#minor whump tw

[whumpy-writings]

The Wagon

Reeve Masterlist // Of Vampires and Men Masterlist

This takes place right after Tribute

CW: Minor whumpee (OC is 16), slavery, vampires, restraints, stress position, implied future noncon

Reeve came to with a headache that pounded like a blacksmith against an anvil. He groaned. Where was he? He felt wooden boards under his cheek, a rumbling motion. . .

All at once it hit him. The wheat, the vampire torturing his father, Reeve trying to protect him. Reeve barely held back the sob that bubbled in his throat. He was in a wagon, being taken as a blood bag. He tried to sit up but immediately collapsed back to the floor. The world spun around him and he groaned.

"Looks like the blood bag is awake," someone called. Reeve's heart skipped a beat. He fought against the shackles tying his hands behind his back until warm blood oozed down his skin, but it was no use.

"Stop that," the sergeant snapped. "You're only hurting yourself." Reeve continued to struggle. The wagon rolled to a stop. The next thing Reeve knew, one of the sergeant's hands was fisted in his shirt, other other pulling his head back so he was forced to look the vampire in the eye.

"I said stop, blood bag. I expect to be obeyed." His face was stony and a spike of terror shot through Reeve. "Defiance won't help you now. The only thing that will help you is me. I know of several. . .establishments looking for humans of your age." He looked Reeve up and down in a way that made his skin crawl. "If you're good, I'll sell you to one of the nicer ones."

Reeve's breath hitched in his throat. He didn't understand what the sergeant was talking about, what those establishments were. But he did know that this man was dangerous and had no qualms about hurting humans.

"So sit there, don't pull at the restraints, and don't make a fuss. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Reeve choked out. The sergeant nodded.

"Excellent. We have one more village to stop at, then we'll make camp for the day."

The sergeant dropped Reeve back to the floor. The wagon resumed its journey through the night. Reeve blinked back tears as he stared up at the sky. It was cloudy tonight and so dark he could only make out the shapes of the vampires on horseback around the wagon. The vampires surrounding him. He needed to get out of here. But he didn't know how.

"There it is," a soldier said.

Reeve took a steadying breath before pushing himself to a sitting position. Despite himself, Reeve was curious. He had never been to a village outside of his own.

As the wagon rolled into the square, Reeve felt a pang of homesickness. It all looked so familiar. The houses were low to the ground with thatched roofs, a handful of torches casting a flickering glow on the scene. Just like home.

The sergeant dismounted and walked towards the sacks in the middle of the square. There were a couple dozen humans standing around and Reeve wanted nothing more than to run to them.

"Well, I see that you actually made your quota," the sergeant said. "I'm impressed."

Reeve was suddenly hit by the realization that this was his chance to escape. He wormed his way to the side of the wagon. The vampires were focused on the tribute, nobody was watching him. He couldn't easily climb down over the side with his hands tied behind his back, and he had to stay low so that the soldiers wouldn't see him. Reeve awkwardly swung a leg over the side, still in a crouch.

Well, here it goes. He flung the rest of his body out of the wagon. For just a moment, he hung in the air. Then the ground rushed up towards him and he landed with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs.

"What was that?"

Reeve's heart spiked even as he struggled to get his lungs to inflate. He couldn't run if he couldn't breathe. Painfully, he attempted to squirm his way away from the wagon and into the shadows of the buildings.

"Look what we have here," a voice said. Reeve squirmed faster. "The blood bag's trying to get away."

"Hey, don't stop him. I want to see how far he gets." Reeve threw his head over his shoulder to glare at the vampires who stood right behind him, leaning on their muskets.

"Fuck you," he spat.

The guards' jovial mood vanished.

"We'll have to punish you for that. That's no way to speak to you superiors."

The guard reached him in three steps and Reeve tried to roll out of the way. He was too slow though and the leech's boot stomped down on his back, pinning him in place.

"What should be the punishment? I would muzzle him but we don't have a good metal one with us," the guard whose boot was on Reeve's back said.

"We could tie him to the cart and drag him behind it," the other suggested.

"Tempting."

"But we don't want to risk messing up such a pretty boy when he'll nab a fortune at auction. Lets bind his ankles to his wrists. He won't be trying to escape like that."

Reeve cried as the vampire stretched his arms behind his back and tied them to his ankles. He could hardly move now, and there was no way he could escape. The vampires threw him back in the wagon, along with the tribute from the village. And then the wagon was moving again.

Reeve cried. It was over. He would never be free again.

After a while, the muscles of his back and legs and shoulders began to throb.

"Please sir," Reeve begged, as the wagon rumbled on, each jostle sending a stab of pain through him. "Please, I won't try to run away again. Please just untie me."

The vampires ignored him. Reeve spent the rest of the night in that position. Tears were dried on his cheeks, and he was cold and hungry and scared but the leeches didn't care. Finally, just as dawn was painting the sky a dusty pink, they stopped.

Reeve couldn't see the vampires, but he could hear them bustling around, presumably setting up camp. The wagon rocked as the sergeant got in.

"I heard you tried to escape," he said, crouched in front of Reeve. "A disobedient human needs to be punished."

Reeve whimpered a little at that. His muscles were screaming at him. "Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes sir," Reeve said. "Yes sir, I'm sorry sir, it won't happen again." He hated giving in to this monster, but he couldn't stand the pain any longer. The sergeant reached out and Reeve flinched, but he only ran his hand through Reeve's hair. It reminded Reeve of the way he pet his dog back home. Bile rose in his throat.

"You're a very pretty boy," he said. "Be obedient and you'll have a good life." Reeve couldn't stop the shiver that ran through him at those words. Whatever the sergeant had planned for him, he was sure it wasn't good. The sergeant stared at him for a moment longer before he finally released Reeve's ankles from his wrists.

Reeve sobbed as blood flowed back into his hands. His arms were still bond behind his back, but the awful, awful tension in the shoulders and back and legs was lessening.

"Thank you sir," Reeve said. The sergeant picked him up and slung him over one shoulder. He propped Reeve up against a tree, and then took a coil of rope and tied him to it. The vampires got into their tents just as the sun peaked over the horizon, leaving Reeve tied up in the chilly morning air. Reeve halfheartedly pulled at the restraints before he fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

...

The vampires awoke at dusk. Reeve's neck ached from sleeping tied to the tree. He eyed the vampires as they packed up camp. They were dressed in green uniforms and moved with a precision he had never seen before. Within half an hour, their whole camp was packed up. Two vampires untied Reeve and tossed him into the wagon with the rest of the tribute. They didn't speak to him. Reeve's stomach ached, but he didn't dare ask for food.

"Come on men, it's only a couple hours to the fort," the sergeant said.

Reeve curled up on his side and buried his face against a sack of wheat. The earthy smell gave him a bit of comfort. It smelled like home. Reeve inhaled deeply, tears burning his eyes. He cried silently for what felt like hours.

Reeve didn't move when the cart rolled to a stop at the fort. He was past being angry, past being scared. Now he was just numb, exhaustion in his bones. There was no point in running or fighting. There was no point at all.

Tag list: @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whump-cravings @thecyrulik @neverthelass @michelleswhumpyreblogs @whumpsy-daisy @the-monarch-whumperfly @aswallowimprisoned @secretwhumplair @whumpzone @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @nicolepascaline @susiequaz12 @princessofonwardsworld @itsleighlove @pumpkin-spice-whump @wiwinia @sunflower1000 @whump-blog @blushing-snail @melancholy-in-the-morning @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpsday @ceph-the-ghost-writer @inkkswhumpandstuff @whumpycries @quietly-by-myself @darlingwhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

#of vampires and men #reeve the human #minor whump tw #restraints tw #implied noncon #stress position #vampires #slavery #vampire whumpers #human whumpee #slavery whump #vampire whump #minor whumpee

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane's Pets Chapter 86: Discovery

TWs in the tags

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Long before Jane took her second and third pets, Puppy holds a sobbing little girl in her arms. A monster, a torturer. A scared little girl.

“All I want is to die.” The girl sobs. “I just want this to end, I want it to stop, why does it never stop?”

She hasn’t given Puppy permission to speak, but she wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.

“I can’t keep doing this! I can’t keep going! But I can’t stop, no matter how much I want to, no matter how many times I play out the same stories and learn the same things and, and-“ Jane trails off into incomprehensible babbling.

Puppy never had any younger siblings, but she imagines this must be what it would feel like, even though Jane is older than her by far. She feels protective and affectionate towards the girl in her arms, even knowing that girl has tortured Puppy endlessly for no reason other than her own entertainment.

“It’ll never stop!” Jane is squeezing Puppy’s arm hard enough to bruise, but for once she doesn’t seem to be causing pain intentionally. 

“Say something!”

Puppy sighs. “That sounds really hard.”

Her sobs border on screams. “You’re not helping!”

“What would help?”

“Nothing, nothing, it’ll never get better, it’ll never end!”

Puppy combs fingers through Jane’s hair. “Can… Can you tell me how this happened? How you became like this?”

“It wasn’t my fault! I don’t even know why they picked me!”

“...they?”

Jane sobs. “They took everything from me! I was just a normal kid! I never asked for this!”

It’s likely that this is just some kind of trick to manipulate Puppy in some way. But even knowing that, Puppy can’t help but feel sorry for Jane. “That’s awful.”

“It is!” She sobs and sobs. “And they didn’t even mean to! They meant to hurt me, but not like this! Not even they knew exactly how it would work, how in the world am I supposed to reverse it?? I tried and tried and tried for millenia and nothing works, and no one, not even the people who did it, know how it happened!”

Puppy hums softly. It’s the only thing she can think of to do. “I’ll help you figure something out.”

“Do you think you’re the first mortal to try?? Do you think you can come up with something I couldn’t in centuries!?” Jane squeezes Puppy’s wrist so hard it snaps. White hot pain runs through Puppy’s arm and she tries to pull away, but Jane holds firm. Now they’re both crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re right!” Puppy yelps. 

Jane keeps squeezing her wrist. “I just want to rest! I just want to sleep, I just want it to end, why won’t it end!? Puppy, I need it to end!”

Puppy just squeezes her eyes shut and tries to get through the pain. There’s nothing she can do to help Jane, nothing at all. She can’t help anyone. She’s struggling to breathe, she’s in agony and even the slightest movements make it worse.

“I hate this, I hate this, make it stop! Puppy, make it stop, please! I’m never going to enjoy being alive again so why won’t it stop??”

She cries and screams and clings to Puppy for hours before the episode ends. It’s a shorter one, all things considered. It isn’t the first and it won’t be the last, though it’s unique in how much coherent information it gave Puppy. Usually, if Jane is speaking in an episode at all instead of just sobbing and screaming, it’s in a language that Puppy doesn’t know. Jane rests on Puppy’s shoulder and plays with her hair. Puppy tries to focus on that sensation rather than the fire in her wrist

“Do you think they would’ve done it if they knew?” Jane asks softly. “If they knew that it would mean an eternity of torment for me, while they only got to experience the rewards of what they did for a lifetime?”

“I don’t know, Jane.” Puppy makes no attempt to keep the pain out of her voice. Maybe Jane forgot about the broken wrist and just needs a reminder.

“I’d like to think that they wouldn’t have done it if they knew. But I don’t know. They probably would’ve. I wish I’d gotten to kill them, but I was still all goody-two-shoes back then.” As she talks, Jane sets Puppy’s wrist and wraps it. It takes everything Puppy has not to scream. “I think if I’d killed them immediately, the spell wouldn’t have stuck. But I guess that’s a useless hypothetical now.”

“...Spell?” Puppy is desperate for any possible distraction to her pain. She’s also really curious about what made Jane like this, even though she also knows Jane could just be fucking with her.

“There’s a balance, to magic. There’s always… a cost. For whatever reason, I was picked out as the cost of this spell. They only knew that I would bear the brunt of the cost of what this spell put into the world. They probably thought it would just kill me, maybe torture me, but not to this extent.” Jane’s voice has taken on an eerie tone. Disconnected, as if she’s telling a story about someone else. But not even that, because Puppy knows how Jane tells stories about other people, and it doesn’t sound like that, either. She just sounds… numb. “I really wish I’d gotten to kill them.”

“What did the spell do?”

“They said it ‘would allow humanity to harness magic.’ Tell me, is that a cause worth sacrificing a child for? Would you have done that to me, Puppy?” Her voice is still eerily emotionless.

“Of course not.”

Jane continues playing with Puppy’s hair for a long time, mumbling about the tortures she wants to inflict on the people who did this to her and how it’s too bad they got to die without ever even feeling a fraction of what they put her through.

Jane’s hands drop to her neck and remove her collar without warning. “No one understands. No one understands what this pain is like. No mortal possibly could.” She yanks on Puppy’s hair and starts pulling her towards the basement. “But I think I’m going to try and make you understand anyway.”

~–~

“So… you tried to kill Puppy?” You ask as you draw a new card. It’s as good a time as any.

Kitty groans. “Yep.”

“...Why?”

