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tendertenebrosity · 5 months

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Prev: One, two. This is fanfic for the book Ocean's Echo, containing my own OCs.

It had only been training manoeuvres, but Davi’s first flight drawing on Saelin’s powers was something else. For the first time, he fully understood why this was considered to make an pilot architect’s career.

Davi pulled his headset off and turned to Saelin with a grin as the shuttle hovered.

“Oh, well done, Saelin!” he exclaimed, his heart still thundering with the excitement of the chase, the triumph of pulling them through it. The sense of being two-as-one lingered, an awareness of Saelin’s limbs and heart and mind in the chair beside him, the whisper of chaotic space beyond the metal walls of the shuttle. “You’re a natural! That was incredible! I knew you’d be good at this - we are going to be unstoppable.”

Saelin tipped his face up, the same adrenaline rush visible in his quick breathing and bright eyes for all of one second. Then - so fast Davi barely had time to register it - he was retreating from the sync. Davi was closed out of the lingering echo of reader senses with a snap.

“Excuse me,” Saelin said, sounding strangled. He dragged his own headset off and turned his face away, one hand shielding his eyes. “Can - I - Sir, permission to leave?”

“Leave?” Davi repeated, baffled. He quested out along the sync-bond and found nothing but a cornered-animal panic that made him pull back. “We’re in a shuttle, Sae- Agent Thirty-two. What do you mean, leave?”

“I - I know,” the reader said, still sounding odd. “I can’t - I can’t - permission to step away - please - ”

Davi had been opening his mouth to say no, to demand an explanation, but that last word got to him. “If you’re unwell, I can bring us in to dock without you,” he said curtly.

“Thank you, sir,” Saelin said, as if through gritted teeth. He fumbled with the seat restraints, threw himself out of the chair, and crossed behind Davi heading for the back of the shuttle.

Davi brought the shuttle back in to dock, easy enough it didn’t require much thinking. What was the problem? Things had gone well.

Saelin had been consuming the navigation training materials with a dogged and single-minded focus that Davi had thought boded well. The navigation officer who’d been training him had said he was ready, and hadn’t had anything negative to report about his attitude. Davi had even seen the reader’s careful blankness give way to a smile once or twice, voice lifting as he grasped one of the concepts.

This was the first time they’d actually put all of it into action, and Davi would understand if the reader was nervous - Davi himself had been nervous - but everything had gone as well as it could possibly have gone.

So what was the problem?

“All right,” he said, putting the headset aside again, taking a moment to straighten the one that his reader had thrown haphazardly onto the navigation panel. “I’m going to need an explanation for that, Agent Thirty-two.”

To Davi’s confusion, his reader had found a corner to cram himself into, on the brushed-metal floor beside one of the seats, with his knees drawn up to his chest.

“Sorry,” he muttered, seeming embarrassed as he uncurled himself and got to his feet. “I - I apologise, sir.”

“What’s the problem?” Davi asked.

Saelin didn’t meet his eyes, fixing his gaze on the division pin on his shoulder instead. “No problem, sir,” he said, voice strained. “Is that - do you want to do another run on the course?”

“No,” Davi said. “There isn’t time.”

Saelin’s shoulders dropped in what Davi instantly knew was relief. Then why did you suggest it?

“I want,” Davi continued, “To know what’s wrong. Why you dropped everything and ran.”

“Nothing is wrong,” Saelin told Davi’s division pin. “Then, are we finished with this training block?”

“… yes, but…”

“May I return to quarters? I’m not hungry.”

Later, in their quarters, Davi alternatively stood and paced. Saelin just stood.

“I want to know what’s wrong with you, is what!” Davi said.

“Today, or in general?” Saelin said, a short-lived quirk in his face rapidly smoothed away. “I understand reading is genetic. I’d like to go to bed now, sir.”

Davi ran a hand through his hair. He realised that he was standing in the doorway to the tiny shared bathroom, and that Saelin probably wanted him to move aside so he could get ready for bed. He planted his feet instead.

“Look, I don’t know what you were expecting, from today,” Davi began. “You’ve not seen chaotic space before, I know. Things were… fast-paced. But the training course was a breeze, especially with you along. Today was a big success, no matter what it felt like to you. You did great. You should be proud.”

If anything, the reader’s face went more blank. “Thank you, sir.”

Apparently realising Davi wasn’t going to move, Saelin turned away, and sank down to sit on his bunk instead. He checked the schedule on his wristband, then laid it calmly in his lap and stared at the wall.

“Does it not seem like a success to you?” Davi asked.

“It does. I’m glad it went well.”

“So that’s why you ran away, then?” Davi pressed. “You’re just so glad it went well you had to go off into the corner for a cry or something? Come off it.”

Saeling said nothing. His gaze remained on the wall. The sync bond was as closed off as he could make it - as if there was a wide corridor, running between their minds, and Saelin was pressing himself against the wall at the far end.

It would be easy to cross that distance. Davi was only being polite in not doing so.

Does he think I’m stupid? Davi wondered. Does he think I’m negligent enough that if he just sits there like a grey rock I’m going to get bored and go away? Does he think if you ignore a problem for long enough it will cease existing?

“If there is a problem,” Davi said, trying to be patient. “If you are unwell, or there was something wrong with the sync that I haven’t noticed - ”

“There isn’t.”

Davi gritted his teeth. “If there is a problem,” he repeated. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to fix it, if you won’t tell me what it is. We need to communicate.”

“Nothing is wrong with me, sir,” Saelin said, staring straight ahead.

Davi wanted to yell at him - to grab him by front of his uniform and shake him - to tell him Davi wasn’t a moron and he didn’t appreciate being treated like one. Anything to get Saelin to do something that wasn’t sit there and tell transparent lies with a blank face.

Instead, frustrated and angry, he did something that he was not proud of - but it was so easy, much easier than doing any of those other things. As easy as thinking about it.

“Saelin, tell me why you’re upset.”

Saelin took one deep breath, eyelids fluttering as the command took.

“I hated going deep into the sync,” he said, the strangest combination of flatness and turmoil, words spilling out of him uncontrolled. “Not during, but after. While we were in the sync and working, it felt good, and that’s what I hate. I’m upset that it went well. I was good at navigating and I don’t want to be good at navigating, I want to go home. You said ‘well done’ and touched my mind like… like… fucking smug and affectionate and possessive, your reader, I don’t want to be your reader, I don’t want your approval or your affection. You’re revolting. We were one, I was you, I know you. Arrogant asshole, you think this is just great, you think we can be fucking friends. Friends when you practically own me. We were together and it worked and I’m good at it and the sync felt right and I hate it, hate the sync, hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you - ”

“Stop,” Davi said. The bulkhead, the wall of their quarters, bumped into his waist and he realised he’d stepped back. His hand out as if to hit the off switch on that vicious litany of misery.

Saelin shivered, arms wrapping around himself as the command faded. He licked his lips, obviously deciding on something to say of his own choice. Davi didn’t want him to; he wanted him to shut up, but this time he managed to restrain the reflexive movement to write him.

“So,” Saelin said. “Happy? Sir?”

“No, I -” Davi opened his mouth, but couldn’t find any words. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“What did you make, a month?” Saelin asked, and he was looking at Davi now, why the fuck had Davi wanted him to look at him, the blank stare at the wall had been much better than this. “Not unless it’s necessary for work, isn’t that what you said?”

“I’m sorry,” Davi said, automatic, guilt like a stone in his stomach. He tried to mask the shock on his face. What were you expecting him to say? Why the hell would you give him such an open-ended command? “I - I didn’t - ”

“Oh, you don’t have to apologise to me, sir,” Saelin said, his voice light and deferential and barbed. “I’m a conscripted reader. You’re allowed - nay, encouraged - to write me as much as you like.”

Davi sat down on his bunk with a thump and put his head in his hands. “I said that I’d - It’s not supposed to be… I shouldn’t have…”

What were you expecting? You had to have an idea. You couldn’t have expected him to like you, after seeing how miserable he was initially?

Davi was used to being likable. People did like him. Maybe somehow he’d thought that would… carry over. He’d gone out of his way to try and put the reader at ease, hadn’t he?

“Am I in some sort of trouble, now?” Saelin asked. He shook the wristband to indicate his schedule. “Do I get a punishment work detail, or something? There’s not a lot of room. Sir.”

“No.” Davi squeezed his eyes shut, counted to five, then sat upright. “That wasn’t fair of me, and I’m sorry. Perhaps it’s best if we just… forget this happened.”

Saelin was looking at him again, and Davi badly wanted him to stop. The sync bond was back to being empty and tidy, but now Davi could see the currents swirling underneath the smooth surface. “All right,” he said. “In that case. May I go to the deck two rec room and read for a while? Sir.”

“Sure,” Davi said, relieved. He lifted a hand in a wave, and reached for some sort of equillibrium; to get back into the rhythm they’d had for the last few weeks. “Sure, go on. Don’t… don’t stay out too late. We have… more training tomorrow.”

You don’t need him to like you, Davi told himself. You just need him to obey you.

Well, fucking great news, I have that covered. That’s the one part of this job that is given to me as a freebie!

Saelin gathered a couple of book cubes in silence, opened the door to the hallway with a hiss. He hung back in the doorway for a moment. “Davi?”

Davi looked up. “Yes?”

Saelin met his eyes, and they were hard and cold as glass, and in them Davi read the echoes of hate you, hate you, hate you.

“A word of advice from a reader,” Saelin said. “You should be careful what answers you go looking for, because if you don’t like what you find, there isn’t any putting them back in the box afterwards.”

“Yes,” Davi said, letting his head fall back into his hands. “Thanks for that.”

#mind link #nonconsensual mindlink #telepathy #telepathic whumpee #navigating fucked up power dynamics #Saelin #Davi #haha what is a scene transition who cares #Ocean's Echo fanfic

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stab-the-son-of-a · 2 years

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Caged

No. 2 NOWHERE TO RUN

Cornered | Caged | Confrontation

Taglist: @annablogsposts

When you woke up, it was to continued darkness. Everything seemed the same as before- cold and cramped and surrounded by suffocating rock and dirt- and yet heightened. Something felt off. Entirely wrong, and it wasn’t just the unnatural way this world breathed.

You shuddered with the nameless sensation and reached out with your uninjured paw.

