and Danny here.”

One of the Henchmen handed Whumper an extra pair of handcuffs that he turned over in his hand and clicked open, grinning down at Whumpee. Whumpee was dragged to their feet, Whumper taking Whumpee’s wrist and slapping the metal cuff around their wrist until it bit into Whumpee’s skin. Whumper turned Whumpee until their back was to him and tightened the other cuff unkindly tight.

To add insult to injury, Whumper pulled on the taut chain yanking Whumpee back unbalanced into Whumper’s chest.

The perfect place for Whumper to whisper: “can’t have you running away again, can I?”

Whumpee remained stubbornly silent.

“Whumpee, come on now, the silent treatment? Maybe I should get you a leash and a collar, like a dog so you won't be able to run, hmm? You know, this little game of ours is only drawn even now.”

Whumpee stilled at the words. “What?”

“I’ll explain on the way to the car,” Whumper said, pushing Whumpee forward to walk out the door, hand on Whumpee’s upper arm forcing them on. “I’m an easy man to please, Whumpee. I like to be entertained. That’s why I got you, you were so malleable and vulnerable. You hung onto every word I said just because I gave you attention…”

Whumpee bristled at the reminder of how they were before they met Whumper but stayed quiet, allowing Whumper to finish his little Villainous, victory speech.

“Now could I have chosen someone else? Yes, but they wouldn’t have the brain you had Whumpee. I could tell you were like me from the moment I laid eyes on you, and today has proven it. You were bored with life before me, and you needed something to entertain you. Something to fight against, something to live for.”

“So I took you. We have our fun, but you beat me. You and your clever little cunning brain found a way to defeat me, you used my best friend's kindness against me and you managed to escape.”

“That wasn’t a game,” Whumpee hissed, “you were torturing me.”

“And wasn’t it so fun? I bet you’re just dying to see what I have in store for you now, but our Russian roulette makes us even. I guess you could say that this is the start of our third game together; two worthy opponents, battling it out against each other. Except this time,” Whumper said opening the boot of the car and shoving Whumpee in. Whumpee landed awkwardly on their shoulder, hands restrained uselessly behind them as they stared up at a grinning Whumper.

“This time, I don’t have a friend you can use against me. They’ll be right there with you, a new contender. Extra fun. Aren’t you excited, Whumpee? Maybe this time the roles are reversed and now I have a friend I can use against you. Get comfortable, I've moved my little estate and bought some land in the country. It's going to be a long, long ride.”

Before Whumpee could reply Whumper slammed the boot closed and they were buried in darkness. The sound of the empty chamber firing no bullet replaying in their mind like a broken record.

"Caretaker," Whumpee whispered into the darkness, "I'm so sorry."

*~*~*~*~*

@amonthofwhump

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onlythegoodpretzels · 1 month

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Straight from the sketchbook King Rauru from Tears of the Kingdom. I might color this sometime, but...glowing...so many layers...

I love the idea of him surviving sealed with the Demon King, and he and Link having to share the arm. Usually Link has it. It only reverts to Rauru when he's in a very bad way and can't stop the reflex calling it back trying to survive.

For @amonthofwhump trope-a-thon day 1: Duel

#amow tropeathon2024 #day1 #duel #whump art #whump #totk rauru #king rauru #loz totk #totk fanart #collapsed #kneeling #zonai have such teeny short little legs! I think they're so funny!#my art

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amonthofwhump · 2 months

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What: AMonthOfWhump's March Trope-a-Thon is a week-long whump event for all! Choose a prompt from our list for each day, or give us your own spin on the theme.

Where: Share your creations here on Tumblr. @ us to get your entry reblogged here!

When: March 15-22

Who: All are welcome! Writing, art, gifs, playlists, edits, cosplay, anything you want to create.

Tagging example: #amow tropeathon2024, #day1, #duel, #your tags here

Text of the prompts under the cut.

1. Fantasy Setting

- Locked in a Tower

- Victim of a Curse

- Duel

2. Gore

- Impalement

- Bleeding Out

- Nonconsensual Body Modification

3. Environmental

- A Long Cold Night

- Miles To Go

- Flash Flood

4. Nonhuman Whumpee

- Mundane Object is Poison To Me

- "Monster! Monster!"

- Caged

5. Spy/Military

- Interrogation

- Cover Identity

- Battle

6. Captivity

- Kidnapping

- Escape Attempt

- Hunger

7. Team Whump

- "Alright, let's get a headcount"

- Filling in for Another Team Member

- Mutual First Aid

8. Violence!

- No Holds Barred Beatdown

- zoutmatched

- Blackout Rage

Alt Prompts:

Abandoned

Doorstep Collapse

"It's not that deep"

Pursuit

"Take me instead"

#amow tropeathon2024 #whump community #whump event #whump prompt list #writing prompts #prompt list #whump prompt

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whumpsday · 1 year

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Kane & Jim #49: Sunny Days

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker, recovery, comfort, captivity, starvation

takes place early in the present arc, in-between For the Wash and Papercut. i usually just go forwards in the present arc as opposed to jumping around, but i figure let’s take a look back at the early days for this one!

@amonthofwhump March Trope-A-Thon Day 2: Captivity / Creepy Captor / Conditioning / Pet Whump / Sunny Days

Somehow, everything was okay.

Kane had been Jim’s prisoner for two weeks, and Jim still hadn’t taken any kind of revenge yet, not once. He’d just been allowed to... exist, in peace. It was like a breath of fresh air after so long with every day full of pain and terror.