“I-” they rub their face. “Jane gave me a knife to hurt Puppy with. Said if I didn’t… something bad would happen. I don’t remember what the threat even was, now. And I thought ‘what if I just slit my throat?’ But then Puppy would’ve been left to deal with the punishment for me doing that. So I thought… ‘what if I just slit her throat?’ So I did. I… I wasn’t thinking straight. I was so tired and in so much pain… I was trying to protect her. I assumed that she would rather be dead because I would rather be dead. It was stupid. Jane… she was really mad. She…” they rub their face again. “I’m so tired, Bunny. Do I have to tell you how she punished me?”

“You don’t have to.” You had been worried it was done in anger- Kitty has mentioned that they hated Puppy when they first met her. But of course Kitty was just trying to protect her, even if it was misguided. “Thanks for telling me what you did.”

Kitty is hiding their face in their hands. “She wanted to make me tell you… and I did…” They sound like they’re on the verge of tears. 

You set down your cards- clearly you aren’t going to get to finish the game. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I don’t think any less of you.”

It doesn’t matter. Heartwrenching sobs come from behind Kitty’s hands.

You think you can guess what’s upsetting them. “It’s okay to end up doing what she wants. You’re still you. You’re not weak.” 

The sobs get worse. “I’m not still me, I can’t think, who am I?? Who am I if I can’t think? I’m just a kitty! I’m not even human!”

“Hey.” You do your best to keep your voice firm without sounding harsh. “I struggle with the same sorts of things, after my head injury. You wouldn’t call me not human.”

“I don’t feel human.” They correct, still sobbing. “I- I’m not myself, I’m not, I can’t-”

This is a frequent theme when Kitty has these breakdowns. “You’re you. This is just… the version of you you are when you’re drugged.”

“I don’t want to be this version of me!” Kitty’s breathing is getting fast. You said the wrong thing. You hope they won’t hyperventilate until they pass out again… “I’m useless! I’m nothing! I can’t be good, she’s going to put me in sensory deprivation again, she’s going to drug me until I can’t even play simple games-”

“Just breathe. C’mon, in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four. There you go.” You need to kill Jane. Then everything will be okay, and Kitty will feel like themself again. “This will pass. You always feel like yourself again eventually.” “And then I don’t again! And then she drugs me again and again and again and it’ll never stop!”

“It’ll stop. She’ll get bored.” You don’t believe that. But you want Kitty to feel better.

“She said she was bored of me being the bad one!”

“She’ll get bored of this too. C’mon, how about you lie down and try to sleep through the worst of this.” You guide them to their bedroom and nudge them onto their bed. “Do you want me to read to you?”

“I want it to stop, why does it never stop? All I want is for it to stop!”

“Shh��� just focus on your breathing. In for four, hold for four…” It’s going to be a long day.

~~

“Aw, aren’t you a good little Kitty-cat?” Master has been hand-feeding Kitty cat food for a while now, cooing about how perfect they are ‘like this.’ Kitty looks like they’re on the verge of screaming, and Bunny doesn’t seem to be faring much better.

Master stops abruptly, tilting her head. “...There’s someone poking around outside. Puppy? Do you want to play guard dog? Go get them.” 

Puppy immediately gets to her feet and makes her way to the door. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to overpower whoever’s out there, so she plans to try and use pity against them. That would be easier if she could talk, but she doesn’t expect master to make anything easy for her.

It doesn’t take long to find the person Master was talking about. Just a quick walk around the perimeter of the house and she finds them, peering into a window. Nowhere near where Master would’ve been able to see them… Puppy was under the impression that Master used her void to see things far away, but apparently she can see things outside her line of sight without using her void. But it doesn’t matter either way. Just more reason she shouldn’t be bad, even when she thinks Master can’t see her.

The stranger gasps when they see her. “Wh- are you-” they stammer.

Puppy is still wearing her muzzle. She lets her hair fall so that her missing ear is obvious. She wore some clothes that showed her scars today, luckily. It shouldn’t be hard at all to get the stranger to pity her enough to follow her.

She walks closer to the stranger and takes their hand, then starts bringing them back to the house. They don’t resist.

“I- let me take that off for you. Who did this?”

Puppy doesn’t answer and keeps moving. Eventually, the stranger stops walking. “Wait, where are we going?”

Puppy tugs on their hand again. Just a little further…

They step forward, but only to reach towards her muzzle. She flinches away. That cannot come off. Not without Master’s permission.

“Okay, okay, I won’t touch it.” The stranger raises their hands in the air. Well, they try to. Puppy doesn’t let go, so it’s pretty awkward. “Let’s just- hey. My name is Jared. Can you hear me?”

Puppy doesn’t respond. It’s a clever approach, to start with something like that, but Puppy won’t fall for it. She won’t let her guard down. She pulls on the stranger more until they start following her again.

“If you can hear me… it’ll be okay. I can help you.”

Puppy pauses outside the door, just for a moment. She is not looking forward to whatever Master has planned. But it doesn’t matter what Puppy wants. She takes Jared into the house.

Jane isn’t there. Of course not. Of course she’s going to make Puppy bring Jared all the way to the basement. 

Jared stops again when they see Bunny and Kitty. They regard the two of them suspiciously. “What’s going on here? I… I’ve heard screaming, from this place-” Jared has one hand in their pocket.

Puppy gets the door to the basement open and shoves Jared down the stairs with all of her might. They yelp as they fall, but don’t seem to be severely injured by the time they reach the bottom. Puppy secretly wishes they’d broken their neck.

Master waits at the bottom of the stairs. “You come down here too, Puppy.”

Puppy obeys. Master is looking over Jared. “What were you doing poking around my house?”

Jared seems very confused. They reach into their pocket again. “Wha- who-”

Master cuts them off with a knife in the offending arm. Jared screams.

“Puppy, darling, do you want to help me interrogate the intruder?”

Puppy does not want that at all. But she nods, because she knows that’s what Master wants her to do. 

Master grins. “Excellent. Restrain them first. You can pick what we use.” Master starts making things appear out of her void. Some rope, some chains, some… barbed wire. Puppy suppresses a shudder and picks out the chains.

“Wait- wait, what are you doing?” Jared is starting to realize that they cannot help Puppy. They look completely terrified. “I was just taking a walk- I won’t tell anyone what I saw, I swear!” They say some words Puppy doesn’t understand and throw powder in the air.

The world goes dark and Puppy can’t hear a thing.

She swings a chain in the direction of the last place she saw Jared. It makes contact, and she feels them collapse to the ground. She swings again. Again and again and again, until electricity surges through her collar and she drops to her knees, writhing in pain silently no matter how much she wants to scream- she knows that will make the shocks worse. And she wouldn’t be able to hear her own screams anyway.

The electricty stops and she gasps for air. She was bad. She doesn’t know what she did wrong yet, but she wouldn’t have gotten shocked if she was being good. She wants to look to Master, to figure out what she might’ve done wrong, but she still can’t see or hear. 

This is like what Bunny’s friend did with the force field. Like what Jane does when she teleports and watches things from her void. Puppy is really not a fan of magic. The force field wore off eventually, right? She really hopes this will too. Master might just kill her if she can’t hear or see her, and she doesn’t want Kitty or Bunny to have to deal with Jane without her to protect them.

Puppy sits nicely like a good pet while she waits for the spell to wear off. This is awful. She’s completely defenseless at the best of times, but this? It’s in its own category altogether. At least when she’s blinded and deafened as punishment she knows why and that it’ll eventually stop. This… she really hates this.

It feels like hours later when she starts to hear and see little scraps of information again. The spell won’t last forever, thankfully.

As soon as she can make out anything at all, she’s looking for her Master. 

“Coming back to me, Puppy?” A hand pets her hair. Her vision continues to gain more detail. “I bet you’re really looking forward to interrogating them now, huh?”

She isn’t, but she nods anyway.

“Well? Go and restrain them for me.”

Jared is lying on the ground, horribly battered. Puppy stumbles over to them, then wraps their wrists and ankles in chains and drags them to one of the many hooks on the wall. Master doesn’t seem upset. Why’d she shock her, then?

“Good girl. Now… you can’t really interrogate if you can’t speak, can you? Kneel.”

Puppy drops to her knees immediately and tries not to get her hopes up. Even if she’s given permission to speak, she won’t be able to use her voice to comfort Kitty or Bunny or even Jared.

Master gently starts loosening the straps keeping the muzzle on Puppy’s face, exposing the pressure sores beneath. Jared is frantically begging or something, but Puppy focuses on the relief of her face being free. She can focus on the relief, just for a moment…

Master gets her remote and adjusts something. Hopefully so that Puppy won’t be shocked if she speaks. “There we go. You have permission to speak. I need you to find out why the intruder came here. Can you do that?”

Puppy hums softly to test if she’ll be shocked. When she isn’t, she clears her throat and tries to decide what to say. Master and her both know perfectly well that torture isn’t a good interogation technique, and they also both know that torture is what Master wants to see. 

“I can definitely get an answer. It may not be the right answer, though.” Puppy settles on. She hopes that Master is in a good enough mood to be happy with that answer. Not that it matters. If she wasn’t in a good mood, pretending that she definitely could get a correct answer wouldn’t please Master either.

Master laughs. “While you interrogate our new friend, I’m going to be in my void and out and about gathering information. We can compare what I find to whatever answer you manage to get and see if they match up. Sound good?” “Yes, Master.” Talking is hard after so long of being silent, but it feels really nice. Master gets some weapons out of her void and arranges them neatly for Puppy, then disappears.

Puppy picks out the cattle prod and jams it into Jared’s neck. “Why were you snooping around?”

She doesn’t want to do this. She hates this. But Master could be watching, and she knows what Master wants to see. She needs to try to please Master, not try to get away with causing the least amount of pain while still following what Master said. There’s no point in trying to get around it, no point in mercy. She isn’t responsible for what she does under Master’s command, anyway, she’s just a tool to be used.

“Hey, hey- I told you, I was just going for a walk!”

Puppy presses the cattle prod’s button. Holds it for five seconds, making the intruder writhe and scream, then lets go. “You were looking in the window when I found you. Do you make a habit of looking in stranger’s windows when you go for walks?”

The stranger gasps for air. “...yes?”

She holds it for ten seconds this time. The intruder jerks violently in their chains. When she lets go, they look into her eyes desperately. “You don’t want to do this. I know you don’t want to do this. I can get you out of here.”

“You can’t. You’re going to die here, Jared. Your only choice now is how painful it will be. So tell me- what in the world made you decide to snoop around a place like this?”

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else, or if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list! (I think I remember someone asking but I forgot who!) Thank you for your patience through the hiatus!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @thecosmicmap @quins-whump-stuff

#whump #whump writing #whumpblr #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #nonhuman whumper #multiple whumpees #pet whump #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #2nd person pov #3rd person pov #minor whump tw #torture tw #broken bones tw #disscussion of torture tw #drugging tw #electrocution tw #muzzle tw #jane’s pets

[whumpwillow]

inhuman whumpee that was taken from its parents at a very young age & was never held by the humans that owned it. when it’s finally handed over to kinder handlers that hold it, it melts into their arms and refuses to let go/be put down

so this, right?

#kidnapping tw #kidnapped whumpee #past minor whump #minor whumpee #minor whump tw #honestly not sure how else to tag for this one #willow answers #answered asks #whump #whump prompts #whump ideas #whump prompt #whump tropes #whump trope #whump idea #whump inspiration #whump scenario #whump scenarios

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 11 - Royal AU

This is the second piece I've written for the Brumaria Royal AU (neither of which have actually had Bruno in them). The first one can be found here and tells the story of Kamaria becoming the Princess of Ethorcon!

Taglist: @painful-pooch

The Shadow of Death Masterlist

No. 11: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.” | “No one will find you.”

Contains: lady whump, referenced past whump of a minor, claustrophobia, nyctophobia, corporal punishment, referenced beating, minor sh (scratching)

.

.

It’s so dark.

Kamaria rubs her hands up and down her satin skirt, trying to give her mind something to focus on besides the darkness. The rustle it makes is extraordinarily loud in the stillness. It’s no longer enough, though, not after this long standing in the tiny space, so she clenches her hands into fists, letting her long fingernails dig into her palms. 

She needs out. 

How long has it been, anyway? Time passes strangely in here. Minutes seem like hours, but the times that she convinces herself it hasn’t been that long, she’s just being dramatic, half a day has passed. 

Her legs and back ache from standing in the same position, so likely it’s been at least an hour. It feels like it’s been many hours. She raises up onto her toes, relishing the stretch in her calves. On the way back down, though, her shoulder bumps up against the side of the wardrobe. The reminder of how small the space is buzzes through her whole body. 

She needs out she needs out she needs out now.

She wants to scream, and kick, and generally raise a ruckus until someone comes and lets her out of here. She’s tried that before, though, back when she was young and first came to live at the castle. Either it does nothing but tire her out, because there’s no one around to hear, or Roderick does hear and she pays dearly for her insolence. 

Right now, a beating or caning seems like it would be welcome, just because it would take place out in the open and the light. But she stays quiet, anyway. Scratching furiously at her arms placates some of the need to act out.

When all this first started, she wasn’t even bothered by darkness or small spaces. Even the first few times Roderick locked her in here, it wasn’t that bad. Frustrating, yes, but it didn’t make her anxious. Of course back then, she was small enough that she could sink to the floor, curl up and even nap. 