In the darkness you touched solid metal long before you should have. Solid metals that burned your flesh. Jerking away from the contact, you pulled your paw to your heaving chest and tried not to panic.

You failed.

You were trapped in a way that you had never thought possible. The implications set your heart racing. These humans understood what hurt your species. These humans were well acquainted with your race, and the protector of them had personal grief against you. Why, you weren’t sure, but now you knew regardless of if you deserved their ire, they had the means to exact whatever vengeance they wished.

AFRAID please begging stop help me help me.

It was useless. A futile effort to scream for mercy but no one was listening.

Risking further burns, you explored the limits of your new space. A few dragging steps forward, just barely enough room to turn your body around in the space. Your broken tail and fragile wings both held close to you, you curled into a tight ball in the center. The runes on the bars gleamed if you squinted in their direction and the strain of it left you with a blinding headache.

Bars evenly spaced all around you penned you in. There was no give to the metal, nor even enough room to stick your leg through farther than your elbow. A tight cage, and your new home.

Burying your snout in your elbow, you settled in to wait. The protector at least would have to come to speak to you, or at you, even if they wouldn’t listen. In the meantime, trying to escape was a useless effort.

Your aching stomach reminded you that you do not have the luxury to waste energy on such matters.

You passed fitfully into a shallow slumber, chased into darkness by empty skies and burning steel.

#whumptober2022 #no.2 #caged #oc #fic #claustrophobia #hunger mention #starvation mention #Language Barrier Series #LB Whumpee #2nd POV #trapped #telepathic whumpee #nonhuman whumpee

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chaotic-orphan · 5 months

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Intoxicating Fear (VII)

The Great Escape

Part one here

Continued from this part here

*~*~*~*~*

Kit tied Ambrose up with duct tape. It wasn’t the best thing to restrain Ambrose with, if he really wanted to secure Ambrose the only thing to do would be to tie up his mind. Or use power dampeners.

And as it happened Kit wasn’t able to do either of those.

So he tied Ambrose’s hands behind his back, and duct taped his mouth but Kit was pretty sure Ambrose could use his powers with eye contact alone so he wrapped a long sleeve t-shirt over Ambrose’s eyes and went to his phone.

If Superhero got here by the time Ambrose woke up, he could sort it. He’d have power dampeners and Kit would finally be free of him. Once and for all.

Kit saw his red eyes flash up at him from his phones black screen, and felt nausea climb up his throat at the sight.

It will go away with time, Kit reassured himself, just like the blue does.

Time was of the essence now; he could worry about his fucking eyes later.

Kit unlocked his phone and went to his contact list again. He glanced at Superhero’s name and clicked it. Sure, enough Ambrose’s phone started ringing, bad moon rising echoing around the house again and Kit hung up.

That’s okay.

Ambrose doesn’t know Superhero’s civilian identity, so he was fine.

Kit scrolled down to Superhero’s real name and clicked the green call button.

Bad Moon Rising.

Kit froze in his home. There’s… there’s no way Ambrose knows— there’s no way he forced Kit to tell him was there?

No. Kit was just being paranoid. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

He knows he wouldn’t. He could never betray Superhero like that…

Kit went down to Other Hero’s name and pressed call and Bad moon rising started playing again.

Fucking FUCK!

It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything’s okay. Come on. The Agency’s number is online he could get that, and call and he would be fine.

Kit opened his browser and tapped the search bar. The screen dimmed and a parental control password came up.

A six-digit code.

Kit glared over at the unconscious Ambrose and wanted so badly to kick him in the face. He couldn’t just leave Ambrose here, could he? What if he woke up and got out and used some innocent civilian as his own puppet?

It wasn’t very heroic of him, but Kit honestly didn’t care.

He just wanted to get to Superhero.

Superhero would know what to do. He always knows what to do.

Decision made, Kit grabbed his jacket and keys and left his useless phone and walked out the door.

Or he would have.

If the second he walked out the door he didn’t get an eardrum shattering headache that made white flash behind his eyes and brought him to his knees. Kit cried out, backing up and once he was back in the house the pain stopped and Kit could breathe again.

He let out short, useless pants trying to ground himself and make sense of what just happened, even though he already knew.

Kit got to his feet again, and this time he ran out the door.

It was like a fire alarm going off in his brain, paralysing him. His breath stolen from his lungs and he couldn’t breathe, choking on air like a fish out of water.

Kit scrambled desperately back towards the house, his vision turning black at the corners of his eyes like a vignette as he dragged himself over the threshold of his apartment and collapsed, wheezing. Greedily gasping in gaping breathes and choking on them, his lungs screaming at him for depriving him of oxygen.

Kit started crying.

He sobbed, which didn’t really help the breathing matters, out of pure frustration. Ambrose had let him free. Given him hope that he could somehow win and the whole time, the whole time he knew it didn’t matter if Kit overpowered him, because Ambrose had already ensured that Kit could do nothing even if he was unconscious and incapacitated.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, crying, glaring at Ambrose, but eventually he got hungry, and made his way to the kitchen where Ambrose’s breakfast was waiting for him. Still a bit warm, Kit took some bacon and pudding and sat down with his back to his front door staring at Ambrose because he couldn’t do anything else.

Kit began eating.

*~*~*~*~*

Ambrose stirred within the hour. Groaning and shifting, trying to get comfortable. Then he mumbled something incoherent behind the tape on his mouth. Kit just watched him come to terms with his situation and wondered what kind of sick satisfaction Ambrose got from watching Kit struggle and try to get his bearings.

Ambrose inclined his head, staring directly at Kit even through his makeshift blindfold.

Is all this really necessary? Ambrose asked, voice in Kit’s head.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

Kit.

“You’re a fucking bastard, Ambrose. How does it feel to be the one on the back foot?”

I don’t know, Kit. Tell me. How does it feel? Being free. Being so close to escape and yet so far?

Kit clenched his hands into fists and grit his teeth, leaning forward from his place on the ground and wrapping his hands around his knees.

“I guess we’re both stuck like this until you undo whatever you did to me.”

Ambrose relaxed in his stance.

I can sit like this all day.

Kit said nothing.

Or I could always make you untie me, Kit. You don’t want me to force you to free me, do you? Do you really want everyone you love to die by your hands?

“I think you’re threatening me because that’s all you can do. I got something right, didn’t I?” Kit said. “Covered your eyes, do you need your eyes to compel me to do something? Or your voice? Or your hands?”

I think you’ll go mad before you wait me out, Kit. I’m willing to wait, silent and restrained. Want to see how long you can go without speaking to someone? I don’t mind.

Against his better judgement, Kit stood and walked over to Ambrose and yanked the blindfold off. Ambrose stared up at him grinning, dark eyes smug. Kit didn’t waste time going gentle with Ambrose’s gag. He ripped it off and smiled as Ambrose winced, his lips even more red than usual.

“Thank you,” said Ambrose with a smile. “You can untie me now.”

“Untie yourself, you dick.”

“I made you breakfast Kit, come on now. Don’t you want to leave the house?”

Kit’s hands crackled blue sparks up his left arm to his shoulder, glaring down at Ambrose who grinned up at him. “Ooh. Careful, Sparkles. You might hurt yourself there. Your eyes are almost the same colour as your blood.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kit yelled, feeling the currents run through his hair. Red sparks flew from his usual blue angry and pulsing and dangerous, the red wrapping tight around his fist like a force of its own just begging to let Kit use it to hurt Ambrose.

Just to wipe that stupid smirk off Ambrose’s face, it would be worth it…

“Scary. Go on, kill me,” Ambrose said, leaning forward, closer to the sparks than safety would grant. “Go on. You could do it. You could kill me, if you wanted to.”

Kit froze at that. Kit didn’t kill.

He didn’t kill.

He wasn’t a murderer he was a hero.

“I won’t sink to your level,” Kit said, his voice echoing static with the sound of the sparks flying. The electricity ran from his body in an instant, drained and dissipating. Kit stalked to the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the knife block before storming back and kicking Ambrose onto his stomach.

“Harder,” Ambrose said with a strained breath.

Kit dropped down to his knee, dropping his other knee onto Ambrose’s spine and smiled at the grunt of pain Ambrose let out. Then he cut the duct tape around his wrists and got off Ambrose, keeping the knife in his hand as he went and leaned against the door.

“Now get this fucking thing out of my head.”

Ambrose got his hands under him and got to his feet. “I never ate breakfast,” Ambrose said instead, taking the last of the duct tape off his wrists and heading to the kitchen. Casual as if being tied up is an everyday occurrence. “Do you want an egg?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Ambrose shrugged, grabbing the oil and pouring it into the frying pan. “That’s not an answer, but I’ll make two anyways.”

“Get this thing out of my head!”

Ambrose turned slowly. Dark black eyes settling heavy on Kit, cold and threatening.

“In the course of my nap, have you forgotten what I can do to you?” Ambrose asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. A piercing screech rang out in Kit’s mind, and he screamed, hands flying to cup his ears and stop the unmerciful ringing, pounding tight in his brain as if every blood vessel was being stretched and contorted and pulled and twisted, trying to get away from the sound.

The screech got louder the closer Ambrose got to Kit, and louder and louder until it was unbearable— white flashed behind his eyes and Kit was on his knees, screaming for relief, bent double and crying at the floor. It didn’t stop when Ambrose’s boots came within Kit’s sight line. A cold, lithe hand reached down and grabbed Kit’s chin tilting it up. The moment Ambrose’s cold hand made contact; the screeching stopped.

Kit was panting, brain and eyes still fuzzy from the aftereffects of the mental assault. Ambrose tilted Kit’s head all the way back, until he was sitting upright on his knees. Panting and shaking, exhausted. Brain caught between a frenzy of anxiety and a tired induced sloth, like trying to wade through a swamp.

“I could keep you on your knees like this forever, Kit. Like a pretty little statue, something to stare at, something that doesn’t speak or think. Just a dazed little angel, would you like that?”

Kit swallowed the lump in his throat and sniffed, his nose running from crying and screaming. In answer he reached a hand up, pulling at Ambrose’s hold but Ambrose grabbed his wrist before it made contact and bent it back on itself.

Kit hissed out a breath through his teeth, glaring through pained eyes at Ambrose who just smiled down at him.