He wore the bomber jacket every day, usually with the hood up. The blanket found itself wrapped around him half the time- more if he included his sleeping hours, but his waking ones as well. He seemed to have found himself in ample possession of soft things to cover himself with.

Which was good, because he was terrified of the windows.

Jim was a lenient jailer, allowing most things. Kane was allowed to wear the blanket upstairs, he was allowed to sleep as much as he wanted, he was allowed to sit on the couch and watch TV and play cards. He was allowed possessions, multiple changes of clothes and a toothbrush among his favorites. He was allowed to heal, his injuries from the hunters fading a little more day by day, the hunger becoming more prominent than the pain of his wrists.

One thing Kane wasn’t allowed was to be upstairs during the nighttime. It was a practical rule, one that might have made sense if he stood any chance of escape- which he didn’t, given his starved state.

But that meant that if he chose to go upstairs, he would be in the presence of windows. Those with blinds were shuttered and those with curtains were pulled, because Jim was nice like that, but they were still terrifying. All it would take would be for those curtains to be brushed aside or those blinds to be lifted, and the sun would shine brightly through, burning him all over again.

It took a lot to recover from a burning, in his state. Were he fed and healthy, it would be perhaps two days of agony, but his body needed a lot longer to heal, the way it was now. It would be a week before the worst of it healed, and a month before he was entirely healed. He was loathe to return to that state, now that he’d finally been allowed a much less painful existence. He wrapped his blanket tighter around himself at the thought, laying comfortably in his bed.

Kane knew all too well that Jim had every reason to burn him, far more reasons than even the hunters. He knew he deserved it. But, perhaps selfishly, he just wanted it to be over.

The basement door opened once again, Jim having awoken. “Hey, man. How you feeling? You wanna come upstairs today?”

And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from accepting Jim’s invitations. Kane was terrified of him, but against all logic, Jim had been kind so far. And he was desperate for any scrap of kindness. He’d been denied any for so, so long.

Just like how he’d denied Jim kindness. His heart sank at the thought.

“Better, thank you. My wrists don’t need the bandages anymore.” He sat up, blanket still wrapped around him, and peeked a hand out from under to show Jim. His wrist was still ringed with the healing injury, but it was far less severe than that night when Jim had first bandaged him. “I’d like to, yes.”

“That’s great! Alrighty, c’mon up.” Jim held the door open for him and led him to the bathroom. Kane had a bathroom downstairs, but his was just a sink and toilet, no bath.

He still couldn’t believe he got to take a bath every single day here. When Kane came out fresh and clean, Jim shackled the kind restraints onto his ankles. The padded ones with the silver on the insides instead of the outside.

“My wrists don’t hurt too badly anymore,” Kane pointed out. “You could put the wrist cuffs on too, if you’d like.”

“You planning on needing ‘em?” Jim asked, standing back up.

Kane practically choked, panic slamming into him like a truck. If Jim thought he needed them, then Jim thought he was going to be bad. And if Jim thought that too much, he might decide to send him back. “No, sir! I- I would never, I mean, I would never now, please believe me! I’ll be good, I just thought-”

“Hey hey hey, shh. You’re alright. Shit,” Jim said, voice gentle. “I wasn’t being serious. That was, uh, a bad call on my part. I know you’re trying. I’m trying too. This is just gonna take us both some getting used to, yeah?”

Kane put his face in his hands, starting to cry. “I’m s-sorry.”

“You’re okay,” Jim repeated. “Not gonna hurt you. No one’s gonna hurt you. No hurting in this house.”

“Thank you,” Kane whimpered, starting to calm down a little.

Jim reached forward and pulled Kane’s hood up. “There. You’re safe. And I don’t think you need the wrist cuffs either.”

Safe. He did feel safer like this. He nodded gratefully, wiping his eyes.

“I get it,” Jim told him as they walked back to the living room. “Sometimes something just sets you off. I get that too. Used to a lot more, but still get it sometimes. You’ve only been out for two weeks. Your brain’s still in nightmare mode. You’ll get there. You wanna go grab your blanket?”

“Yes, please.” Kane shuffled back down to the basement, minding his ankle chains and making sure not to trip. He wrapped it around himself again, all nice and covered like he hadn’t been since the hunters took away the last of his clothes. By the time he got back upstairs, he was out of breath, legs shaking a bit from the exertion. He didn’t usually have to go up and down the stairs this much back-to-back, even if Jim’s staircases weren’t that long.

Jim patted the couch. “Hey, come sit down, you look like you’re about to keel over. Fuck, I should’ve gotten it for you. You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Kane confirmed, obediently sitting where Jim indicated.

His eyes drifted to the nearest window, curtain pulled closed. Kane could see the glow of the sun just on the other side of it, waiting with malice, ready to burn him. He shivered under his blanket.

It would be preferable to going back, at least. He would rather be punished with the sun than go back to the hunters, if Jim were to finally decide to take his well-deserved revenge.

Jim noticed his obvious staring. “It’s staying closed. No sun while you’re up here. Hey, if you’re not feeling up to it right now, you can go back down. It’s up to you. Maybe take a breather first before you tackle the stairs again.”

The earlier panic combined with the sunny window was too much for him. “I think, um, I think that’s a good idea. Thank you for letting me.”

“Yeah, ‘course. Whatever you need.” Jim patted him on the shoulder, the rare kind touch from another person muffled by the blanket shielding his shoulders.

taglist to be added in reblog!

#amow tropeathon 2023 #captivity #kane and jim #whump #my writing #vampire whumpee #vampire whump #whumper turned whumpee #whumpee turned caretaker #recovery whump #comfort #aftermath of torture #starvation #whump writing

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