She thinks it changed the first time he left her an entire day and night. She thought he’d forgotten her. And that’s the fear now, irrational as it may be - what if he forgets about her? What if something happens to him and no one else knows where she is? What if he decides she needs even more punishment and takes it too far, leaving her here until she starves or dehydrates or maybe simply loses all of her senses?

No one else but the two of them ever come into this room. No one will find her. 

She knows it’s stupid. He’s left her for an entire day and night more than once, but it’s never been longer than that. Still, every time he starts pushing her this direction, her stomach churns and she considers falling to her knees and begging him to punish her another way. She’ll never actually go that far, of course. It would give him too much satisfaction. But the anxiety of facing hours in the darkness crawls up her throat and threatens to choke her every time.

Has it been another hour yet? She’s starting to get a headache. Whether from lack of sleep, food, or water, she has no idea.

If she could only braid a strand of her hair, that would keep her occupied, but it’s all pinned up in a ridiculous Ethorconite hairstyle. Scratching her arms is good. The sting of it keeps her from going crazy. Roderick will fuss about how she’s marred her skin later and she’ll have to wear long sleeves until the marks disappear, but it’s worth it. 

She stops moving suddenly, straining to listen. There was something out there, something made a noise…right? She could swear she heard a footstep or maybe a door shutting. 

The seconds tick by, the only sound her shaky breathing, hitting the wooden door and bouncing back to her ears. Please please please…

No one opens the door. The darkness stretches on. 

#whumptober2023 #no.11 #lyric #all the lights going dark and my hope's destroyed #no one will find you #original content #fic #minor whump tw #claustrophobia tw #nyctophobia tw #corporal punishment tw #self harm tw #shadow of death #kamaria the assassin #royal au #lady whump #lady whumpee #fantasy oc #whump series

[whumpster-fire]

Wolverine

Hey guys, I finally turned some of my His Dark Materials into a fic! Published on AO3 here, or on Tumblr below the cut.

Tagging @ziptiesnfries bc you’re into daemon whump and stuff so I thought you might like it

Summary: The plan fell apart when Pan bit down, and the monkey’s scream rang in his ears, and he tasted blood in his jaws, and he was almost sick. He just barely had the presence of mind to not let go completely and let him get away. Mrs. Coulter was on her knees from the pain and Pan wanted to scream for Lyra to just grab the alethiometer now while she had a chance, but she wasn’t moving, couldn’t move, and Pan was so close to freezing too. It took every ounce of strength, every ounce of willpower, he had to keep fighting like this. It took every ounce of willpower he and Lyra had put together.

Pantalaimon's POV of the confrontation and fight with Mrs. Coulter in Charles Latrom's basement, and the aftermath.

Spoilers for the show up to S2E5

Content Warnings/Tags: Daemon whump, minor whump, vomiting, consensual daemon touching, mention of past nonconsensual daemon touching and child abuse

Lyra Belacqua – no, Silvertongue now, never again Belacqua - stood face to face with her mother, frozen, rooted to the spot, tears of fear and rage running down her face.

And her daemon, Pantalaimon, stood beside her, fighting the urge to look away from the piercing glare of the Golden Monkey, or tuck his tail under, or take the form of a mouse and crawl up Lyra’s trouser leg to the safety of her pocket. It wasn’t a warm night in Cittagaze, but the polished marble floor of Charles Latrom’s basement somehow felt far colder against the paws of his red panda form.

This was wrong – this was all wrong! Why was Mrs. Coulter here? Why was he here? In this world – Latrom, or Boreal, was from their world too, so there must have been a way – but here?

 The plan had seemed so simple, so impossible to go wrong. Go to the door, distract Latrom, get him out of the room so Will could grab the alethiometer, then… Pan didn’t know what exactly the plan was next. Go to the basement with him and make a run for the window that would still be open with Will waiting on the other side? Run for the window outside that he’d cut her through? They’d changed it at the last minute to make sure Latrom wasn’t waiting in the basement when Will cut in, and they hadn’t had a chance to talk about what Lyra and Pan would do after he got it. Pan had a couple ideas, and he was sure Lyra did too, but right now he couldn’t even remember them, and it didn’t matter because it had all fallen apart. All he could do was try to keep his breathing even, and try to keep standing straight and not limp or list towards the side with the bruised ribs. The side where Tullio had kicked him.

 This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They’d thought about what would happen if they were caught by Mrs. Coulter again, they’d talked and planned how they would fight her, how Pan would fight the monkey, with all the bravado of children planning their next war in the streets of Oxford. Which they’d been until so recently. Pan was going to change forms so fast the monkey could never get a grip on him. It seemed so easy when Mrs. Coulter was hundreds of miles away, and when they still believed the great taboo was absolute and inviolable.

 Mrs. Coulter had tears in her eyes too, and she was trying to lace her voice with the usual honey. “Lyra, you are special.” Pan was sure that part was truthful. “I am only trying to protect you.” And that part, he knew was a lie, because of the look on her daemon’s face.

 No. Maybe in some twisted idea of protection like how  cutting a child apart   was supposed to protect them from Dust, or Sin, or whatever the grown-ups wanted to call it. But Pantalaimon knew, with a dreadful certainty, that if they didn’t get away, if Mrs. Coulter had them in her grasp, she was going to  hurt   them. Not kill them, not sever them, but Pan didn’t know if the monkey would stop at twisting his ears this time, and the monkey wasn’t the only one he was worried about.

 When she offered the alethiometer, held it out so close, almost in reach, Pan wanted to scream to Lyra to just grab it and run, but his throat was so dry he couldn’t make a sound. He was so tempted to turn into a bird and try to snatch it. It seemed so easy, but after what Mrs. Coulter’s colleagues had done in Bolvangar, he didn’t trust for a moment that she wouldn’t just grab him or swat him out of the air. Especially right now, with his chest aching from a blow a  human   had struck.

 Somewhere on the other side of the room, Will was trying to fend off Lord Boreal’s daemon. He didn’t seem to realize that she couldn’t touch him –  wouldn’t   touch him. She wouldn’t, right? They were bluffing, they had to be bluffing, because this world had no daemons so Will would just see a snake slithering after him, and not… know how it would feel if she touched him. She couldn’t possibly be crazy enough to… could she?

 The slightest change in the monkey’s posture and Pan tensed. A hint of a snarl crossed his lips. This form couldn’t have been intimidating, but he didn’t know what else to be. He was sure Coulter’s daemon would spring any second, would probably wait for the moment when he changed forms, and… Mrs. Coulter would too. She knew how to fight people, she knew how to  hurt   people, and she was a grown-up and bigger and taller than Lyra. Pan imagined the fight before the other way round, with his Lyra pinned against the cold marble, her arm twisted behind her back, Mrs. Coulter’s nails digging into her ear or her neck or wrenching her hair back. The anger and frustration of how helpless he’d felt when the monkey attacked him before, and how – how Coulter treated her daemon like a tool. No, how she treated  all   daemons like tools. Neither she nor the monkey had ever said a word to him, he was just a way of hurting Lyra.

 He’d have run, he’d have turned into a bird and retreated to the edges of the room, out of the monkey’s reach, to stop her from doing that again. But if she used Lyra to hurt  him…   that couldn’t happen. That couldn’t happen. No – it  had   to be him. He  had   to be the one to fight, because Lyra couldn’t change shape, but he could.

 Pantalaimon wanted to sink his teeth into the golden monkey’s ear and wrench it off, to become a wildcat and rake his claws across that hateful face. He was just waiting for Lyra to make a grab for the alethiometer or give some sort of signal, but he was about to give up on waiting. No, he’d been overpowered so easily even as a wildcat. Larger forms always felt clumsy to him, and he only really took them to frighten and impress. But there were times when a fight had been more serious than the quarrels of barbarian children, when they’d drawn the ire of some older kids and their daemons looked like they were  used   to the snarling dog and wolf forms they’d taken. Pan had always taken the form of a young snow leopard then, the form of Lord Asriel’s daemon, because he and Lyra always imagined them fighting off Tartar soldiers and their wolf daemons on their expeditions to the north.

 But this time, he couldn’t. He was  trying   to change form even before Lyra’s snarl told him she was ready for whatever they were going to do, but her words before that kept ringing in his head, and he saw Stelmaria with Salcilia’s small body hanging limp in her jaws, and he felt sick. Lyra was right, she was nothing like Mrs. Coulter, and he didn’t want to be anything like Stelmaria, or like the monkey, either. But he had to do  something  , he had to fight, he  wanted   to fight back like Iorek had fought Iofur.

 And remembering Iorek Byrnison’s battle was what made Pan take the form he did. He sort of wanted to be a bear, but a bear was too big, he’d become a dragon the size of a wolfhound once but nothing larger than that. He didn’t really think about the transformation, it just happened as he lunged. A creature he’d only seen stuffed in a museum or a hall of biology, like a small bear, but with a bit of the ermine and ferret and marten forms that somehow always felt comfortable to him. A wolverine.

 But that plan fell apart too. Not because it all went wrong, but because it went way more right than he ever expected it to. Pan lunged and clawed and bit like his life depended on it, but he was sure that in another second the golden monkey would be clinging to his back twisting his ears and gouging at his eyes just like before. Deep down he never really expected to find himself  winning   the fight, and definitely not that it would be this easy. It  fell apart when Pan bit down, and the monkey’s scream rang in his ears, and he tasted  blood   in his jaws, and he was almost sick. He just barely had the presence of mind to not let go completely and let him get away. Mrs. Coulter was on her knees from the pain and Pan wanted to scream for Lyra to just grab the alethiometer  now  while she had a chance, but she wasn’t moving,  couldn’t   move, and Pan was so close to freezing too. It took every ounce of strength, every ounce of willpower, he had to keep fighting like this. It took every ounce of willpower he and Lyra had put together. He was hurting Coulter’s daemon, he knew he was hurting him and he was trying to hurt him, he  wanted   to hurt him, but Pan couldn’t help but remember Iorek Byrnison’s muzzle dripping crimson, white fur and snow stained with blood. Iofur’s jaw ripped away, his heart torn from his chest… a Tartar soldier’s wolf daemon’s chest exploding into white fire from a single swipe of the Panserbjørn’s massive paw.

 Pantalaimon knew that right now he had the same power to end a life that Iorek Byrnison had. If he seized the monkey’s head, or neck, in the right place, one bite could crush his skull or snap his neck. One bite and there could be nothing but Dust in his jaws, and Mrs. Coulter would crumple to the ground dead. The knowledge terrified him. He wasn’t Iorek.  Lyra   wasn’t Iorek. That wasn’t who they were. They weren’t meant for this. He couldn’t do it. All he could do was lie, because  that   was who they were,  that   was what they were good at. Keep clawing, keep biting down on only skin, and shaking and twisting and drawing blood even though it made his stomach turn, keep tackling him and throwing him against the wall, pretending that he was trying to kill him and not just keep Mrs. Coulter distracted. Either until Lyra did something or Will did something or – he was half expecting Mrs. Coulter to go after him, to try to kick him away the same as Tullio had, but if she did then he could make a run for it.

 At some point he got the monkey pinned under his weight. He wasn’t sure what happened next, only that he heard Will scream, and he almost lost his nerve and let go. Not out of fear or disgust this time, because a searing anger consumed everything else. He was ready to charge across the room and seize Lord Boreal’s daemon and rip her apart, or – or  damn the taboo  , he knew he couldn’t attack a human, that no amount of fear or anger could keep the shock and pain and revulsion from sapping his strength, but he still felt like he could tear the man’s hand off. Pan planted his paw against the monkey’s back and the scruff of his neck in his teeth and  pulled.

 He heard Will shouting something, shouting that they had to go, but Pan didn’t know what was happening until he felt Lyra running, felt her getting too far from him, and he looked up and saw the window. For a moment he was terrified that Will would shut it too soon, and – he didn’t want to think about what would happen if he was on one side and Lyra was on the other. Would it be like the silver guillotine? Or would they just be dead? Like Roger and Salcilia?

 When they made it through together and Will closed the window just in time to stop the monkey from following them – just in time that whatever would have happened didn’t happen to Mrs. Coulter - Pan’s wolverine form crumbled. He changed through several others as he staggered along the cobblestone streets. The red panda, the arctic fox, the mongoose he was thinking of changing into before when he almost went after Boreal’s daemon, a hare, a wildcat, an ermine, and finally a pine marten, but they all felt oddly uncomfortable, and the metallic taste of blood never left his mouth. Neither he nor Lyra said a word all the way back to the house they were staying in.

 Pantalaimon made it about five steps over the threshold before he was sick all over the smooth, cold tile.

~~

“Are you all right?” Lyra asked as she wiped the vomit from Pan’s muzzle with a damp dishcloth. Pan shuddered. He hated this so much. Daemons didn’t need food, of course, but if Lyra was sick usually he was as well, and something always came up that resembled whatever she’d eaten. Which was probably better than the pain of dry heaving, but it was still awful. The one time Lyra and Roger had stolen the bottle of brandy was probably the worst. He didn’t know how they’d even choked it down in the first place. This time, though, he was the only one who’d actually been sick. The sensation of nausea was shared, but the taste of blood wasn’t.