“Let go of me!” Kit grumbled pulling his head back. Ambrose twisted his wrist more in reply and Kit cried out, trying to yank his hand free, jerking back. Ambrose’s grip didn’t relent, in fact, he tightened his grip on Kit’s face, pinching his cheeks together with one hand.

“Kit,” Ambrose sighed, stepping forward, forcing Kit’s body to bend back uncomfortably. Kit’s head moved with Ambrose’s hand and Ambrose put more force on bending Kit’s wrist back. “If I let go you have to promise to be good.”

Kit pinched his lips together, but Ambrose didn’t let him. He squeezed Kit’s cheeks until his mouth formed a crude ‘o’ shape.

“Uhck-you agh!” Kit cried as Ambrose twisted his wrist further, tightening his grip until it turned bruising. Kit struggled and tried to back up, but his head hit the wall and he was trapped between Ambrose’s body and the wall.

“Oh-kay,” Kit managed, furious, embarrassment flooding his cheeks.

Ambrose smiled, said, “good,” and true to his word Ambrose released him.

Kit’s head bobbed forward immediately, wrapping a hand around his wrist and rubbing it soothingly. Ambrose just went back to the kitchen, whistling, not even entertaining Kit’s glare following him. Kit got to his feet, the world tilting slightly as he stood but he ignored it going to the bathroom and slamming the door.

Angry red eyes found Kit’s in the bathroom mirror. Kit’s hand went out quick, too quick to think and the next thing he knew his fist had shattered the reflective glass. Broken shards fell onto the sink and the tile with a glimmering tinkle, so Kit punched the mirror again, and again.

He would have done it again, if he could, if it wasn’t for the cold rinse of Ambrose’s power flooding through his arm stopping his fist from punching the mirror until he broke his hand. Instead, Kit turned and opened the bathroom door against his will, stepping out into the living room to see Ambrose setting up Kit’s first aid on the table.

Kit’s feet dragged him to the table and forced him to sit and hold out his hand for Ambrose to inspect.

“I hate you,” Kit declared, a furious childish part of him wanted Ambrose to know that.

“I know Kit,” said Ambrose, taking his wrist delicately, the same wrist he had tried to fold in on itself not two minutes ago. “Seven years bad luck to break a mirror.”

“Fuck you,” Kit replied emotion colouring his voice. Ambrose’s touch was tender on his hand as he inspected it for damage. Shards of glass were sticking out of his hand that was steadily streaming blood onto the table.

“I’m going to have to take the glass out to bandage your hand,” said Ambrose, dark eyes dragging up to Kit’s face. Ambrose’s expression twisted into one of pity, as if he could actually feel human emotion and it somehow made Kit feel worse. Kit’s heart hammered against his throat as Ambrose reached over and wiped fresh tears from Kit’s cheeks. “It’s okay, Kit. I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt.”

Kit didn’t even realise he was crying until then. Frustrated, helpless tears were streaming sad and steady down his cheeks. “Please just let me go,” Kit whispered, half leaning it Ambrose’s hand. He couldn’t do this anymore. Ambrose sighed, rubbing his thumb soothingly over Kit’s cheeks.

“If you want, I can make you go to sleep while I do this?”

Kit sniffed, blubbering like an idiot. He didn’t want to be forced to sleep again, he hated that groggy feeling of waking up after it, completely unaware and vulnerable.

“No,” said Kit eventually. “No, I’ll stay awake.”

“Okay,” Ambrose cooed, drawing his hands back and going to the first aid kit to pull out tweezers and the disinfectant. “I’ll make sure you don’t feel a thing.”

True to his word, Kit didn’t feel anything as Ambrose worked. Not the disinfectant that would have stung. Not the glass being plucked out of his hand and onto the table. Not the bandage as it was tightened around his hand.

Ambrose moved with graceful fluidity, like this wasn’t his first time. Kit just watched him work in silence. If he imagined hard enough, he could be Superhero or Medic stitching him up after a fight with another villain. A friend looking after him telling Kit that he’s an idiot, and why did he punch a mirror. The thought made Kit’s heartache more than his hand would have.

“Okay,” said Ambrose with a smile, a genuine small happy smile. “You’re all done. How’s that feel?”

On Ambrose’s question, feeling flooded Kit’s body and he clenched his hand and opened it again. It was tight enough to hold and loose enough to have full range of motion.

“It feels good, thank you Ambrose.”

The words escaped Kit’s mouth before he registered what he said. Wide eyes went to Ambrose’s dark ones, but it wasn’t the smug pride he saw there. Ambrose smiled sympathetically at Kit and nodded.

“You’re welcome, Kit. How about you go get some sleep? I’ll clean all this up and we can go back to hating each other after.”

Kit nodded numbly. He was exhausted and deflated at his almost escape, he should have known Ambrose would have thought of everything Kit would do. The only way to defeat Ambrose properly would be to kill him and Kit knows he would never do that.

He couldn’t take someone’s life.

So, he stood and walked to his bedroom, shutting the door and collapsing onto his bed. Kit curled up under the covers and cried until he fell asleep.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

The Orphanage (plz lemme know if you want to be added or removed <;3) — @nameless-beanie @andithewhumper @annablogsposts @whatwhumpcomments @whumpasaurus101 @0eggdealer @rejectedbytheempty @princess-bubble-blossom @sleepy-pearl @n3rv0usn0v4 @whumpatize-me-captain @mj-or-say10

*~*~*~*~*

Hello, it’s orphan this is a sneaky PS that I am in the process of moving my work here to a new, primary account @patchworkorphan because I stupidly made this blog a secondary one

I am uploading my backlog of posts to that new blog, updated and edited shocking!

Okay thank you for reading, have a good day, watch the late late toy show! It’s officially Christmas!! okay bye!

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pigeonwhumps · 1 year

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Small Spaces

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch

Phoenix tries out being in a small space to prepare for their next mission. It doesn't go too well.

1.6k

CWs: claustrophobia, panic attack, flashbacks, past abuse, past child abuse, telepath whump, mentions of human trafficking, emeto, begging

"So I go through the vent and Santhiya will be there to help me down, right?"

"Yep," confirms Kai. "She'll remove the cover from that side and be ready for you to bring the explosives inside. Once Lian and I have cleared the compound and transferred the data, we blow it all to kingdom come."

"Fucking finally," growls Santhiya, and Morfydd nods fiercely. Phoenix is yet to encounter this particular group of traffickers, but they know that Santhiya was instrumental in helping rescue some of their victims from a burning building before she was even officially part of the team. This is personal, especially for her, and Phoenix isn't about to let everyone down. Even if it is a very small space.

It feels weird, actually planning for explosions. For Phoenix at least they're usually on-the-spot things, to get them out of tight spaces. They don't usually involve so much planning.

Although Phoenix may have, admittedly, enjoyed liaising with engineering on the explosives a little too much.

"Earth to Phoenix. Ready to see if you'll fit in the vent?"

Phoenix nods, looking at the long rectangular cardboard tube that's been put together on the living room floor. It's the size of the vent, and it's so small that their chest goes tight just looking at it. It's about the same size as the cupboard in their old team's quarters.

This isn't a good time to try this out. Not after seeing them again, bringing all the memories back. They haven't slept properly since, and that always makes things worse. But it needs to be done.

They take a deep breath and drop to their knees in front of the makeshift vent.

It's not that long. It'll take a few minutes at most. It's okay, they'll be fine.

Phoenix crawls into the tube. It's small, far too small, their skin feels like there's bugs skittering over it, but there's a light at the end and they focus on that. It's light and it's not going away any time soon, no-one's going to take it away as punishment, it'll be fine.

The light dims, and they rub their wrists, sleeves suddenly feeling too tight and far too cold. The light's not gone, it's dimmed, Indigo's not here to take it away, but everything's too hot and too small and it's closing in on them.

Phoenix blinks and they're shivering, freezing cold, the only light moonlight passing through a tiny crack in the wooden planks, and in the morning Alicia will patch up their knees and they'll go to school still freezing inside, and no-one will notice because this is just normal, why would anyone notice? By tomorrow evening everything will be healed and back to normal, but for now they're stuck here, in the dark and cold with the old wood creaking, trees rustling, chest tight and twisted up, unable to breathe properly, the suffocating walls closing in around them.

Phoenix blinks again and they're back in the pitch-black cupboard, insides burning, wrists in cold metal, their breathing's picking up and the walls are closing in and they don't know how long they're going to be punished for, they could die in here with walls like that.

"Please." They don't know who they're begging when there's no-one who'll listen but they do anyway. "Please, let me out. I'm sorry. Please."

Kai frowns as Phoenix comes to a halt partway through the cardboard tube. They were making their way through steadily and then they just... stopped.

"Are they okay in there?" he asks Lian, who's down the other end. He peers into the tube with a frown.

"They look fine, but... they're just not moving."

"Give them a couple of minutes. It's only cardboard, but–"

Kai's interrupted by Santhiya throwing up on the carpet. When she looks up, wiping her mouth, her face is chalk-white, eyes red-rimmed and urgent.

"Get them out of there," she croaks. Kai gets up but Morfydd's already moving, tearing apart the cardboard with intense concentration.

Phoenix is huddled up, arms around their legs, head in their knees. Shaking harder than Kai's seen in a while.

Kai glances at Morfydd, who nods, and crouches down in front of Phoenix.

"Hey. I'm gonna pick you up now, nice and easy, that's it, arms around me." He speaks lowly, pulling Phoenix's unresisting arms around his neck and lifting them up against him. They're still far too light, and drenched in sweat. "Let's get you sat down, yeah? Easy does it. You're safe, Phoenix."

"I'm sorry, sir," murmurs Phoenix, mind somewhere else entirely, "I've learned my lesson."

Kai stiffens slightly, then forces himself to relax, sitting on the sofa with Phoenix on his lap, their head buried in his neck. He rubs their back.

"Shh. Easy, you're safe."

Morfydd drapes a blanket over Phoenix's shoulders and Kai looks over at them as they sit on the sofa arm beside him.

"Cheers. How's Santhiya doing?"

"Not too well. Lian's looking after her."

"I'll leave him to it then."

Morfydd reaches up a hand and rests it on Phoenix's arm. "They were begging. I don't think it was loud enough for anyone else to hear, but... do you know who it was?"