“Did he hurt you?” she asked like they couldn’t feel each other’s pain, like she didn’t know that he had. The Golden Monkey had fought back, Pan just… hadn’t cared at the time. Or that much now. He’d definitely been clawed and bitten, and it was painful, but not the worst thing that had happened since yesterday.

“I think I hurt him worse,” Pan answered, his voice shaking. “I almost… I almost hurt him way worse.” He tried to change the subject. “Will’s hurt worse than us. I mean besides… the fingers. Latrom did something to him -”

“I know,” Lyra said flatly.

“We should check on him.” Will was upstairs. He’d been worried about them, but Lyra had told him to just go, they’d be fine, they’d be up soon, on her way to gag over the kitchen sink.

“I know. I’ve got to see to you first.” She stood up, steadying herself on the chair a little, and hunted around the cupboards for something.

“You don’t have to.” Pan crouched, and tried to jump onto the counter, but his chest exploded with pain, and his leap fell short. He got his front paws on it, but his back ones scrabbled on the cabinet as he gritted his teeth and tried not to cry out. Lyra’s face contorted, and she rushed to help him up, then stood leaning against the counter. Her face was pale and sweat beaded on it. She gave him a look that needed no words. Did she? “I don’t think anything’s broken,” he said defensively. “Not like when you fell off those dustbins climbing onto the roof and hit the edge of the flower bed.” That had been a few years ago, and it was the longest Lyra had stayed off the roofs. Mostly stayed off the roofs.

 Lyra resumed her search, and found the saucer she was looking for. She filled it with water and set it on the counter with shaky hands. Pan lapped at it a bit, just to get rid of the taste of bile. Then some more, because his mouth was parched.

“That isn’t what I mean.” Lyra opened another cabinet and grabbed a mug for herself. She swished the water around, grimaced, and spit it out. The water here had a funny taste. “Pan, I’m… sorry I acted like Mrs. Coulter. That I used you like a… like a weapon!”

 Pan winced. “You aren’t anything like her and you know it,” he said vehemently. “She didn’t just… use her daemon like a weapon, she used  me   like one to hurt  you!  ”

“So? What I did – what we did en’t any different!”

“No – it’s not – I mean it is!” Pan’s head was still spinning. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the sink basin, trying to get the tangled rat’s nest of thoughts in order. Lyra was right that they’d done the same thing, and it felt like they had, but he knew that it was different. “It’s not the same because… you’re not like she is with her daemon. We lived with her for months and I don’t even know his name!”

 He and Lyra exchanged a glance of shocked realization. Not at Mrs. Coulter’s treatment of her daemon, not at his unnerving silence. They’d noticed that soon after they met her. But the thought hadn’t occurred to Pan until that moment that Mrs. Coulter had wanted Lyra to become like her – that she wanted Pan to become like the golden monkey. It hadn’t occurred to him that she  only   spoke to Lyra, because it wasn’t uncommon for humans to avoid speaking to daemons other than their own and vice versa. But he’d  felt  it. Mrs. Coulter had been stricter about that rule than anyone at Oxford, or any of the Gyptians, or Lee Scoresby or Iorek. She’d said it was part of etiquette in her circles, which would become Lyra’s circles soon enough.

 She didn’t get  angry  , not openly at least, but if Pan said anything to her she’d either ignore it entirely, or gently correct them, and not answer until Lyra repeated it, and the monkey would just give him a look that made it clear that he was supposed to be quiet. He hadn’t thought about it before, but even after they got away from her flat, even  now,  Pan hadn’t stopped feeling that twinge of nervousness whenever he spoke above a whisper when other humans were around, even to Lyra. He hadn’t followed the rule with other grownups while they were living with Mrs. Coulter, of course, because it was a stupid rule and breaking grownups’ stupid rules came naturally to him and Lyra. But after the monkey’s attack, and after Bolvangar, after seeing the nurses and natural philosophers’ daemons be just as cold and nearly as silent, and now having to hide himself from everyone in Will’s world, he felt more and more self-conscious, but these strange worlds where people carried their souls inside them felt more and more lonely.

 Pan shuddered. “You’re not like that,” he repeated. “You didn’t  use   me. I  wanted   to attack him. To hurt him. I was going to do it if you didn’t even say anything, I was just… so scared I couldn’t move.”

 His breath caught in his throat and his sight clouded with tears, but Lyra forced herself to smile weakly. “I’m sorry I ever called you a coward, Pan.” She stroked his forehead and neck, and he leaned into her touch, then crawled into her arms. “I wanted to hit her too, but I… I wanted to be like her, just to… to show her what it felt like to have that done to her. I thought it would feel good, somehow, but it didn’t.”

“I know.” Pan thought for a moment of becoming an ermine and curling up on her shoulder, or in the crook of her elbow, like he often did in moments when they needed comfort. But right now, he didn’t want to be that small, that vulnerable. This form was somewhere in between the ermine and the wolverine and the wildcat – the ferret was too, but he didn’t know if he could ever take that form again without being reminded of all the times he and Salcilia would play together as ferrets. “It felt awful,” he choked out. “I don’t ever want to do that again.” He tried to say what he’d felt, like he was being pulled in half between the rage and hurt and fear of what Mrs. Coulter would do in one direction, and the fear that he could kill her in the other, but his throat tightened until the only sound he could make was a soft whimper that he muffled in Lyra’s shirt because he didn’t want Will to hear. The last thing Will needed was to be worrying about them.

 Lyra’s hand brushed over his ear again, but touched a place he’d been bitten or scratched. Pan winced, and Lyra winced, and he had a vague, muted sense of wetness against his paw pad. He was lifted and set back on the counter, and the way she lifted him made his chest hurt, and -

“Oh, Pan, you’re bleeding!” There was a small spot of blood on Lyra’s finger. Pan’s stomach twisted.

“He just scratched me a little. Come on, you’ve gotten way worse scrapes and cuts and I haven’t complained -”

“Yes you have, you told me I was trying to get us killed after the car -”

 Pan tried to change the subject. “That’s not what I meant – Lyra, we’re… we’re still in one piece. Will’s… not. Fussing over me’s just selfish.”

 Lyra opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then sighed and wiped the blood off on her shirt. “I think I’ll make some coffee,” she said after an uncomfortable silence. “It’s s’posed to help headaches, right? Maybe it’ll do something for his hand.”

“Maybe,” Pan agreed. He lay down on his side gingerly. “Please just… only for Will. Don’t drink any. I don’t want to feel all… jittery right now.” He was still trembling a little, and his heart was going faster than it should have in this form.

“I don’t want to either. I won’t right now, but if we have to keep watch all night, I might have to.”

 They couldn’t keep watch all night, Pan thought, coffee or no coffee. They must have nodded off at some point last night, but it didn’t feel like they’d slept at all. They’d spent most of it tossing and turning and worrying that Will was going to bleed to death because his missing fingers wouldn’t stop bleeding, or thinking about Giacomo Paradisi, or about what they would have to do today and what if Latrom moved the alethiometer somewhere else, or what if he had it under guard, or something else went wrong. And yet he’d never thought of how it actually had  gone wrong  . It still felt like the day of the fight in the tower had never ended, but at the same time it felt like weeks had passed.

 Pantalaimon was left to his thoughts again, to Mrs. Coulter and the monkey and Bolvangar. He’d never thought about what it was she and the Magisterium  wanted   to accomplish with the severing operation, all he knew was that it was wrong. But her chilling words sliced back into his mind. “Like a pet, the most wonderful pet.” Pan’s fur stood on end, and he wanted to be sick all over again. She’d saved them from the silver guillotine because the procedure didn’t work the way she wanted it to, it destroyed the poor children they tested it on because of  course   it did. But was what she wanted really just to keep Dust, away, or was it that she wanted daemons to… not be daemons anymore? To make them voiceless, subservient, not truly one half of a person. He had a horrible, terrifying feeling that there was a subtler kind of  cutting  , not with metal and anbaric current but with every little word and gesture… that this had been done to her and the golden monkey or she’d done it herself, and that was what she’d been trying to do to Lyra, and to him.

~~

“It’s no use!” Lyra groaned and snapped the alethiometer’s case shut. She slumped against the wall, holding her hand to her forehead. “I can’t make any sense of it, the symbols are just… swimming!”

“Lyra, you don’t have to use it now.” Will had a towel wrapped around his bandaged hand and was trying to keep pressure on it. “We’re not going anywhere tonight anyway. Let’s just get some sleep… or try to anyway.”

 Will and Lyra both had dark bags under their eyes. Pan had a pounding, hammering headache, which meant Lyra must have too. He’d returned to his red panda form before they came upstairs, and was sprawled on the bed beside Lyra.

“Is your hand any better?” Lyra asked.

“Not… really.” Will’s face contorted in pain. He unwrapped the towel, grimaced, and set it on his lap. “I think it almost stopped bleeding before, but Latrom must’ve torn the wounds back open when he twisted it.” He rubbed his forearm with his good hand. “Prick. You know, I heard in Biology class that losing a body part doesn’t hurt as much as you’d expect because the nerves that send the pain signals are all gone, or something… total rubbish.”

“Do you think you should see a doctor?”

“Lyra, the police are after me. If I went to A&E I’d be arrested. You’d be too, probably, now they know you’re with me.”

“I know that, I’m just trying to think… is there a way you could open a window somewhere else, where they wouldn’t think to look?”

“I don’t think so. Every spot in this world’s connected to the same spot in another world. We’d have to travel in this one, and… getting the distance right to cut into Latrom’s basement’s one thing, but we’d have to go hundreds of miles! We could just end up in the middle of the North Sea.”

“I know, that’s what Giacomo told you, but it can’t be all right to the same spot. Lord Asriel’s bridge is in Svalbard, and it brought me here, but there’s a window to your Oxford.” Her brow furrowed in concentration, but Pan had the idea first.

“Wait – Lyra! What if Will closed the window in the gardens – the one Latrom’s been using, and Mrs. Coulter! They’d be stuck in this world!”

“If they’re still in this world,” Will muttered. “And they haven’t come to this one looking for us.” He looked directly at Pan as he spoke, and Pan’s eyes automatically flinched away from his. “You can talk to me, you know,” the boy added.

“Sorry,” Pan said past the tension in his throat. “It’s just...” he exchanged a glance with Lyra. He wasn’t up to explaining about Mrs. Coulter right now, and he didn’t think she was either. “Never mind.”

“Well, if they do come to this world they wouldn’t be able to get back to yours, would they?” Lyra pointed out.

“And then what?” said Will. “Charles Latrom, antiquities collector, suddenly disappears without a trace? I don’t think that’d make the police call off the manhunt.”

“No… you’re right.” Lyra slapped her hand against the mattress in frustration. “There’s got to be other ways of getting somewhere, though. Somewhere in your world, or in mine, or...” Lyra’s eyes lit up. “Wait, that’s it! Will, Latrom’s been here since before the bridge was opened! That means there’s got to be another way to my world, and I’ll bet it’s to my England. They’ll be looking for me there, but they won’t know about you, so...” She scowled, and her grip on the blanket tightened in frustration. Pan unconsciously dug his claws into the bedclothes too. “No, that won’t work. You haven’t got a daemon, they’d be bound to ask questions...”

“We’ll think of something,” Will said without any confidence in his voice. His good hand shook a little as he reached for the bloody bandage. “Maybe we’d better… see how it looks. And tomorrow, if we cut into my world, I can look up supplies while I stay hidden, and you can...” Will’s words turned into a hiss of pain as he tried to unwrap his fingers. He swore under his breath, almost curling in on himself and clutching his wrist. “I can’t...” he gasped. “I can’t.”

Pan looked uneasily at Lyra. He knew she wasn’t any happier with the plan than he was. It wasn’t going to work. None of them wanted to admit that the wound was getting bad, and they didn’t know what to do about it. Whatever treatment any of them could come up with wasn’t enough, Will needed a doctor, a hospital. But the only person he might not get arrested for talking to was Dr. Malone, and she wasn’t the right kind.

 Will was fumbling trying to wrap his hand back up now. The boy’s forehead glistened with sweat, and his eyes had teared up. It was obvious to Pan that he was trying to keep a brave face, and not show how frightened he was or how much pain he was in, because he and Lyra had done the same so much recently.

 But it was  wrong.  Will shouldn’t have had to endure that alone. His daemon should have been by his side. He wasn’t like the severed children, empty and lifeless, and Pan could sense that there was  something   there. His soul was invisible and formless, and somehow inside him. He was whole, but he was  alone  , in a way that nobody in Pantalaimon’s world could be, except a witch or a bear. His daemon should have been able to lie on his chest and use her weight to calm his fast, uneven breathing, or lick her own paw where her human’s wounds were and soothe both of their pain without disturbing bandages or delicate scabs, and Will should have been able to hold her close to his breast and stroke her fur and let himself be distracted by comforting her.