"They called me sir when I picked them up, and there's only three people I've ever heard them call that," replies Kai grimly. "The other members of their former team."

"Fuck," breathes Morfydd.

"Yeah."

"Will it be too much for them if I stay? I know it is for Santhiya, but I need to help someone. I can't just sit by while my friends... well."

"No, you can stay. They trust you. I'm going to turn into a wolf, see if that helps. It does sometimes. Stay though."

Morfydd nods. "What about the mission?"

"Well, we've got over a fortnight until the next shipment goes out. That should be enough time to calm Phoenix down and complete the mission. And I was thinking maybe Santhiya could take Phoenix with her? We'd have to test the weight though. I don't know. But they can't go through the vent."

"No." Morfydd holds Phoenix gently as Kai transforms and curls around them. Phoenix, still mostly out of it, snuggles into Kai's fur, burying themself in it. "They really do like it. You're okay, Phoenix. You're safe."

Once Phoenix is out of the cardboard tube, Lian takes Santhiya by the arm and leads her over to the opposite sofa. Morfydd arrives soon after with a blanket and a mug of hot chocolate, draping the blanket over her shoulders. Santhiya holds it in a white-knuckled grip, the other hand lifting the mug to her mouth, absently taking a sip. She looks awful, haunted, ill, in a way that Lian's rarely seen.

"Santhiya?"

"They're so scared," she says quietly, almost in a monotone. "So scared. Their mind was screaming. I haven't had my defences falter so badly in a long time, since... well, you know... but they smashed through them all. They're so scared. So much. It's them I've been hearing at night sometimes, I recognise it now. The fear, the pain... how do they stand it?" She blinks, eyes bright with unshed tears. "How do they stand it all?"

"That's a question only Phoenix can answer," says Lian. "Along with some others." He rubs Santhiya's back and she sways slightly, looking at Lian with more focus. "How are you feeling now? Any quieter?"

"A little. Still making me nauseous."

"Hey, Kai, are you and Phoenix going to stay here a while?" he asks, not looking away from Santhiya.

Kai gives an affirmative yip.

"Okay. I'm taking Santhiya somewhere quieter." He helps Santhiya to stand, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, and puts his arm around her waist to hold her steady. "Let's go to your room, come on."

Santhiya nods, putting one foot in front of the other until they reach her bedroom, Lian sitting down with her on the edge of the bed.

"Better?"

"Yeah. I can think again now." The colour's slowly coming back into her cheeks, and she drums her fingers on Lian's leg. "I think... maybe I should've guessed it was them, waking me, after what happened last week. They told you, right?"

"About bumping into their team downstairs? Yeah. No wonder they're getting nightmares strong enough to break through your defences. I mean, only Kai knows what actually happened with their team, but it was clearly bad. Kai wouldn't have spent so much time away if it wasn't."

Santhiya snorts wetly. "I think 'bad' is an understatement. Their reaction... I never want to see them that small again."

Lian nods, handing his friend a tissue. "How are you, though? How's your head?"

"Sore. Fuzzy. Phoenix's mind was a lot. I can still hear their screams."

"Let's get you some painkillers then. Do you want me to stay?"

Santhiya nods, swallowing the pills. "I need a distraction. And I want to try building up my defences more. Not right now, but... later. That sounds bad. I just... it's too much."

Lian shakes his head. "It's not bad, Santh. You shouldn't have to hear people in distress when you're not prepared for it, even if they're your friends. We can certainly work on that."

"It doesn't seem right. I can hear people's worst thoughts but I can't do anything to help. It's not fair."

Lian sighs. He's heard many variations on those words in his time mentoring Santhiya. "One person can't do everything. Just knowing people are in trouble, telling us that, that can be enough. Besides, with Phoenix specifically, your presence as their friend is enough to help."

"But they're so– so hurt. How can just my presence help so much? It doesn't seem right. They can't be that fond of me."

"They are. Believe me, Santh, I've seen the way they look at you. They really, really are."

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iriswords · 1 year

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whump idea: telepath whumper, leading to a whumpee who is not only punished for their words and actions but also for their thoughts. possibilities for whump with this are numerous, and so are the possibilities for after-rescue whump.

feel free to add to this or write something around the idea, but please tag me if you do, I'd love to see what people do with this idea

#telepath whumper #whumper #whumpee #whump #whump idea #writing #writing prompt #creative writing

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whumpster-dumpster · 1 month

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A telepath whumper using their telepathy to get into whumpee's head and force them to relive every bad memory and hallucinate every fear and anxiety whumper can find in their head

Oooo, I like it!

#whump #powers #torture #answered ask #anonymous

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allthingswhumpyandangsty · 4 months

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one whumpy thing i absolutely cannot get enough of is immortal/hyper-regenerating whump. like when a character is some sort of vampire or demigod or something where they can still get seriously injured and still feel the pain, but they can regenerate from it. The depths of the injuries can be much more serious without killing the character. Smashed skulls, getting impaled, limbs removed, it's great

i once read a book where a character like this had her head literally ripped from her body and it described in excruciating detail everything she felt as her brain slowly shut down, while she was trying to telepathically pull her body closer so she could regenerate. the whumperflies were unmatched. I think I was like, maybe around twelve, maybe younger when I read it and it's still stuck with me to this day.

most recently i've been reading The Locked Tomb books, which have a lot of this sort of whump thanks to all the necromancy, but also a lot of great whump in general.

the only downside with this type of whump is that it lacks the whumpy whumpy goodness of leaving scars, depending on how the regeneration works.

sorry for the rambling lol, what are your thoughts on this?

you’re not rambling. there’s no need to apologize! ♡

I talked a bit about immortal whumpee a little while ago here, but basically, my thoughts on immortality when it comes to whumpee are that I will always have a soft spot for whumpee who literally, physically cannot die. (and by soft spot, I mean ‘yesssss give the little guy all the torture, put them in ✨situations✨’)

I couldn’t agree more when you said the whumperflies are when whumpee feels all the pain but literally cannot escape that pain via death. so they’re left struggling, suffering, absolutely in the state where they’re miserable endlessly. it gives me whumperflies too.

p.s. I actually do have a blorbo who is immortal (he does die, but every time he dies, he will always immediately come back, thus his deaths are never permanent), and seeing him die a gruesome, horrible death in every episode of his show has been such a great source of whumperflies for me. the show’s called Forever, and its main protagonist, Henry Morgan, is cursed to live forever. also Henry Morgan’s a medical examiner so, apart from his constant death (this guy is never good at staying alive for long), we also get other whump via each murder Henry solves in each episode. although… while Henry’s many, many deaths are mostly rather quick (not that quick — don’t worry, the audience can still clearly see him in pain — but the show never lets him suffer for too long), the whump is actually very good. and overall it’s such a great show. it unfortunately got canceled after the first season, but a part of me will forever hope that it will maybe one day get a second season somehow 🥺

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whump-or-whatever · 2 years

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Love myself a good telepathic/empathic whumpee.

Headaches or migraines from hearing too many thoughts at once, including light and sound sensitivity

Trauma from viewing certain thoughts/memories

Bloody nose or passing out from over-exertion

Feeling other peoples’ strong emotions or pain

Completely zoning out in the middle of conversations when they use their powers

Struggling to control someone’s mind

Having their powers blocked and being cut off from the outside world

Alternatively, being given a drug or something that amplifies their powers to the point that it’s painful

Being held somewhere where they’re surrounded by other people suffering to the point that they can’t block it out (and after being rescued from that place the silence is just as overwhelming)

#whumpee #telepathy #telepathic whumpee #empathic whumpee #whump #whump idea #whump tropes #whump prompt #whump scenario #whump prompts #whump community #whump stuff

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writinggremlin · 4 months

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Whumper lets Whumpee eat whatever they want, whenever they want. Whumper even lets them have however much they want.

Except, as expected, there's a catch...

Whenever Whumpee decides to eat, they are forced to see disgusting imagery of some sort, and are forced to keep watching for the entire time they're eating. Look away or try to avoid it, and they lose food privileges for a bit, if not get beat and punished too.

How does Whumper go about this? Do they have some sort of telepathic power that allows them to force the imagery to run wild in Whumpee's mind? Does Whumper secure Whumpee to a chair, head locked in place, forcing them to watch timelapses of food decaying on a tv?

Is it something more domestic? Cuddling on the couch during Whumpee's dinner, and watching gory movies?

Or... y'know what? Why not go full out and make it the real deal?

Whumpee opens the fridge for the first time and finds that all of the food is mouldy, decaying, and spoiled. Or maybe they find a more... grotesque and bloody scene in there, with a very unpleasant smell to match.

Eventually Whumpee starts to associate food with the disgusting imagery. They start losing their appetite as soon as they enter the kitchen, or a plate is set in front of them. Maybe even feeling a little nauseous in the process.

And the effects last long after Whumpee's free from Whumper's control. They struggle to finish one small, simple meal, let alone three of them. Even their favorite food is almost completely inedible now.

Just... Whumpee who now has to relearn how to enjoy food. Y'know?

#brought to you by my real life experiences! :D #whump prompt #whump prompts #whump idea #whump ideas #whump scenario #whumpee #whumper #whumpblr #whump #food whump #starvation whump

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ecoamerica · 22 days

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youtube

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

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tendertenebrosity · 5 months

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Continuing my Ocean's Echo fanfic stuff. Previous here.

Davi sat on his bunk, across from the reader. Neither of them had precisely unpacked; or rather, Davi hadn't unpacked. The unopened uniform packet was all that Agent Thirty-two had.

“Look, I know this is going to take a lot of getting used to,” he said. “I understand your…” he cast about for a word to describe the outpouring of negative feelings that had flooded through the sync before one of them - he still wasn’t entirely sure who - had managed to shut it off. He gave up. “It’s understandable if you’re viewing this as a punishment. But, please try to think of it as more of a second chance.”

Agent Thirty-two blinked slowly behind his glasses. “Yes, sir,” he said, obediently enough. But something about the way his gaze slid away afterwards hit Davi wrong. He reminded himself that this man was a civilian, he hadn’t had military posture and tone and attitude drummed into him. And since the two of them were sharing quarters now, they were technically in his private space. So it was pretty unfair of Davi to want to snap at him to sit up straight.