 And Pan should have been able to do something too, more than just words. He should have been able to curl around Will’s daemon, and groom her fur or feathers, just the same as Lyra could put her hand on Will’s shoulder or squeeze his hand. But his daemon wasn’t there. Didn’t exist. That must have been why Pan felt the same frightening, dangerous urge he knew Lyra had felt because there was no way to hide feelings that strong from each other, when she was with the caged daemons locked away at Bolvangar. It felt like a betrayal of himself, and of Lyra, that he could even consider it, especially when he  knew   why the great taboo was so sacred and so absolute. But the thought kept coming back ever since the fight over the knife, no matter how many times he pushed it away, relentless as the clockwork heart of the spy-fly that had been sealed in the tobacco tin.

 Pan’s heart raced, and he folded his ears as he tiptoed closer, under the pretense of sniffing to try and tell whether Will’s wound was infected. Even this close he wanted to bolt and hide in Lyra’s clothes as a mouse. But something made him stay there, trying to hide that he was trembling, and his ribs ached because just yesterday he’d been touched, he’d been  struck  , and he wasn’t really that sure that nothing was broken, and yet he was still doing this.

 Because if people in Will’s world carried their souls inside them, then how else could their souls touch? And maybe because right now Pan wanted another daemon to curl around him and lick the wounds where the monkey had bitten and clawed him, because even if he’d won the fight this time Mrs. Coulter’s daemon had still hurt him again. And because it had happened  twice   now, in the fortress beneath the snow and in the sunlit tower, and some part of him had to know if it always had to  hurt.

“Pan – what are you doing?” Lyra gasped.

 And Pantalaimon took a deep breath, and leaned forward, and  touched   his forehead against Will’s wrist.

 Neither he nor Lyra could speak or move until Will had withdrawn his arm sharply and was stammering that he hadn’t meant to, that he’d been lying against the wall with his eyes closed and he was sure he hadn’t moved but he was sorry.

 But it hadn’t hurt. It had still felt like an anbaric shock, like sliding and rolling on a carpet and then touching a doorknob with the tip of his nose, like flying up as far as he could above Lyra’s head and then becoming a creature that couldn’t fly and feeling his stomach turn over as he plummeted towards the ground. But not the horrible cold, clammy sensation like something slimy was gripping and twisting his insides into knots. It felt… almost warm somehow, like lying close to a fireplace and letting the heat soak into his fur until it was almost painful and his skin started to prickle and tingle.

“Sorry,” Pan said awkwardly,” mostly to Lyra, then again to Will. “I wasn’t thinking – did it – hurt you?” It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know what it felt like for a human to touch another’s daemon, because of course Lyra wouldn’t because she would never do that, and he didn’t care what it felt like for the men who’d restrained him and picked him up by the scruff, or the boy who’d kicked him in the ribs, if it hurt them that was just what they deserved.

“No. It felt – not bad, it didn’t hurt but – aren’t you not supposed to do that?”

“You’re not.” Lyra nodded and stared blankly across the room. Pan padded back to her and collapsed into her lap, his vision shimmering with tears. This time it hadn’t been bad, but the sensation was still so overwhelming, and after everything else that had happened tonight he just felt drained. “It’s the worst feeling in the world. The worst thing I’ve ever – that we’ve ever felt. At least… it was before.” She held Pan tightly, and this time he became an ermine and burrowed into the crook of her arm.

“Lyra, I’m sorry.” Pan still couldn’t keep the tears back, and her sleeve was damp against his forehead. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It was like the -”

“Like the cages,” she finished the sentence for him in a dull monotone.

“I just wanted to do something to – to help someone instead of hurting them or putting them in danger!” Something in Pan’s heart gave way, and thoughts he hadn’t known he had, or at least hadn’t put into words until now, came tumbling out of his mouth. “Will wouldn’t have gotten hurt if we hadn’t trusted Latrom, we’ve gotten the police set on Dr. Malone – we got Roger and Salcilia killed because they stayed with us instead of going home with the Gyptians!” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “And now I’ve gotten you hurt too.” Lyra’s grip on him tightened, but Pan tensed, and wriggled out of her arms, and immediately felt furious with himself for doing it. He met Will’s shocked, uncomfortable eyes for a second and turned away, curling into a ball and trying to burrow into the blanket. What was he thinking, what was he thinking? If it was rude for a daemon to speak to other humans, it was much worse for human and daemon to argue like this in the company of others. “Maybe Mrs. Coulter’s right about us...” he couldn’t bear to say the rest out loud because it wasn’t just a lie, it was wrong, and he didn’t know why he was even thinking it, and saying it would only hurt Lyra worse. Maybe she was right about them. They were as good at twisting people around them and ruining their lives as she was, and maybe she was right about daemons. Not in the way it would sound like he meant if he said it, but maybe he should have kept his mouth shut, he shouldn’t have tried to fight for the both of them, because in the end Mrs. Coulter had just used him to hurt Lyra anyway.

“Pan, don’t say that!” Lyra gathered him up in her arms and held him in her lap, petting him with shaking hands. The sobbing tremor in her voice only made him feel worse. She tried to compose herself for a few breaths, then gave up. “You didn’t hurt me. I wish you could’ve warned me before you did that, but… I don’t think it’s wrong that you did.”

 She held him there for a while, and Pan’s trembling slowly stopped. “Well… now we know, I s’pose,” she said. She leaned forward, and for a moment Pan though he would fall. She reached out and squeezed Will’s good hand. “We’ll think of something in the morning. I think me going to get supplies is a good plan, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Will mumbled. He sat up a little straighter in the bed, but his eyes were bleary. “Uhh… are you okay?”

“We’re fine. We just… need to sleep.” Lyra stood up unsteadily. Pan shook himself back awake, because they were both close to passing out. “Good night, Will.” She took a step, then paused and turned. “Did the coffee help at all?”

“A little.”

#my writing #whump #daemon whump #daemon touching tw #His Dark materials fandom #Lyra Silvertongue Belacqua #Pantalaimon #minor whump tw

[aceofwhump]

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

#avatar the last airbender #atla #netflix atla #atla netflix #atla live action #zuko #dallas liu #ozai #daniel dae kim #minor whump #child abuse tw #abuse tw #whump #whumpedit #my gifs #mod post #fight #pain #burned #burns #pinned down

[miammey]

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

#idk I wanted to draw some whump #whump #whump art #tw blood #very minor but still #bsd spoilers #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs manga #bsd hunting dogs #the hunting dogs #my art #art #bsd jouno #jouno saigiku

[befuddled-calico-whump]

guys they are so unbothered

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

#yes that's the interrogator #whump art #whumpy art #partial nudity #the interrogator #bruised #aftermath of whump #breakdown #tw eyestrain #(very minor but the text layers are kinda) #whumper turned whumpee

[3-2-whump]

Escape Attempt Last

<prev next>

As in, there were plenty in between this attempt and First Escape Attempt, but I won't enumerate them (unless you ask nicely, I guess)

Set one year after The Auction Floor

TW/CW: minor whump, slavery, pet whump, noncon body mod (tattoos, piercings), threats of permanent injury (not followed through), burning, inappropriate use of a clothes iron

The first thing he heard that morning was “Happy anniversary,” whispered softly over him as he stirred awake.

Khaled blinked. The blond man leaned over his bed, not a trace of a frown on his stern face. Khaled groggily rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He had no idea what his master just said, though that might’ve just been because he was never much of a morning person. “What was that?” Khaled yawned.

“It’s our anniversary,” the man explained patiently as he helped him sit up. Those broad arms and bruising hands that once (and occasionally still) struck fear into Khaled’s heart now supported him as he climbed out of bed. “I brought you home a year ago, and so I wanted to give you something special today, if you’d let me…” he trailed off with a smile.

Khaled shuffled toward his wardrobe and began picking out a pair of boxers, denim pants, and a shirt. “A year, huh?” Though he was still in the process of waking up, having never been an early riser in his life, his muddy brain was slowly piecing it together.

It was well into midday when Khaled finally let its implications sink in.

One year of his life in slavery. One whole year of his life spent in servitude. His head swam in an unsettling mix of shock, anger, and grief, emotions that traveled down to his gut and twisted it into knots. A lot had happened in a year; the sixteen-year-old shot up a few inches in height, his voice had deepened, and his body hair (everywhere) had grown in enough to prompt his owner to teach him about shaving and ‘hygienic practices.’ That was an embarrassing talk, and one that he deeply wished his father could’ve given him instead.

It had been more than a year since he had seen his family; were they thinking of him? Did they notice he was gone? He brought home one of their main sources of income; how was his mother coping, providing for his siblings all on her own? They didn’t hate him for abandoning them, did they? Khaled blinked back the mist in his eyes at the thought.

The car lulled to a stop. “We’re here,” the Boss announced, taking Khaled out of his head. He looked down at the small box resting in his hands. Twin diamonds set in white gold rested inside the velvety interior. At first, Khaled thought it was a mistake, since his ears weren’t pierced. The man only grinned as he simply replied “not yet.”

They got out at the now-familiar tattoo parlor, entering soon after they opened. This was where the boy got his second and third tattoos, the initials and the skull and snake, respectively. The bearded, bespectacled man known only as Leo spotted them immediately and approached them with a welcoming grin. He made small talk with Khaled’s master as he led them to the back.

“So, we’re doing a set of piercings today?” he asked, pulling out a pair of single-use gloves.

Master nodded. “Ears, just one pair for now, unless we want more.”

Khaled let out an unbidden scoff. His master threw him a reproachful glare. There is no we, there never was, he wanted to scream. He didn’t consent to any of his tattoos, what made the man think he’d be okay with piercings? Yet his owner initialed him like an object and drew the symbol of his crime family on his skin, and he could just do that –he bought him, after all.

“Well, let’s get to it, then!” Leo said.

“Wait. I’ve gotta use the bathroom,” Khaled murmured. Master glanced at Leo, who merely shrugged. He silently pushed past the two men and made his way to the front of the store to the bathroom, where he locked the door and slumped against it as he settled onto the floor. He allowed himself a deep, shuddering breath behind the closed door, resting his head back against it with a dull thunk.

One year… he thought morosely. A streaky bathroom mirror bordered with stickers glared back at him under artificial light. Curious, Khaled got up from the floor and leaned over the sink to look at himself, to physically see how much he had changed in only a year. How much of these changes were within his control?

None of them, he realized sadly. He turned his newly shaved head side to side to look at his ears, taking in the sight of the unpierced lobes as much as he could. These would change too, and that was also out of his control.

Or was it? Out of the corner of his eye, Khaled spotted a slit of natural light seeping in from above. He turned; there, above the toilet, was a small window, vented open to let in fresh air. He assessed the window immediately, judging that he was still skinny and flexible enough that he could climb through, and without much else besides a desire to just be in control of something, he did exactly that.

-

With exception to the mall incident (which shouldn’t even count, he genuinely got lost), this had to be the worst escape yet. He was recaptured within two hours, tied up and thrown into the back of a car yet again, and now lay on his back on a large table, hands and feet bound to each corner as two unfamiliar goons stood on each side. Beside him, Master stood solemnly ironing a dress shirt on an ironing board. His resting bitch face was back, and he was re-ironing the same sleeve for the third time. Khaled gulped, only sensing a fraction of how fucked he was.

“I really thought we had made some progress this past year,” the man growled. A puff of steam escaped the iron as he set it aside and hung up the crisp white shirt. He then moved on to ironing a pair of slacks. “I trusted you, I provided for you, I gave you everything you could ever need, and what do you do? You run away the second I loosen your leash,” he continued, straightening out a seam with a bit more force than necessary.

Khaled cleared his throat and tried to look up from his awkward position on the table. “I’m sorry, Master, I just freaked out- “

“Quiet! Let me finish.”

Khaled shut his mouth immediately. He sunk back down, fixed his eyes on the dim ceiling lamp above him, and awaited his punishment with dread.

Master continued talking. “You know, the last time this happened, a friend of mine advised me to cut your tendons.” Beneath the quickening pounding of his anxious heart, Khaled heard the faint hiss of the iron. “I don’t want to permanently cripple you though, mostly because it would be even more of a hassle to care for you, but I will cripple you temporarily, at the very least...”

Khaled tore his eyes from the ceiling and looked over his outstretched toes. His master settled in front of his feet, the steaming hot iron in hand. Moist tendrils of heat lapped at his exposed bare soles. Dense as he may be, it didn’t take a genius to realize what was about to happen. Khaled trembled, then began struggling in earnest. The mob members held him firmly by the legs and shoulders as he thrashed frantically in his restraints, fearfully begging. “No, no, no, please, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – “

“You’re only sorry you got caught,” Boss snapped. “Now hold still.”

Searing hot pain erupted in the soles of his feet as Khaled screamed himself hoarse.

After what felt like too much time and yet not much time at all, the goons above him let him go and started working on the knots tying him to the table. That must mean he’s done, Khaled thought, but why does it feel like my feet are still burning?

“Get up.”

The now untied boy paused rubbing his chafed wrists to look up at him in shock.  His master glared down at him coldly. “I said get up!” he shouted.

He can’t be serious. With horror, he realized the man was completely serious. “I-I can’t,” Khaled whimpered, “I -you wouldn’t -I can’t!” He caught his trembling lip between his teeth before a small sob could escape.