Instead, he reached into the reader’s mind - absurdly easy, even for Davi who had never found other people’s barriers difficult - and pressed a command into it. “Answer me truthfully.”

The reader breathed, in and out, slowly. His eyes were suddenly full of trepidation, but he looked to Davi for the questions.

“What did you do?” Davi asked. “To be conscripted. What was your crime?”

“Assault,” the reader said simply. “Stalking and harassment using reader powers. Deep reading without consent.” He wavered for a moment, as if trying to hold something back, but it was shortlived. “I was found not guilty of attempted murder.”

Davi winced. Murder. Yep, all right, you did know that was a possibility. He was going to be tied to this person for the rest of their lives, so he wanted to know what exactly he was dealing with, but he had known when he accepted the assignment he wouldn’t get to pick what kind of criminal he was dealing with. “Who did you stalk and assault?” And probably try to murder?

“My friend’s partner,” the reader said. He closed his eyes, and his mouth quivered and pressed flat. His voice came out calm, though. “Friend and ex-girlfriend. Actually. I’m not likely to do it again, if that’s what worries you.”

Davi eyed the reader’s frame, which was slight and hardly seemed well suited to violence. Well, this could be worse, he thought, trying to be optimistic. A crime of passion is probably better than something calculated.

“And what about the deep reading?”

“Multiple people. Can’t promise I won’t do that again,” the reader said - and winced. “Damn it. I - I just - ”

Davi raised an eyebrow. This was so easy. Davi found himself briefly put out that architect and reader powers weren’t usable in the criminal justice system, but rapidly squashed it. There were reasons for that.

“Well, I can promise you won’t do it again,” Davi said. “Because ‘no reading people’ is going to be one of the - ”

“Wait!” Agent Thirty-two interrupted him, sitting forward, alarmed. His hands gripped the edge of the bunk. “Um. Sir. Sorry - ”

“What?”

“Don’t - don’t write me,” he said, the tone dropping to something that was almost pleading. “Not that, anyway - Don’t write me not to read people. Please. It doesn’t work like that.”

Davi shifted back on his own bunk. “No? Explain, then.”

“I - of course, going deep into somebody like… like I did, a few times, that’s on purpose,” the reader said. His hands crept into his lap and he started fidgeting. “But most reading isn’t that. It’s little bits and pieces. It’s hard to… turn it off.” He swallowed. “I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know what would happen if you wrote me to stop. I’m sorry.”

Davi watched him thoughtfully. He didn’t seem to know any more about architect powers than he did about his own; otherwise he’d have known that most writing wasn’t anywhere near as long-lasting as he seemed to think. Davi’s truth command wouldn’t last through this conversation.

But Davi had seen a few people written to do something impossible, for a laugh, and it had been uncomfortable enough even for ten or twenty seconds.

More than that, though - what was coming through the sync bond, bleeding around the edges of whatever walls they'd both tried to put in its way, was... fear. Dread of being written. Dread of being out of his own control. Davi supposed that was a logical enough fear to have.

“Okay,” he said. “But you’re to respect everyone’s privacy as much as you can. That’s an order even if it isn’t a written one, all right?”

Agent Thirty-two - or Cor? Saelin? Davi was going to need to figure out how to address him when they weren’t on duty - looked relieved. “Yes, sir.”

“In fact,” Davi said, sitting forward again. “We should clear something up. Most orders aren’t going to be write-commands, that sounds fucking exhausting. I only wrote you just now because it’s important, it’s not going to keep on happening.”

Was there a slight relaxation of his reader’s shoulders? Davi hoped so, but couldn’t be sure. The sync felt the same. The reader’s face had returned to a studied blankness.

“And I meant what I said,” Davi said, returning to the script he’d planned out in his head earlier. “About this being a second chance rather than a punishment. It’s a chance to contribute to society and do something positive with your life. This doesn’t have to be what you’re afraid of. It’s a working relationship. Okay? I’m not interested in tormenting you.”

Agent Thirty-two, or possibly Saelin, looked down at his knees, scuffed and faded prison-issue scrubs. “No, sir. I know you’re not.”

“You’re here to help with my work,” Davi said. “Why would I want you miserable? There’s no reason this needs to be any different from any other command-chain relationship on this ship. The ability to write you is just a safety net, and as long as we’re working well together it’ll never need to come into play.” He smiled. “Hell, it’s not even unique to you. I’m strong, I could write half the people on this ship whenever I wanted, but I don’t.”

“You couldn’t,” the reader said, reluctantly. “You would… get in trouble. Not so, for me.”

“True,” Davi said. “But… I’ll make you a deal. Okay?” He took a deep breath. “I won’t write you unless it’s necessary for our work. All right?” He slapped hands on his knees, and stood up. “I promise not to write you unnecessarily, and you promise that it won’t ever be necessary. Does that sound fair to you?”

The reader tipped his head and leaned back a little, as if to get away from Davi in the small space. But he straightened his shoulders and returned his hands to something like a neutral position. “Yes, sir. It won’t be necessary.”

“Great! It’s a deal,” Davi said cheerfully. There, see? We’re all civilised people here. No reason this can’t be just another subordinate. The head-stuff doesn’t have to matter. “Take off the prison stuff, then, because it’s not who you are anymore. You’re a reader with the finest division the Orshan army has. And I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

Agent Thirty-two made an expression that was almost a smile. “Yes, sir,” he agreed.

Continued here.

#Ocean's echo fanfic #whump writing #telepathic whumpee #nonconsensual mind-link #telepathy whump #not sure this is any good but eh #Davi is so damn oblivious to the workings of his own head and also everyone else's #Saelin #Davi

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whumporpass · 16 days

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My Arrowverse OC, Morgan Wells!

Daughter of Harrison Wells and Tess Morgan by birth, raised by Eowells (mostly by Tina, though also by him)

Her telepathically-connected doppelgänger’s life is used as incentive to blackmail her into hiding the true identity of an evil speedster. Said evil speedster also kidnaps her later to be blackmail incentive (this is not the first time she's been kidnapped, and it won't be the last)

Has to fight a whammied version of her brother. Also, a shapeshifter manipulates her using her brother's face and voice

Reacts to whumpy situations initially with defiance, but it's not hard to see the fear underneath and manipulate it (and aren’t those the best whumpees :D)

#morgan wells #morgan wells - oc #ocs #whump or pass poll #my bias incoming #YES. WHUMP MORGAN. I love her sm #and Istg I need to read her series and I WILL when I have time😭#‘and it won’t be the last’ LMAO. good :)

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chaotic-orphan · 6 months

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Intoxicating Fear (VI)

Part one here…

Continued from here…

*~*~*~*~*

Kit’s body ached everywhere. It hurt to sleep if you could even call it that. Every time Kit turned over or moved his head, or adjusted the pillow he was in pain.

The dull aching everywhere nearly blinded Kit to the fact that he was in a bed. Lying down. Unrestrained. With a pillow!

Which meant that he wasn’t with Ambrose.

Had he… had he woken up when he was supposed to be doing Ambrose’s bidding, because this wasn’t a foreign bed this was Kit’s bed. He knew because he could feel the springs in his old mattress digging into his ribs.

The same mattress Superhero had told Kit to get rid of, but Kit just couldn’t part ways, and Kit’s pillow was perfect for him, not too firm but hard enough to support his creaking neck.

Kit was at home!

Ambrose fucked up, Kit could call Superhero right now, tell him exactly what’s going on and what Ambrose did, he could catch Ambrose!

Kit was halfway out of the bed as this thought crossed his mind, a giddy feeling numbing the bruises, cuts and trauma his muscles had endured with the fucking cattle prod—

His electricity.

Kit wasn’t wearing the rubber gloves. Or rubber anything for that matter!

Kit fell out of bed, his leg not quite carrying his weight, but it didn’t matter.

Kit sat on the floor, licking his lips in anticipation as he brought his hand in front of his face and with bated breath… clicked his fingers.

Blue sparks cackled around Kit’s hand like a glove, and it was like Kit was being revived. The relief it felt to see the bright electric blue, to hear the soft buzz of power, to feel the electric currents in the air.

Kit let the power wash over them. He clicked his fingers in his other hand and let the sparks fly from his fist down his arms up to his elbows and from there he just let it rip.

It got to Kit’s shoulders, to his chest, he could feel his hair stand on end from the currents but none of it fazed them. Not one bit. Kit could feel the power thrumming behind his eyes, and he knew he were same colour as his electricity and for a while Kit just sat there completely engulfed in the wash of his power.

It felt like relieving a muscle that had been stuck in one spot for too long and was cramping, or, cracking his back, or, stretching his shoulders in the morning.

Kit’s electricity reinvigorated him with the energy surging through him just because he could.

He was his own conduit.

His own person.

His own mind, not Ambrose’s puppet, he was 100% Kit right now, because Ambrose fucked up with his twisted compulsion. Kit almost cried with joy.

Kit let his electricity dim and got to his feet with a renewed fire to find Superhero and tell him everything… but first… Kit needed a shower, he needed to feel the warm water pound on his back and relax the rest of his aching muscles.

Kit looked to his bedside table and saw his phone plugged in and charging. Ambrose really did make sure Kit was living a normal life when he wasn’t conscious…

Kit didn’t want to open the phone; he didn’t want to read the text messages he didn’t send. And yet Kit’s feet padded over to his table and picked up the phone. The screen lit up. Kit’s heart dropped as his eyes stared down at the date and time.

He wanted to be sick.

It wasn’t days he was with Ambrose; it wasn’t weeks, it was a month and a half since the docks.

A month and a half of Kit’s lost time… where all he remembered was Ambrose and his cruelty. A month and a half of nobody realising that Kit wasn’t in fact Kit, but Ambrose’s vassal.

Kit swallowed the lump in his throat and put in his pin. The same pin it had always been, at least Ambrose didn’t have the foresight to change that.

Instead of going to his messages and torturing himself further, Kit went to his Spotify and clicked into his shower playlist.

How long had it been since he heard music?

A month and a half, a snide voice told them in the back of his head, but Kit ignored it and just let the music wash over them.

Oh yeah, he was going to be singing this at the top of his lungs in the shower.

Kit grabbed a towel, some underwear and made sure to lock the bathroom door just in case. When the hot water hit his back, he let out a long sigh of relief. His shoulders were so tense after Ambrose had made him dangle in chains for who knows how long? The water seemed to get under Kit’s skin and unwind every knot and ache in his muscles leaving him feeling refreshed and calm.

The smell of Kit’s soap and shampoo made him relax even further. It felt as if nothing had happened to him in the last six weeks and that he was just going about his daily routine of waking up, showering, going to work tell Superhero he was tortured.

Kit’s stomach growled the second after he had turned the shower off and he smiled to himself. How normal a feeling it was to be hungry. How entirely mundane, that Kit’s body’s nerves were telling him to eat. Reminding him to do it.

God when was the last time he had tasted food for himself?

Kit got hungrier just thinking about it. He dried himself and dressed as quickly as possible. He stopped the music on his phone, towelling his hair dry, not too bothered with how he looked as he descended into the kitchen, ravenous with hunger.

The smell of bacon made his mouth all but water and it wasn’t until he saw Ambrose that he realised he shouldn’t have smelled bacon to begin with. Ambrose saw Kit too and grinned at him, smirk wicked sharp.

“Morning,” Ambrose drawled. He looked too strange in Kit’s kitchen, a towel over his shoulder and a spatula in his hand he used to turn the bacon over in the pan.

Kit’s hand shot out on instinct, but his electricity simmered from a glove of reassurance to nothing but pathetic sparks as Kit felt the icy sludge of Ambrose’s power creep into his mind.

“Come on, Kit, none of that now,” Ambrose said, clicking his tongue. “I let you sleep in and everything, made you breakfast. Tell me you’ll behave, and I won’t restrain you further.”

Kit bit the inside of his cheek, frozen where he stood. A part of him wanted to lash out and go mad and kill Ambrose where he stood, but another part, a bigger part of him was too scared of being restrained again. He was enjoying the limited freedom Ambrose was giving him, and until seeing the bastard Kit was happy.

God he was so stupid for thinking Ambrose would just let him go, or fuck up in his commands… Kit was such an idiot.

“Well?” Ambrose asked, cocking an eyebrow at Kit, interrupting Kit’s thoughts and reminding him that he hasn’t answered.

Kit’s shoulders sagged at the demoralisation of having to articulate his submission, but Kit could beat himself up about it later. Right now, he was starving, and he wanted to be able to eat unhindered.

“I’ll be good,” Kit said quietly, swallowing his pride.

Ambrose beamed at him like a proud parent and gestured for Kit to sit at his own table. “Good. Sit! Breakfast is almost ready.”

Kit sucked in a deep breath and crossed the room to his table, pulling out a chair, settling heavy into it. He was facing Ambrose as he worked in the kitchen, not daring to take his eyes off of him for a moment. His heart started beating a little faster in his chest as he felt the weight of his phone in his hand.

If he called Superhero right now… Superhero would know. He could come and find Ambrose. Catch him in the act.

“One egg or two?” Ambrose asked, smiling over his shoulder at Kit.

“Uhm, two please,” Kit replied, licking his lips.

“So polite, Kit. Of course. Two eggs coming up,” Ambrose said, turning back to the counter and grabbing two eggs. Kit glanced down at his phone and back at Ambrose quickly. Just in time too because Ambrose turned back to face Kit a fraction of a second later. “See how nice it is when we can be civil.”

Kit forced a smile, which came out more as a grimace, and nodded.

“Could this be the turning point for us, do you think?”

“Maybe,” Kit said, nodding again. “You never know.”

Ambrose smiled, satisfied, and turned back to the pan, cracking the eggs into it. Kit’s fingers moved quickly under the table as he heard the eggs hit the pan with a sizzle and a spit.

He found Superhero’s contact and hovered over it for a second, looking back at Ambrose to see him whistling by the stove and with a heavy swallow Kit pressed the call button and left it on the chair beside him, making sure the volume was down.

But it didn’t matter.

Because a couple seconds after Kit had put his phone down and looked up innocently at Ambrose, he heard the start of the song ‘bad moon rising’ playing by Creedence Clearwater Revival and his blood ran cold. Ice rushed through his veins, and he so very desperately wanted to cancel the call, but he couldn’t move. All he could do was watch as Ambrose reached into his back pocket and answer the call without so much as blinking.

“You know, Kit,” Ambrose said into the phone, his voice echoing because the phones were in the same room. “I really thought we could at least get through breakfast without you throwing a tantrum. Guess not.”

Kit was out of his chair before Ambrose finished the sentence, feet on the wood floor, sprinting, lunging for the front door. He was only two feet away when a piercing screeching sound echoed between his ears and Kit screamed, trying to force himself through it.

He was so close.

He had to power through it.

Then it got too loud. Unbearable and Kit’s leg went like jelly, his vision swimming, the world tilting until he was on the ground, curled up into a tight ball, eyes squeezed shut trying to push out the ringing in his ears. The screeching lessened, leaving a dull ache in its wake and Kit wanted to throw up as the world spun around him.

“Kit, Kit, Kit,” Ambrose chided, feigned disappointment but it sounded so far away. Kit vaguely heard his footsteps approach and knew he had to get away.

Kit turned onto his stomach and reached out to the door, swallowing the bile in his throat with his motion and pathetically half-dragged himself forward. He only got an inch before the heel of Ambrose’s boot slammed down onto the back of Kit’s hand and dug in.

Kit was a wreck. His mind both hazy and frantic, thoughts like bullets shooting through a foggy moor, his chest heaving with the effort of his screams and his pathetic attempts of escape. All Kit saw was Ambrose’s foot draw back before slamming into the side of Kit’s jaw a second later, flipping him onto his back. Ambrose didn’t release Kit’s hand, so Kit was staring at the ceiling, arm twisted above them awkwardly. He must have bit his cheek because the stench of iron overwhelmed his tastebuds as he glared weakly up at Ambrose, eyes still having trouble focusing.

“God, Kit. I will just never get bored of you. Of this. Look at you… so strong, so sure, so noble, and yet there isn’t a thing you can do to stop me.”

Kit pushed weakly at Ambrose’s boot with his free hand, just because he could and just because he didn’t want Ambrose to be right. Kit could do something, he could try and get away. Try and escape. Ambrose hadn’t taken any of the fight from Kit, he was going to defeat Ambrose, someday. Somehow.

He just needed to be patient and let Ambrose think there was nothing Kit could do to stop him…

Yeah.

Kit believed that, or he could, if he forced himself to try and completely disconnect from reality and ignored how well and truly fucked he was.

“Awh,” Ambrose cooed, lifting his leg and stomping it down on Kit’s chest instead of his hand. Kit’s eyes bulged and he wheezed, his body curling around Ambrose’s boot, trying in vain to push Ambrose off of him. It was no use. Ambrose leaned down over Kit, shifting more of his weight onto the leg on Kit’s chest, effectively pinning him to the ground like an ant under a giant’s boot.

“You’re so cute when you’re like this. Tired eyes wide with panic,” Ambrose said, digging his heel in further and grinning when Kit tightened his grip on Ambrose’s ankle and grit his teeth to prevent the scream from escaping his lungs. “The bags really do wonders to the character of your face. Truly, Kit. I must admit I’ll always be a little weak in the knees at the blood staining the inside of your lips when you gasp.”

“Why don’t you take a fucking picture?!” Kit hissed, spit flying from his mouth in anger, rage flaring ugly inside him. “And then leave me the fuck alone!”

Ambrose’s dark eyes smiled down at Kit like a cat’s alight with interest. He didn’t drop the eye contact for a second as he reached into his pocket and took his phone out, snapping a photo of Kit. Kit blinked at the flash, stunned for a moment. Bewildered Ambrose would actually take a picture.

“You’re right Kit. That was a great idea. I think I’ll make this my screensaver.”

“Motherfucker!” Kit howled. Something hideous that could only be described as vengeful wrath fuelling his body as he shot forward from the ground. For a moment Kit could revel in the shock on Ambrose’s face as he hooked his arms around Ambrose’s knee, driving his heels into the ground to push himself forward and flip Ambrose onto his back.

Kit got on top of him, taking every advantage as he saw it. He had a very short window of time where Ambrose’s brain would be trying to catch up with current events, Kit would know. Ambrose had him in a constant state of shock and fear, trying to claw at the situation and adjust but all too slowly.

Kit pinned Ambrose’s shoulders to the ground using his knees. He didn’t even reach for his power. Instead, he punched from the waist, letting out a half-shocked gasp when he felt his knuckles collide with Ambrose’s perfect cheekbone.

Was he dreaming?

No. Even if this was a dream, Kit didn’t care. He didn’t have time to dwell on things.

Act now, think later.

Ambrose struggled under Kit, but Kit laughed a little giddy as he sent his second punch straight for Ambrose’s throat. Ambrose gasped under him like a fish from water and it was a bit addicting seeing him choke on air. Seeing him being strangled for once, breath robbed of him by Kit, instead of the other way around.

Kit punched Ambrose’s temple, but he felt Ambrose’s familiar ice-cold touch slide down the muscles in his arm and slow the impact of it, so Ambrose wasn’t knocked out cold. Which was a pity, but it also meant Kit got to punch him again. This time Kit’s knuckles crunched against Ambrose’s nose.

If Ambrose was able to get a hold of his power for a moment to stop Kit’s punch that meant he needed to knock him out now.

At that thought Kit’s hand ignited like a match dropped to petrol his electricity crackling happily around his fingers, blue sparks flaring and turning almost red. Kit grinned down at Ambrose who’s struggles renewed tenfold. Kit dropped his hand to Ambrose’s face and stared mesmerised by the reflection of his power in Ambrose’s dark eyes, like fire glinting off marble. In the reflection Kit saw himself too and he recoiled in horror.

Ambrose grinned below Kit as Kit’s electricity dissipated with a weak whizzing sound. Seeing Ambrose’s grin, Kit’s arm moved before his mind did and this time his punch landed straight on Ambrose’s temple. Ambrose’s eyes rolled back, and he went limp under Kit, his head hitting the ground with a gentle thump.

Kit’s eyes blew wide, not wanting to move at first. His hand reached down and pulled Ambrose’s eyelid down and saw that he was actually unconscious. Then Kit was on his feet, running to the bathroom and slamming the light on.