“I’m not going to repeat myself again, brat,” the Boss gritted out. “Get. Up.”

Khaled hung his head and nodded. He stiffly swung his legs over the table and gingerly lowered his burnt feet to the floor. The freshly blistered flesh barely touched the ground before an effusion of pain shot up his legs. He gasped in agony. His owner, meanwhile, stood in front of him in silence, waiting. Khaled sniffled, grit his teeth, and, with legs quivering and tears streaming down his cheeks, he stood up straight and tall.

“Walk,” Thomas said.

No. Khaled shook his head, completely unable to get a word out through the pain.

“Walk.”

Please, no, he wanted to say. He hung his head and shakily took a step forward, not making it even two steps before he collapsed. The strong arms of the Boss’ cronies caught him just before his knees could hit the floor. They scooped him back onto the table before one ran off to find the first aid kit, and the other ran off to get a basin of cool water. Khaled thankfully slipped into unconsciousness and took refuge in the nothingness.

-

A hesitant knock at the door brought Khaled’s attention back to the present, three hours after the Iron Incident. “Khaled, it’s me.” His master entered his bedroom soon after.

Facing away from the door in a fetal position on top of the bed, Khaled curled up even tighter. His heart picked up pace as he heard the man settle to his knees in front of his bed. “Your bandages need changing.” He flinched away when he felt the man’s fingers graze his injured feet, but ultimately he relented, letting his master unwind the soiled bandages as he winced and whimpered. Not all of the gauze was peeling off neatly. He heard a faint click of a tube opening, then felt cooling salve on his burned soles. Then, with a level of tenderness he did not think the Boss capable of, the man wrapped his feet up in clean gauze and taped the bandages in place. “One more thing,” he murmured softly, reaching into the first aid bag he brought with him.

Khaled had raised his head from his pillow, his red-rimmed eyes trailing down to his feet as curiosity overcame his pain and apprehension. His owner procured a pair of socks, gingerly slipping them over each gauze-wrapped foot. “There are plenty more of these, so if this pair gets dirty, you can just ask me for more,” he told him. “Comfortable, right?”

Khaled reached over and brushed his fingers against the soft fabric. His eyes misted with tears again at the act of kindness. “…They’re nice,” he sniffled. “Thank you, sir.”

The man replied with a pleased grunt before he lifted himself from the floor and stood, ready to leave. “Now then, is there anything else you need before I go to bed, Khaled?”

A hesitant silence. “No, but I-I’m sorry. Really.”

“I know,” he answered, his tone sincere. “Goodnight, Khaled.” Khaled flopped back onto the bed, face to the wall as he heard the door close gently behind him. What was that? He wondered. In the whole year that I’ve been here, he’s never been that gentle with me. Was that even the same man?He didn’t hear the faint click of the lock this time. In any other circumstance, this would give him hope, but at this point, the hope had been burnt out of him through the soles of his feet.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter

#throwing in a bit of carewhumper in the end #whump #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #tw minor whump #slavery whump #tw noncon bodymod #tw burning #carewhumper #failed escape attempt #no beta we die like my protestant upbringing

[shion-yu]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you fall, honey?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eleven,” she told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fin.

#shionwrites #sickfic #oc: cliff #oc: elliot #hospital setting #illness whump #pneumonia fic #sicknario #fever whump #sick whump #angst #tw: minor whump #male whump #oc sickfic #whump #bad things happen bingo #paralyzed by fear #novemetober rescheduled #novemetober 2023 #day 24 #panic #emeto #tw: emeto

[whumpy-writings]

Tribute

Of Vampires and Men Masterlist

CW: Minor whumpee (OC is 16), slavery, vampires, starvation, mention of loss of a parent, torture

Reeve's stomach twisted as the sun sank closer to the horizon. He looked at the two pitiful bags of wheat in the center of the square. Two out of the twenty that the vampires expected. The villagers had tried to meet the quota, they really had. But the drought had made the crops whither, and then a seasonally late storm had ruined what little had survived to harvest time. In all, they had only been able to collect five bags of wheat, three of which were kept to sustain them through the coming winter. Reeve had heard whispered conversations amongst the village elders. Conversations about rationing and starvation. About having to throw themself on the mercy of the vampires and beg for food. Reeve had stopped listening after that.

The tension in the air was palpable. The entire village was gathered, worried murmurs filling the air. It was fully dark now, and soon the leeches would arrive to collect their tribute. Reeve's father was standing next to the bags with his arms crossed and a worried frown on his face. He was one of the oldest men in the village at forty years, and as such it was his job to speak to the vampires. They were not going to be happy. The village hadn't met its quota once this year, and the vampires had beaten Reeve's father last time as punishment. Reeve shuddered at the memory of his dad on the ground, nose broken and entire body bruised and bloody. He didn't even want to think about what the punishment would be today.

As if sensing his thoughts, Reeve's dad turned to him. "If things go bad, know that I love you, Reeve," he said with a sad smile.

"I love you too, Dad," Reeve said, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in his chest. His dad hugged him tightly back. "I'm scared," Reeve whispered.

"I know," Reeve's dad whispered back. He released Reeve and brought a thumb to Reeve's cheek where tears had started to gather. "It's okay to be scared. I sure as hell am. But some things are unavoidable." Reeve sighed at that. His dad chuckled. "Love you," he said pressing a kiss to Reeve's forehead before stepping away to talk to one of the elders. Reeve bit his lip and stared at the sky as the first stars started to appear.

The hairs on the back of Reeve's neck stood up at the faint drum of hoofbeats. The leeches were here. A hush settled over the gathered humans and the silence was thick enough to cut with a knife.

The vampires rode into the square, five on horseback and another two riding on the wagon that was supposed to be filled with wheat. Reeve's heart pounded in his chest and a vision of his mother being chained and thrown into a wagon hit him. He had only been eight years old when they had taken her, but he still had nightmares about it. I can't remember her face, Reeve thought with a stab of guilt, but I can remember her cries as the leeches took her away from us.

The lead vampire, a sergeant, dismounted his horse and strode to the center of the square. The leech was the same one who had beat Reeve's dad, the one with the awful temper. Reeve subconsciously took a step back, irrationally hoping that the sergeant would just turn around and leave. The leech eyed the wheat, the disdain clear on his face in the moonlight.

"Is this all?" He asked with a snap.

Reeve's dad cleared his throat nervously and wrung his hands. "Yes sir, we're very sorry sir, but there was a storm-"

"I don't want fuckin' excuses," he spat, whirling on Reeve's dad. "This is the third time this year that you haven't met your quota. We have been merciful, but this laziness cannot continue."

Reeve's dad fell to his knees. "Please sir, we are starving. We've been working in the fields from sun up to sun down every day, but the soil is exhausted and the rain is either too little or too much. We might not make it through the winter." His voice broke on that last word. "Please sir, please have mercy."

The vampire snorted. "You think you are the only ones struggling? Every village we go to has the same story. Our storehouses are less than half full and blood bags keep dying left and right. Everybody is starving right now, most importantly vampires. We don't have any mercy to show to humans who aren't even fed on."

The sergeant signaled and two vampires seized Reeve's dad. Reeve took a step forward but stopped when his dad shot him a look.

"Break his arms," the vampire said with a casual wave of his hand. Reeve closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see. His father's scream was agonizing. Reeve fought down the urge to slap his hands over his ears even as tears rushed down his cheeks.

"P-please sir, please, m'sorry, please..."

"See! This is what happens when you fail us" the vampire said, turning to address all the villagers. "Pain. It brings me no joy, but apparently it is the only language you humans understand."

The vampire turned back to Reeve's father, who was quietly weeping, his elbows bent at unnatural angles. The vampire grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. "I don't think you've learned your lesson yet." The vampire pulled a knife from his jacket. "You are eighteen bags short. I think that means you need eighteen cuts." The vampire moved the knife to his shirt and quickly cut it off. Reeve's father sobbed as the vampire dragged the blade across his chest, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. "One," the monster said, and Reeve was sure he heard a note of glee in his voice. Reeve clenched his fists.

His father screamed at another cut. And another one. The sound rang in Reeve's ears, his limbs shaking with suppressed rage. He couldn't just stand here.

Another scream, the sound digging its way into Reeve's skull.

"Stop!" Reeve yelled, stepping forward. "Leave him alone!"

The sergeant's eyebrows raised and he paused, his knife poised to make another cut. Reeve's father was quietly sniffling, his chest bloody.

"Well, look at that, a human with a backbone," the sergeant said. "Who also happens to be very stupid. Come here."

Reeve's heart was pounding but he approached the vampire. His father was limp but he met Reeve's eyes and gave a tiny shake of his head.

"I could kill you, you know," the vampire said, once Reeve was in front of him, just a couple feet away from his father. "That's what I should do. Kill both you and this worthless human." Reeve's dad whimpered at that, but whether at the thought of his death or Reeve's, Reeve didn't know.

"Is this your son?" the sergeant asked suddenly. Reeve's heart skipped a beat. The monster was looking right at him, his gaze wicked.

Reeve's dad's voice was strained when he spoke. "Yes sir, but he's just a boy who is still learning about the world. He only just turned sixteen."

"Is that so?" the vampire said, releasing his grip on Reeve's dad and throwing him to the ground. "Well, it would be a shame to waste young blood."

"Take the boy," the vampire said with a snap of his fingers. Reeve didn't even have a chance to run. Two vampires grabbed him by the upper arms, their grip painfully tight.

"Let go of me! Please!" Reeve yelled desperately. Fear flooded his body. "Help!" He screamed, his voice breaking. "Dad!" A vampire backhanded him across the face and he gasped as blood filled his mouth.

"Please, don't take him! Please!" Reeve's father begged, tears thick in his voice.

The vampire ignored him.

Angry murmurs started to rise up from the crowd as the vampires dragged Reeve towards the wagon. Out of the corner of his eye Reeve saw vampires aim their muskets at the crowd.

"Silence!" the vampire yelled. The crowd quieted, but Reeve didn't know whether it was from the command or the silent threat of death. "There must be consequences for your inability to provide tribute. Let this be a lesson to all of you! If you don't meet your quota next month, your own children will be taken."

Reeve struggled against the vampires holding him with all his strength as tears streamed down his face.

"Please, please don't take me, please let me stay here, please have mercy," he babbled. He might as well have been talking to a wall. He sobbed as one vampire pulled his hands behind his back and clamped cold metal shackles on them. This is actually happening, Reeve thought as icy fear flooded his veins. Reeve fought as a vampire picked him up. He kicked and screamed and flailed around, desperation and panic fueling him. He didn't care about consequences, all he cared about was getting away from these monsters.

His leg hit a vampire in the stomach and he felt a surge of triumph. But then his head was slammed down against the wagon. His cheek split open and warm blood trickled down the side of his face. Reeve went limp as a bout of dizziness overwhelmed him. The vampires took the opportunity to finish loading him and the two bags of wheat in the wagon. Reeve tried to get up, but then a foot connected with his head and all he knew was darkness.

Tag list: @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whump-cravings @thecyrulik @neverthelass @michelleswhumpyreblogs @whumpsy-daisy @the-monarch-whumperfly @aswallowimprisoned @secretwhumplair @whumpzone @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @nicolepascaline @susiequaz12 @princessofonwardsworld @puffball-lover554 @itsleighlove @pumpkin-spice-whump @wiwinia @sunflower1000 @whump-blog @blushing-snail @melancholy-in-the-morning @pizzasthengym @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpsday @ceph-the-writing-spook @inkkswhumpandstuff

#of vampires and men #reeve the human #slavery tw #vampires tw #minor whump tw #torture tw #vampire whump #human whumpee #vampire whumpers #slavery whump

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane’s Pets Chapter 58: Research

TWs in the tags (be safe!)

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“What do you think of Ethan?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think. It’s your name. Or what you’re going to go by, at the very least.”

“Right, right. It says it means ‘firm, enduring, strong, and long lived.’ Oh, this website says it means optimistic, too. Solid and permanent.” You pause, rereading. “This website says it means safe.”

“Do you like it?”

“I’m not sure. It’s a really common name.”

“Are you wanting a more rare one?”

“I don’t know.” You type ‘names that mean safe’ into the search bar. None of them stick out to you. “A lot of these start with Sal. Maybe I can go by Sal.”

“You could.”

Diya is not being very helpful.

“I think I like Ethan.” You say.

“Awesome! I think it’s a nice name, Ethan.”

It feels weird, but not in a bad way. The name doesn’t feel like yours, but you know it will after being called it for a while.

“I want to be able to go by the name I had before, eventually. I don’t want to let her take it permanently. But for now, Ethan will work.”

“Sounds good to me. How do you plan on getting comfortable with your old name?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. I don’t want to try yet. I want to… rest, for a little.”

“I understand.”

You can tell that ey does really understand. Which is funny, because you’re not even sure you understand how you’re feeling. But Diya does. Ey squeezes your shoulder.

“Barron’s going to get clothes for you, today. You can also borrow any of ours that you think might fit you.”

“…Thank you.”

“How are you feeling? I know this is all a lot.”

“I’m… relieved, about finding a name that fits without the huge trauma reaction. I…” You trail off, unsure of how to explain everything swirling inside you. Diya waita patiently.