He stopped in front of the mirror over the sink, and it was still there.

Kit stepped closer to the mirror, staring deep into the reflection that didn’t look like Kit. He was used to his eyes turning an electric blue when he used his power, but his eyes… the eyes reflected back at them were a violent scarlet, and not just his eyes. The veins under his eyes were the same garish, bright red mixed with a few of Kit’s familiar electric blue and a deep purple where the two colours collided.

Kit reached a shaky hand up to touch the veins and saw his hand still coated in the same mix of red and blue and purple. He clicked his fingers and electricity buzzed to life in his palm, his electric blue and Kit nearly sighed in relief.

Until the red sparks started flying again and shot out at the light in the bathroom. Kit flinched as glass shattered above him and fell like twinkling rain down onto the tiles with a clatter. When Kit looked back at the mirror those red eyes stared back hauntingly at him, and Kit swore for a moment that his eyes smiled like Ambrose’s.

*~*~*~*~*

Continued here

119 notes · View notes

generic-whumperz · 21 days

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OC in 3

Choose 3 pics to represent your OC

Oops, I got overly excited and made 10 three-picture collages

Omg thank you @mj-iza-writer for the tag! I am honored that I came to mind! 🥹

No pressure (& open to anyone interested!) tag: @rainydaywhump @eatyourdamnpears @clairelsonao3 @dresden-syndrome @lights-out-knives-out @snakebites-and-ink

Soooo, I know I’m supposed only to pick three pics, but honestly, I simply cannot (I know, no surprise there). I have been wanting to do a vibe photo dump for The Aid (the Whumpee & title of the story) but have yet to do it (hello, my ever-expanding Pinterest boards), so I’ll take this chance to explore The Aid’s past phases he’s gone through (pre & post-Wyatt {Whumper #2}) and give some explanations because it’s a lot. However, I don’t know if explanations are necessary for this tag game, but I’m famously too much, so of course, I’m going to over-explain myself because of my crippling fear of being misunderstood!

Ironically (ironic because his real name reveal doesn't come until around chapter 25-ish), I call his time with Madame Eleanor (technical Whumper #1) his “Aid Era” because that’s when he becomes this character we are introduced to and currently know him as. Yet, this is the part of his life he is phasing out of. **Insert something-something about being haunted by your past.**

In the current storyline, he is going through a succession of more changes, and his world is about to be turned upside down yet again, but I’ll hold off on showing those for now because they’re spoilers, and I have more than enough here!

Starting from the top, here we goooo—

P.S. The people in these pics are not what the characters look like, this is simply vibes only!

Day 1

1. As soon as The Aid arrives at his new home, Madame Eleanor gets custom-made Gucci uniforms made for him that looks like this. This is his go-to everyday attire. (I spent too long looking at scrubs and hospitality uniforms on and off for over a month—tell me you like it and think it’s cool and sleek.)

2. He has a special built-in in his closet specifically for all his fancy, jewel-encrusted collars Madame Eleanor gifted him throughout the years, but this is what the facility's standard-issue collar looks like for his designation (Grand Servant: Domestic Aid).

3. His favorite Prada frames Madame Eleanor also got him that he bitches reminisces about in Chapter 6 (Wyatt breaks them because he’s an asshole, leaving him straight up blind for several months).

Fancy Threads

Eleanor Sullivan was a Rich Bitch™️ (I will make a separate post at some point about her house and The Aid’s room specifically because I spent way too much time obsessing over these deets), so best believe she had her servant dressed to the 9s in designer fits when out and about or for Family events and the like. She may also put him in a butler uniform from time to time when they were hosting a party at their residence—which was often, Eleanor was known for her soirées. (To clarify, he’d still wear a collar even when dressed up, and all those attending knew who and what he was.)

The Host

He loved a good party just as much as Eleanor did! He likes serving and seeing people have fun and enjoy themselves (people-pleasing empath). He was known for his food displays and had a knack for creating a proper afternoon tea spread that garnered attention from all those present. I also have Pinterest boards of some appetizer spreads and cool drink tables he would put together because I was really trying to understand him as a character.

Speaking of Empath…

We can’t talk about him without bringing up his not-so-secret secret! Lil’ homie has a gang of abilities (telepathic empathy, hyper intuition, premonitions, and psychometry) just bubbling up inside him at all times. His relationship with himself and his sixth senses is complicated, to say the least—he finds them burdensome, yet he cannot function without them, despite how much he argues otherwise. It’s a whole thing, but for a certified Telepathic-Empath™️, he sure is dead inside (which only gets worse after Wyatt OFC).

*Sorry for the shitty upload quality of the Emotional Sponge, idk why it looks so bad!

Domestic Duties

Not only can he slap together the best charcuterie board you’ve ever seen and easily untangle Christmas lights, but he’s also a man who can cook, clean, and keep a house. What can’t he do?

Hobbies? Interests?

Don’t be ridiculous, he didn’t have time for leisure activities! But when he had some occasional downtime, he would spend an ungodly amount of it doing facials and grooming himself. He also loved to go to the spa with Madame Eleanor. As far as reading went, he wasn’t into novels, but he would occasionally peruse short-story myths and legends, old fables, or read picture books in funny voices to Eleanor’s grandchildren. Primarily, he’d like to read trashy magazines, comics, and cookbooks. But let’s be real, he considered cleaning, gossiping, and baking his primary hobbies.

RIP Madame Eleanor Sullivan

(She’s been dead for about a year and a half when they story picks up)

First and foremost—above everything else—The Aid was Eleanor Sullivan’s literal live-in medically trained caregiver, which is why she bought him in the first place. They had a very close relationship for five years, and he did everything for her. When she died, his world was shattered, and he took her death really hard. Wyatt was jealous of his Mother’s relationship with her servant from day one, which is where part of his animosity comes from. Quick note—Eleanor was a posh, vintage-Chanel-wearing Grandma and would never be caught dead wearing a bathrobe outside. Eleanor was Queen of being That Bitch.

Enter: Wyatt Sullivan

These pics are pretty tame all things considered, but after Eleanor’s death, The Aid is now in a World O’ Hurt and the subject of Wyatt’s drug-and-alcohol-fueled rage. The Aid went from a high-class servant loved by his Madame and respected by her friends, associates, and family (besides Wyatt) to a human punching bag overnight. The beef between these two runs deep and maybe Eleanor isn’t as innocent as she seems. Stick around and you’ll find out all the Sullivan family tea.

To: Wyatt

Just some memes directed towards Wyatt and The Aid being painfully aware of his shitty situation (I got too many of these and had to sprinkle some in).

Where We’re at Now…

Quite the fall from grace, wouldn’t you say? Our boy is currently bed-ridden and zombified while having the worst time imaginable. He’s drugged up, fucked up, and can’t move half of his body! But don’t be fooled, this stay-cation is no fluffy recovery arc and you’ll meet some more distasteful Sullivans soon to come!

This took me an embarrassing amount of time to assemble, but I went the extra mile because this doubles as a reference guide. I had a lot of fun making this and I may make more (and way more chill ones that are just three pics, I swear) after I write Part 2 and introduce a gang of other characters alongside my most favorite-favorite guy!

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whump-me · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 2: "They don't care about you."

This is a standalone story in the Mind Games universe, a modern-day sci-fi/fantasy thriller setting about ordinary humans with superhuman abilities and the people who want to use or destroy them. Full description in my Whumptober masterpost, which is linked in my pinned post.

This story contains: interrogation, male whumpee, female whumper, defiant whumpee, fearful whumpee, cold whumper, rejection, emotional whump

---

When Sean thought of an interrogation room—which he did, often, whenever he imagined what would happen if he was caught—he imagined it smelling like blood and bleach and fear. He imagined the faint outlines of bloodstains on the floor and on the walls, where even the strongest cleaners couldn’t scrub away the evidence of what had happened there. He imagined a bright white light shining down from above, so strong it seared his retinas even when his eyes were closed.

The light was just how he had imagined it—except that it was a fluorescent light built into the ceiling, like in an office building, instead of a bare bulb dangling in his face. But the rest wasn’t like he had thought it would be. The room smelled new. Freshly built, like plaster and sawdust. The paint was so bright white he thought it might come off on his hands if he touched it. There had been no time for it to accumulate stains yet. For all he knew, he was the first prisoner to be interrogated in this room.

Maybe it would be his blood marring the white walls for the first time. Maybe anyone else brought here would look at the evidence of what had been done to him, and shiver.

The room was empty except for the single metal chair he had awoken in. His wrists were bound to its arms, his ankles to its legs. In front of him, a slim woman in gray paced back and forth, back and forth. She eyed him like he was the stain in her brand-new interrogation room, and she was trying to figure out the best way to clean him up without messing up the paint.

She paused in front of him. The bright light shone down directly above her, turning her eyes to pits of shadow. “Your friends sold you out.”

Her voice was as clean and crisp as the room. The sound echoed strangely—the edges were softened, rounded off where they shouldn’t have been. Soundproofing. So no one would hear what she did to him.

He already wanted to beg, and she hadn’t even touched him. He wanted to throw himself at her feet—if not for the restraints holding him in place—and ask what he had to do for her to let him go, please just let him go…

Instead, he lifted his chin and managed a derisive—albeit shaky—laugh. “That’s an amateur tactic. Make me think they betrayed me, so I’ll betray them. Try harder.”

“The room surprised you,” she said, her voice cool and perfectly even. “You were expecting us to bring you to PERI headquarters, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So your friends knew about the new facility already. We caught one of them sniffing around the site last week. We followed them back to their meeting. That’s how we found them—and that is how, ultimately, they gave us you.”

He shook his head. “There was no meeting last week.”

“Are you sure about that?” she asked, leaning down to peer into his face. “Your thoughts say you’re not.”

He bent down to spit at her feet. “You’re a telepath,” he said. “That makes you one of us. And you’re working for the people who want to control our powers. The only traitor here is you.”

She took a small step back from the small, gleaming glob of spittle at her feet. Her face showed no reaction. “Which is the worse betrayal?” She asked. “To accept a job offer—which pays very well, I might add—to help root out rebellious elements in order to make sure those with powerful abilities serve our national interests rather than becoming a menace to society? Or to offer up someone you fought alongside, for money and to save your own skin? That’s what your friends did.” Her lips curved into a small smile. “Yes, they asked for cash. And it was their idea. I didn’t even need to offer. They named a price—they already knew how much you were worth to them. I was surprised at the amount. I would have expected them to ask for more.”

“I knew about the new facility.” Or at least, he had known there was one being built. A secure purpose-built interrogation facility, plus a prison for Enhanced who refused to work for the government and weren’t suitable for genetic research. He and the others had been hunting for it for months. But they hadn’t found the location yet.

“You didn’t find the location yet,” she said, reading his mind. “But your friends did. They didn’t tell you before they sent your friend Mathias to scope it out, did they? And they certainly didn’t tell you that when Mathias was careless enough to let us follow him back to their meeting—the meeting they didn’t tell you about—they offered you up. They thought your power could be useful to us.” She gave a small, artful pause before continuing. “And they thought it wouldn’t take much for us to convince you to work for us. Apparently they don’t think much of your courage.”

“They wouldn’t do that.” But then how did she know about Mathias? Was he in one of these rooms, too?

“Your friend is perfectly fine,” the interrogator assured him. “They all are. We kept our end of the bargain.”

But that meant nothing, nothing at all, because there had been no bargain. They wouldn’t have sold him out, they wouldn’t…

“I hear you thinking at me,” she said. “You don’t have to be so loud about it. I can hear your thoughts regardless. In fact, I can hear what’s going on underneath that cacophony of denial.” She started up her pacing again. “Right now, you’re going over all the times they’ve excluded you. All the inside jokes they never bothered to explain to you. All the meetings they conducted without you, the ones you only found out about after the fact. Last week was far from the first time.” She held up her hand as if to hold off his objections before he could speak them. “Don’t bother denying it. I told you, I can hear you.”

His weak protest died on his lips before he could voice it.

When the others had rescued him as a teenager from a near-abduction by PERI forces, and offered him a place on their team saving others the way they had saved him, he had thought things would be different with them. He had seen an end to his lifetime of being the awkward misfit, the odd one out. Helping people had only been half the reason he had joined them. The chance to belong had been the other half.

Maybe more than half.

Every time he had come home crying from school when he was a kid, his parents had assured him he would find his people someday. He had thought he finally had. After all, they had powers too. They were like him. They were Enhanced, a word he had never even heard before meeting them.

But it hadn’t worked the way he thought. He might have been Enhanced like them, but he was still his same old awkward self. He still didn’t get the jokes. He still talked at the wrong times, and stayed silent at the wrong times, and said the wrong things that led to awkward silences.

“They didn’t leave me out of that many meetings,” he said. “Not the really important ones.” Only the ones that had been less about planning their next mission and more about hanging out together. They always seemed to have more fun when he wasn’t around.

“If they had found the new facility,” he continued, “they would have told me.”

“Are you sure about that?” she asked. And she smiled, because no, he wasn’t, and she could obviously hear it in his mind.

He was mostly sure. Almost entirely sure. But almost sure wasn’t the same as sure.

“They would have wanted my help,” he said. “And they would have known I wanted to help. They knew how committed I was.”

“We are you committed to the cause,” she asked, pinning him in place with her eyes, “or were you committed to them?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Humor me.”

And because it was better than her needling at all his weakest points, he answered. “I was committed to the cause,” he said. “Because PERI came after me for no reason. I wasn’t hurting anyone with my power. I just wanted to live a normal life. But they wouldn’t let me do that. They don’t let any of the Enhanced do that. We have to work for you, and if we won’t, we get cut apart in your labs or shot on the spot. We’re not allowed to exist unless you control us.”

“A pretty speech,” she said, her eyes turning into amused half-moons. “Which of your friends are you parroting it from?”

“You think I don’t believe in what we’re doing? I gave up everything to join them. I left my school, my home…”

“For the cause?” she asked. “Or for the chance to belong?”

Too late, he understood that she hadn’t ever stopped needling at his weak points after all.

“Your friends expected us to threaten you to convince you to work for us,” the interrogator said. “Maybe even hurt you. They said it wouldn’t take much. But I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?” he asked, thinking back to the stories the others had told of PERI interrogators in bloodstained rooms. He knew there had to be a catch, a sting he didn’t see coming. Still, he couldn’t help but hope she meant it, and that it really was that simple.

“Because I don’t think I have to,” she said. “We can give you what you want. There is no in-crowd here. We don’t play those games. PERI is an army of Enhanced and non-Enhanced working for a common cause. Here, everyone belongs.”

He laughed—or he tried. “Another amateur tactic,” he said. “But the others told me I would belong with them, too. And people play those games everywhere.”

“So you agree you didn’t belong with your friends.”

He didn’t answer.

“I work for PERI as an interrogator,” she said. “You’ve heard about PERI interrogators, I assume. All the stories are true. Everyone in PERI who knows me knows what I do in these rooms. Do you really think that makes me a likable person?”

Every answer felt like a trap, so he offered her only silence.

“Nevertheless, I’ve found a place here,” she said, as if he had answered her. Maybe he had, inside his mind. “I belong with PERI far more than you ever did with those friends of yours.”

“Of course they make you feel that way,” he said. “Because they can use you.”

“If that’s what you call working with others to use your strengths for a common purpose,” she said. “How different is that from what you did with your friends? Were they using you?”

Then she frowned slightly. “But you’re not really afraid of being used, are you? You’re afraid we would have no use for you.”

He shook his head. “I’ll never let you use me.”

“It’s better when it’s your choice, isn’t it?” she asked softly. “When you decide you don’t want us to have a place for you. But you’ve been afraid for a long time. Every time they met without you. Every time they stopped talking when you entered the room. You knew they kept you around because you were useful. Didn’t you wonder, deep down, what would happen when you stopped being useful?”

He hadn’t been thinking that. He hadn’t. His fingers curled around the sharp metal arms of the chair.

“Did they judge you for the strength of your power?” she asked, leaning in close like they were having an intimate conversation. “You don’t need to worry about that with us. Your friends described what you can do. Based on what they told us, I can guarantee you a place with us. If you commit to our cause. If you let us be your people.”

“I don’t want it,” he spat. But the little smile on her face didn’t budge.

He knew why. It was because the first part of what she had said was true, and they both knew it. He had wondered if they had judged him for the strength of his abilities, if that was just one more thing that stood between them.

As if that was something he could help.

“Not everyone has to be the strongest on the team,” she said. “What’s important is having a team. A team that knows how to work together, that doesn’t leave any of its members out. With PERI, I promise, no one will ever call your power weak again.”

He blinked, utterly thrown off for the first time since she had claimed his friends had sold him out.

They had said his power was weak?

But he had always been the strongest of them. Strong enough that they kept him around even when he wasn’t even sure they liked him that much. Strong enough to scare them.

She frowned, leaning closer, as if that would help hear his thoughts more clearly. Her eyes widened. A look of alarm grew on her face in slow motion as his thoughts whirled ahead at lightspeed.

He understood now.

The interrogator had told the truth. It hadn’t been a ploy to get him to cooperate. His friends had offered him up to PERI.

They had done it because they had known PERI would take him to the new facility. And they wouldn’t take special precautions, because they thought he was weak.

Of course they had stumbled on Mathias outside the new facility. There wasn’t a telepath on Earth who could get inside his lockbox of a mind. All PERI’s telepaths would have gotten from him was what he wanted them to hear.

Matthias had let them see him. He had led him back to the others on purpose.

And they hadn’t told Sean about the plan, because he couldn’t give away to a mind reader what he didn’t know.

The world jolted back to normal speed. Alarm blossomed into full-fledged fear on the interrogator’s face.

“This doesn’t change the fact that they sold you out.” Her voice wobbled. “They used you.”

“Then it’s a good thing you were wrong about me, and I’m more committed to the cause than I am to them,” he said.

She fumbled at her belt—reaching for a phone to call someone, or maybe a button that would trigger an alarm—

And the walls crumbled with an earsplitting groan.

The room rained down on him. Beyond the interrogation room, the facility fell to pieces. The smell of plaster and sawdust grew overwhelming. And finally, the smell of fear. The interrogator’s fear.

She screamed, once.

Then she disappeared under the rubble, and was silent.

He didn’t know how long he spent unconscious before his friends’ voices woke him. He ached all over. When he tried to move, sharp pains screamed at him from half a dozen places in his body. He didn’t know how badly he was hurt. He thought he probably didn’t want to know.

He usually fared better in the aftermath of his power than the people around him did. It was part of how his power worked. But that didn’t mean he emerged unscathed when he took a small piece of the world apart around him. And when it was a building as big as that one must have been…

He had thought he would survive. He had hoped. But hoping wasn’t the same as knowing.

If he had known he would survive it—or if he had been a little braver—he would have brought the place down as soon as he had woken up in that interrogation room. Maybe that was what his friends had expected him to do. If he had, the interrogator would never have had the chance to tell him what his friends had done.

But they had been right about his courage.

“Don’t try to move.” The voice belonged to Mathias. “We’ll get you out of here.”

He blinked until his eyes focused. Was that guilt he saw on Mathias’s face, or was that just his own wishful thinking?

Matthias must have seen in his eyes that he knew, because he flinched and looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We argued about it. For hours. But in the end, it was too important. We had to destroy the facility. You were our best chance. And you would never have gotten in any other way.”

Sean noticed he didn’t say which side of the argument he had been on.

“We’ll take good care of you,” he said. “And… and you can leave if you want. When you’re better. We won’t stop you.”

He shook his head. The movement sent a sharp spike of pain through the center of his forehead. “I want to stay.”

He had told the interrogator the truth. It was about the cause for him. They had done what was necessary for the cause, and so had he.

Maybe that was true. Or maybe he could accept their decision because he had been useful today, and he didn’t want to know what would happen if he wasn’t useful anymore. Not to his friends. Not to anyone.

He wasn’t brave enough to figure out the truth. Instead, he closed his eyes and let himself sink back into unconsciousness.

He was glad the interrogator was buried under the rubble. Otherwise, he was sure she would be giving him that knowing little smile.

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Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @gala1981

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#whumptober2023 #no.2 #“They don't care about you.”#oc #fic #interrogation whump #my writing #my writing: whumptober 2023 #my writing: Mind Games

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