“Please be honest. Does Barron hurt you?” You whisper.

Diya frowns. “Why would it hurt me?”

“I don’t know. Why would it protect you?”

“Because it’s a kind person? Barron’s my friend. It’s just doing what it can to make the world a better place.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“The answer is no. Barron doesn’t hurt anyone. Neither does Greg, and neither do I.”

Your hands shake. “Please just tell me. I can’t do it again. I just don’t want it to be a surprise.”

Diya’s eyebrows furrow. “No one here is going to hurt you.”

“…Okay.” You don’t think you believe em. You don’t know. You just want to feel safe. “Can we talk about what Jane is? All four of us. I feel ready.”

Diya looks doubtful.

“I want to get it over with.” You correct. “I want to find out if there’s any way to stop her for good, and if there is I want to know it as soon as possible.”

“Fair enough.” Diya claps excitedly. “Oh! We should make it all comfy. We’ll make hot chocolate or tea and get you a bunch of blankets, and we can play some calming music, and Barron can go down its list of questions, and you can answer however you want. Like if you want to write it down instead of saying it out loud, or draw it, or… do interpretive dance? Or you can just say it. And you don’t have to share anything you don’t want to. How does that sound?”

“…That sounds nice.”

“Perfect! Do you want to go get comfortable on the couch? I’ll go get the others and make some drinks. What sounds good to you?”

“Anything is fine.”

“Right, but what sounds good to you? What will help you feel safe and stay in the moment?”

“I don’t… do you have anything minty?”

“Yeah! Do you like peppermint tea?”

You nod.

“Alright, go get comfortable. I’ll have Greg bring you some blankets and pillows. They can also help get music set up, if you want that.”

Diya doesn’t wait for you to get up, ey just heads off to the kitchen. You wish you were clever enough to figure out how to take advantage of this brief moment alone with a computer, but you’re not. You have no idea what to look up or who to contact or anything, so you head back to the living room curl up on the couch under the weighted blanket that’s still there.

Shit, you should’ve tried to use the computer to figure out where you are. It would be nice to know, if you did decide to leave. You could be on the other side of the world and you wouldn’t know.

Greg enters the living room and plops three blankets on the ground in front of the couch. “Did you decide what you want to be called?”

“I think I settled on Ethan.”

“You think?”

“Diya said it was okay if I changed my mind later.”

“It is.”

Greg stares at you. You retreat deeper into the weighted blanket.

“Thanks. For the blankets.”

Greg grimaces. “Diya said to ask you if you wanted music.”

“I think I’ll be okay.”

Greg nods and leaves the room. That was… uncomfortable.

You try to prepare for what questions Barron might ask. It’ll probably ask about what powers Jane has, which you don’t think will be difficult to talk about. You hope it’ll tell you about different kinds of creatures so that you can try to see what fits best.

It shouldn’t be too bad. Barron doesn’t have any reason to ask about punishments and stuff like that. It’ll be fine. You can talk about her abilities without talking about what she used them for.

Barron steps into the living room. It’s holding a notebook and pencil. Is it going to take notes? It sits down in a seat near the couch.

“I hope Diya isn’t freaking you out.” It says gently. “Ey really wants you to be comfortable, but I doubt this will be a super intense conversation.”

You nod. That’s what you anticipated, but it’s still a relief for Barron to say it.

Diya enters the room with a mug, and Greg trails behind. Diya wordlessly hands the mug to you. It’s warm and it smells nice.

Diya and Greg sit on a beanbag in a corner. You’re glad they’re here.

“Is it okay if I write down your answers? I have issues with memory, sometimes, and I think this is something important to be able to remember.”

“That’s fine.”

Barron opens the notebook. “You said the monster’s name is Jane?”

You nod. Barron writes something.

“What abnormal abilities have you witnessed Jane using?”

It takes you a moment to understand the question. “Um… she can teleport. You knew that. She can teleport objects, too, and keep them in her void. We know that because she can make things disappear by touching them, and make those things appear later. She moved the whole house once. She can stay in her void too, if she wants, and she can watch us. Which I already told you…”

You take a sip of the tea Diya made you. “She’s immortal. I guess that’s not something I’ve witnessed, but Kitty said they’ve seen her survive things that should’ve killed her. And she talks about it all the time, and I was there for a year and she didn’t visibly age at all, I don’t think her hair even grew. I’ve never seen her sleep, and I’ve barely ever seen her eat. She…”

You’ve spent every second of several days with her, before. In the basement. You know that when you were too exhausted to think and too hungry to move, Jane was still cheerful and wide awake, despite going as long (if not longer) without food and sleep as you.

“You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to. Do you want me to ask the next question?”

You take a deep breath and stare at the mug in your hand. You don’t have to share that part. They get the idea.

“I… yeah. Well, she’s also really strong, but that’s all I’ve noticed. So you can ask the next question.”

Barron talks as it writes. “Alright. Have you ever witnessed Jane preforming mage rituals?”

“I don’t think so. What would that look like?”

“Right, you wouldn’t know! Mage rituals can have a lot of variety, it depends on what spell you’re preparing. Generally, a mage ritual involves spell words, some sort of object, and specific movements. Which is pretty vague, I know. Did you ever see her do anything like that?”

“…Saying words, using an object, and moving are things I’ve seen her doing, yes.”

“It would look strange. The large, large majority of spell words wouldn’t sound familiar to a non-mage, the object would have magical significance, and the movements would be very clearly rehearsed.” It pauses. “Any object can have magical significance, but usually it’s something closer to nature, something less… refined, or processed. It will often have runes drawn on or carved into it.”

You nod, finally understanding. “I’ve never seen her do anything like that. She would disappear for days at a time, sometimes, so it’s possible she was doing that stuff and I never saw.”

Barron writes with impressive speed. “What do you think she does when she disappears?”

“…I try not to think about it. I know that money was never an issue. I assumed she was doing stuff connected to that. And I knew there was always a chance she was just watching from her void, waiting for us to mess up.”

Barron nods and keeps writing. “Are there any abilities that you’re positive she doesn’t have?”

You wish Kitty was here. They could explain it better. “I can’t be positive, but I think she couldn’t be in multiple places at once. If we knew she was in the basement, we could break rules, and she wouldn’t punish us for it. So I feel pretty sure she can’t be in my multiple places at once. And she couldn’t read minds. Kitty said they’ve thought things they know they’d be punished for if Jane could read minds. I don’t know what that would be, but I believe them. And I don’t think Jane would keep it a secret if she could read minds. She’d taunt us with it.”

Barron writes for a minute before asking its next question. You drink more tea.

“Did Jane ever mention or associate with someone with similar powers to her?”

“She didn’t. If she knew about others with her powers, she never told us. Or, never told me. Puppy would probably know more, but she also probably wouldn’t tell you what she knows.”

“I see. Did she ever refer to herself as a different species, or something like that?”

“She would call us mortals. Say thinks about how ‘mortals will always be mortals…’” You trail off, remembering her whole monologue about immortality and living long enough to be a villain. Your jaw hurts.

“Anything else?”

You can’t talk, it would hurt your jaw. You don’t want to move your head either. Your ribs are starting to hurt, making it hard to breathe. She’s going to break every bone in your body. She said she’d break every bone in your body.

“Let’s take a break.” Diya says, getting up. “How are you doing, Ethan?”

Ethan? Oh, that’s what you decided to go by. You’re with Diya, you’re safe. You’re in the basement being beaten with a crowbar.

“Can you take a deep breath for me?”

You obey instantly, you don’t want to get hurt. You take a deep breath through your nose.

It smells like peppermint, not blood. Your ribs don’t hurt worse. You take another deep breath. Peppermint. Peppermint, because you’re drinking peppermint tea, and under a weighted blanket, and no one is hurting you.

You focus on the warmth of the mug and the smell and the softness of the blanket. The pain in your body recedes.

“Sorry.” You mumble. “What’s the next question?”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Are you sure you want to keep going? We can be done for today.” Diya says.

Barron nods. “The information you’ve already given me is very helpful. A great starting point for research.”

“…I just want to get it over with.” You’re embarrassed at how weak your voice sounds.

Diya seems thoughtful. “Why don’t we take a break for lunch, and then come back to this?”

Lunch does sound good. You nod.

Diya claps. “Perfect! Let’s make sandwiches.”

Despite it being a relatively simple lunch, it ends up taking a full hour. Diya gathers up every possible ingredient in the cabin that can be used on to make a sandwich, and directs you, Barron, and Greg to make several different kinds and cut them into quarters, which Diya piles up on a plate.

“You can just take what you want from this plate and put it on yours!” Ey says. “And then eat it.”

You didn’t need the clarification. Maybe it wasn’t for you.

The four of you chat as you eat. Well, Diya and Barron chat, and you and Greg make small comments every once in a while. You finish your tea and eat more sandwiches than you planned on, and you feel much better.

Greg volunteers to take care of dishes, and the rest of you head back to the living room.

“Are you still wanting to keep going?” Barron asks.

You nod.

“Do you want more tea?” Diya asks. You shake your head and pull one of the non-weight blankets onto your lap.

“Are there any materials that Jane avoided touching? Any type of metal? Holy water?”

“…I never noticed anything like that. Maybe.”

“Was there any time of day or night that she seemed more powerful?”

You shake your head. Barron marks something in its notebook.

“Any time of day or night that she seemed less powerful?”

You shake your head.

“Did any of her behaviors seem… compelled? Some species have things like that, like vampires needing to count things. It would be something she clearly didn’t want to do, but couldn’t stop herself from doing. I guess it could be something she enjoyed, too, but it’s harder to tell if it’s compelled that way.”

You shake your head again. “She always said she was doing this because she wanted to. I don’t think any of it was compelled.”

“You probably would’ve already mentioned this if so, but just in case: did she ever change her appearance, or does she always look like a little girl?”

“She always looks like a little girl.”

“You said you rarely saw her eat. When you did, what kind of stuff did she eat?”

“Just whatever we were eating. I figured she got bored of just watching us eat, sometimes, so she’d fix herself some.”

Barron furrows it’s eyebrows. “There’s only so many immortal creatures, and I don’t know of any who fit that description. I believe you, of course… Do you think she could’ve tricked your friend into thinking she survived fatal wounds when they weren’t actually fatal? It would open up the posibilites a lot if she was just ageless.”

“I told you before, I can’t be positive about any of this. She’s a liar, and she’s definitely capable of tricking people into thinking she has abilities she doesn’t. That’s why I told you why I think she was what powers, so you can judge for yourself if it’s strong enough evidence.”

Barron nods. “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. This gives me a lot to look into. I’ll ask my coworkers if they know of any creatures like that, too.”

You feel strange. You were hoping Barron would know immediately, and be able to tell you exactly how to get rid of her powers or get rid of her. But you’re still hopeful. Barron knows a lot about magic. Probably. It’ll figure things out.

You don’t trust that everything is as it seems here, but since you can’t leave, you might as well enjoy this before the other shoe drops, and hope it won’t be as bad as living with Jane was.

~~

Kitty keeps forgetting where they are. They see things, in the dark of the blindfold, and they don’t like those things very much at all. Often, they wonder if Jane sends sound through the headphones. They hear screams and drills whirring and crying, and they don’t know if the sounds are coming from their head or not.

Their heart pounds and pounds. Something is crawling up their leg, something is crawling into their nose- all they smell is blood, blood, blood. Why can’t they move? They can’t feel anything, they’re feeling every possible emotion and sensation at once.

They’re nine years old and sobbing because they had the thought “what if my parents are wrong?” and they can’t get it out of their head, get it out get it out- sin wriggles on their skin like germs but you can’t get rid of sin by washing your hands-

They’ve just killed someone for the first time, at Jane’s order. They don’t remember what she threatened, anymore, but they remember the blood and the screaming and fear, fear so encompassing that they thought it was all there’d ever been, all they’d ever be. They didn’t know their heart could beat that hard, didn’t know fear could puppet your body that way, coward coward coward. They can never wash it off, never fix it-

They’re 15 years old and they’re in class, talking about a story from their scriptures where God orders a follower to kill to prove their loyalty (their scriptures have several stories like that, but in this one the victim was innocent). Kitty (that wasn’t their name-) says that they would never kill an innocent person just because someone told them to, even if that person was God. Their teacher said that everyone is at different points in their faith, and Kitty looks around the room and at their peers who look at their lack of faith with pity, and sees fully for the first time that they’re in a fucking cult.

(They would walk that observation back, later. They still went back and forth on whether or not they were in a cult for years after that, and they had for years before, but that moment sticks out in their mind as the tipping point, where they went from “a believer who struggles with doubts” to “a non-believer who’s trying to believe again”)

Jane has ordered Kitty to kill someone again, but this time she didn’t give them a weapon. Kitty looks at her in confusion, and she repeats the order, and Kitty feels the same world-turning-upside-down feeling as back then when they realize she wants them to kill this person with their bare hands.

The person begged. “No, no, no, please! I have a family, I have kids!” Kitty pressed all their weight onto the strangers throat until they stopped moving.

“Don’t worry.” Jane said. “They were lying. I don’t take people who have people who would miss them.”

Kitty is 17 years old and wondering if it would be better to kill themself or run away. Something has to change. They can’t do this for one more day, so something has to change.

They know their limits better, now. They’ve been forced to keep going when they thought they couldn’t so many times. If they’d just gone back to bed, they’d still have people who cared about them, even if it hurt, and Jane would’ve never taken them…

Kitty keeps forgetting where they are.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @fuzzybucketz

#whump #whump writing #whumpblr #intimate whumper #creepy whumper #nonhuman whumper #multiple whumpees #pet whump #whumpee #whumper #caretaker #2nd person pov #3rd person pov #jane’s pets #minor whump tw #discussions of torture tw #murder tw #forced to murder tw #suffocation tw #sensory deprivation tw #religious trauma tw #cult tw #flashback tw #panic attack tw #suicidal ideation tw

[whumpwillow]

"Villain" whumpee being captured by a rival team after they failed to steal something from them. The rival team quick realize that this villainous thief is just a scared kid

awwww

#i assume he’s just young and not a literal kid #but imma tag it anyway just in case #kid mention #kids tw #kidnapping whump #kidnapped tw #minor whumpee #minor whump tw #minor whump #whump #whump prompt #willow answers #answered asks #whump prompts #whump tropes

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

Number 30

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

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

Word count: 3.9 k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or more accurately, just that scummy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until he didn't. . .

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

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

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

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

"It's playtime bast-"

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

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

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

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

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

"Close your eyes, kid."

"Bu-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One year later. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✨️Le Taglist: @larinzz @syberianjade @lateuplight @altu-interactions @enbious-prince @astr0-mj @thelazywitchphotographer @a-fucking-simp-00 @addictedsandwhichaki @justalittlecorrupted @quaggasus @theangstyclown @vernilliom @mothmancommitsarson @starssabove @kurai-hono-blog @talkingsperm @muffinrebel44 @sunnynwanda @annablogsposts @cardboardarsonist @itsmyworld23 @onlywhump @m3rakii @crotchgoblin69 @wtfevenisausername @pendarling @avloki-pal @kaiwewi@those-damn-snippets @whatiswhumpblog

Wanna be on the taglist? This'll take you there!

#snippet #hero x villain #whump #angst #murder tw #blood tw #injury tw #bruises tw #violence tw #knife tw #gun tw #I'm too tired to edit tw #minor whump #fiction #found family #tw graphic #poison tw #heroes and villains #surrogate brothers #writers on tumblr #female writers #writing #there's fluff if you squint #natalia's writing #heroxvillain #vigilante #family dynamics #hero whumpee x villain caretaker #enemies to uh family? #this got so bloody long

[whumpster-fire]

Whumptober 2022 Day 3: Gun to Temple

Wendy Weasel has a sick sense of humor, and one night the 'joke' is at her own expense.

...and when I say I got darker and more fucked up than normal this Whumptober this is what I mean.

CW: Minor whumpee, Self-harm that looks like suicide even if it has no chance of being fatal. Exactly what the prompt says. This warning isn’t here for show, don’t click the Keep Reading if you aren’t hungry for dead doves.

Wendy Weasel’s hands shook as she loaded the round into the revolver and snapped the cylinder into place. She stared at it for a while, pulling the blanket closer to herself. What the hell was she even doing? This was stupid.

No. She deserved this. She fucking deserved it, and worse, but she didn’t have the courage to chug a bottle of rubbing alcohol so this would have to do. She’d been trying not to think about what she’d done for months now, that she’d killed people. She’d killed people, not traitors to the human race that she wasn’t even a part of and not monsters like her kind were supposed to be. She’d tried to tell herself that she couldn’t know, that she couldn’t have known, because that was all she’d ever been told, but deep down she’d felt it that night at the apartment building, and during the battle, and… the battle was one thing, all she’d really been trying to do was stay alive, and keep the people who were supposed to be the good guys alive. The good guys. Right. The guys who’d stood there and laughed while she dragged people from their homes and stunned them or tied them together and lined them up to be melted down like a snowman facing a firing squad of napalm flamethrowers. And it didn’t matter how horrible she’d felt doing what they’d told her was making the world a better place, because part of her had still enjoyed it. There wasn’t supposed to be any other part of her.

She’d kept trying to block that out when she saw ToonTown in daylight for the first time, and saw so many creatures just going about their lives that were just like her, except for the part where they weren’t mass murderers. But today she’d had to rip all those memories back out of the depths, and watch every last bit of it as she burned it onto a VCR tape so a judge could decide if she was ‘competent to stand trial’ or if she was just a brainwashed little weapon that had been forced into it. Or she guessed ‘Child Soldier’ was the word they kept using.

“You are not my child,” Herschel Wilson’s voice echoed in her head. “You are not even a child.”

Wendy snarled, and spun the cylinder. “Shut the fuck up, Herschel.” It took longer than it should have to stop spinning. Wheel of Morality, turn, turn, turn.

Forced. There was no question they would have killed her if they’d known she was conflicted about the orders they’d given her. They’d have tried anyway, and… now she knew how easily she could have stopped them, but she didn’t know if she would have tried, because that was all she knew of the world and they’d said that if she tried to run the other toons would see right through any disguise. And yet she’d stood right there in the open and people fucking asked her where her parents were and told her she should be in school. The Warners said they used to get that a lot before so many people recognized them, and they kind of missed it.

The worst part was seeing the same things through Riley’s eyes. He hadn’t needed the gas mask to hide his feelings like she had, but seeing the way he didn’t look at the toons when they died, and the way he kept looking at Wendy like he was checking on her, it was obvious. She wondered how long he’d been thinking of her as his sister before he said anything out loud. Or maybe he was just worried she was going to do something stupid. He’d probably have figured out the stupid thing she was about to do now, and tried to stop her, so part of her was glad he was still in the hospital.

Wendy’s muscles tensed. Her heart picked up speed. She brought the gun to her temple, braced herself, but then tried not to brace herself, to let it hurt her, to make it hurt her, and squeezed the trigger.

BANG! Her head jolted sideways, and the door on the other side of the bedroom lurched and blurred. Wendy gritted her teeth at the stinging, burning pain. Her ears were ringing from the gunshot. Fuck, it really was different from getting shot by someone else. That was barely even on the scale of annoyance, just enough to get the adrenaline going. This still wasn’t that bad. The ringing in her ears was fading. There was the rapid thump of her heart, and the also rapid but less rhythmic thump of -

Footsteps? Oops. Damnit damnit damnit! Wendy shoved the revolver under the covers, then remembered that wasn’t the part that would get her unwanted attention. She ran for the door, pulling a poster of a dartboard out of Hammerspace and slapping it on, then zipped back to the bed and shook the burnt powder out of her fur just in time for the door to burst open.

“Do you mind?” Yakko Warner stood slouched in the doorway wearing black-and-white pinstriped pajamas and a nightcap. “Wait, no, don’t say anything, I want to guess what your new hobby is. Is it… pyrotechnics?”

Wendy gulped. She was, technically, imprisoned somewhere in the extradimensional labryinth that the Warner Siblings had turned the studio water tower into, because there were only a few toons on the planet who had any chance of stopping her if she tried to leave. Their interior design didn’t follow normal rules of geometry, but it felt surprisingly familiar to a toon who’d spent most of her life in an underground complex. Well, she guessed she’d spent most of it here. It had been over a month now and that was longer than what she still thought of as ‘most of her life’ had been.

Wait – the gun was uncovered now, she’d disturbed the blanket. He was looking straight at the thing. “Target shooting.” She pointed at the door, and Yakko saw the dartboard. Wendy realized too late there wasn’t any hole in it.

“Huh. Well you’re no Peter Possum, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m practicing, Einstein.” Wendy slowly picked the revolver up again. “Now get out of the way, you’re blocking my target!”

“Do you have to practice at 3:30 in the morning? Some of us are trying to sleep here!”

“Not my fault you have infinite space here and didn’t soundproof it better!” Yakko raised an eyebrow. “Okaaaay, fine, I’ll stop! Can you just let me finish this round first? I’ve only got five shots left!”

The inkblot rolled his eyes. “Fine, we’re already awake anyway.” He slid out of the room and closed the door behind him. “False alarm, Sibs, she’s just using our home as a shooting gallery!”

Wendy waited for his footsteps to fade. Why were they being so goddamned nice to her? They of all toons should’ve known better than to act like she was some innocent kid, and yet they were… treating her like a cousin who’d come to stay for a while because her home life had gone wrong or something.

She didn’t deserve it. Wendy spun the cylinder again, and put the gun to her head. Five shots left. The first round she’d known what would happen when she pulled the trigger, but now there was a chance nothing would happen. Maybe it would hurt, maybe it would be nothing. She winced, and pulled the trigger.

BANG.

It hurt more the second time. The stinging was turning to throbbing now. Good. She hoped her goddamn head split open. She gritted her teeth and spun the barrels again. Only four shots left. It would probably go off. She held it up, pressing the still-hot barrel against her skin.

Click.

She didn’t know if this feeling was relief or disappointment. Her hands were really shaking now. It took her a couple tries to get a good spin. She waited for the clicking to stop.

BANG.

Wendy snarled under her breath. She put out her burning whisker, and dragged her left ear back to its proper place. She felt the place where the stinging was worst, and immediately recoiled, as much from the feeling of her glove getting wet as the pain. She stared at the small stain of bright scarlet ink on her finger. It smelled like smashing a magic marker to bits with a hammer.

Fuck. Fuck. She hadn’t thought it would be that easy to break the skin. It wasn’t easy to do that to a toon.

Another spin. She put the gun under her chin this time. Three shots left. It was even odds, like a coin flip. The last one it had fired. Odds weren’t supposed to work like that, but in a place where cartoon physics ruled everything, maybe the revolver would take turns.

BANG. No it didn’t. Wendy hadn’t realized she was panting, but now she’d bitten her tongue from the blow, and her throat was starting to hurt.

Another spin. She returned it to her temple. She couldn’t make herself pull the trigger at first. The burning was getting worse. Come on… come on… she deserved this. What was she, some kind of coward?

Click.

No… no… she just wanted to get it over with now. Just get it over with. Wendy fumbled with the cylinder, and pulled the trigger as soon as she felt the barrel touch raw skin.

Click.

Click.

Had she loaded them all? She resisted the temptation to open the gun again to check. She was sure she had. She’d get one of the two loaded chambers sooner or later.

BANG.

Wendy stifled a yelp of pain. Stars spun around her head, and her vision blurred with tears. God damnit. God damn it. Her other hand dug into the mattress. Her shoulders were shaking now. She could feel warmth trickling down her cheek, down her neck.

One more. Now it was how humans played this game.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

What was wrong with this damn thing? Wendy shook the gun before spinning it again.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She finally lost her nerve and checked. It was loaded. It was loaded, the laws of probability had just decided to torture her.

Click.

Click.

BANG!

It was over. Wendy threw the empty gun in the trash and let it dissolve into the nothingness she’d pulled it from. A weapon that had outlived its usefulness, like she had and yet she was still here. Her whole head felt disgusting, her fur matted with ink and black carbon that smelled like a natural gas leak mixed with a smashed printer cartridge, but her ears were ringing and her head was spinning. If she tried to shower, she was pretty sure she was going to pass out. She crumpled into the bed, and lay there staring blankly at the lamp for a long time. She wanted to turn it off, because the light was making the headache worse, but it took all her willpower to just lift her arm, and sitting back up now felt impossible. She settled for pulling the blanket over her head.

The pillow was getting all sticky. Wendy flipped it over, only to realize too late that now there was going to be a bright red stain on both sides.

Fuck it. Who cared? Good. If they got mad at her for ruining the pillowcase, that was just one more thing she’d ruined, and she deserved it anyway. If they got mad at her for shooting herself in the head six times… why the hell did she even care what they thought, anyway? She was just a goddamn monster, right? Just a monster that sick son of a bitch had drawn to look like a kid on purpose so that people would be manipulated into sympathizing with her. He’d made her so goddamn good at it that she couldn’t stop no matter how hard she tried to convince them of the truth, and she hated it.

So why was she lying here crying into an ink-soaked pillow in an empty room, feeling guilty that they might be worried about her, because she didn’t deserve it?

~~

A/N: Ha ha funny cartoon character self-harming because she hasn’t been taught any way of expressing her emotions other than violence and causing pain. Wendy needs help.

I’ve had the idea of Wendy playing Russian Roulette with all the chambers loaded because she can for a while, Whumptober gave me an excuse to write it.

#Whumptober2022 #no.3 #gun to temple #Animaniacs fandom #OC #Wendy Weasel (OC) #Yakko Warner (Animaniacs) #fic #minor whump tw #self-harm fiction tw #suicidal ideation fiction tw #child soldiers #aftereffects of abuse and brainwashing #whump #my writing #gunshots #dead dove do not eat #cartoon violence

[aceofwhump]

Wednesday (2022)

#whumpedit #whump #wednesdayedit #wednesday netflix #wednesday #tyler galpin #my gifs #mod post #1x08 #minor whump #chained #chains #tied up #shirtless #cuts #fear #needles tw #needles #heavy breathing #shaking