#tw: aftermath of torture

[lonely-writer]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Far Cry 5 Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Deputy | Judge & Nick Rye Characters: Female Deputy | Judge (Far Cry), Nick Rye, Kim Rye, Hurk Drubman Jr., Hurk Drubman Sr., Jerome Jeffries, Jacob Seed, Mary May Fairgrave, Sharky Boshaw, Carmina Rye Additional Tags: Swearing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Aftermath of Torture, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mind Control, Mental Instability, mentions of killing, Panic Attacks, The Deputy needs a hug, Found Family, Gun Violence, Cults Summary:

Nick Rye worries for the deputy.

#tw: mental instability #tw: mentions of abuse #tw: mentions of killing #tw: ptsd #tw: panic attack #tw: gun violence #tw: gun mention #tw: aftermath of torture #mind control #far cry 5 #far cry fanfiction #nick rye and the deputy have a father daughter relationship and you can’t tell me otherwise #found family fic #mature fic

[serickswrites]

could you please make ‘rope’ into a series where whumpee eventually does recover, but it takes a long time and there are a lot of setbacks?

Absolutely, Anon, I can write this for you.

Please enjoy!

Part 1

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture (unspecified), catatonia, blood, scrapes, hurt/aftermath, head injury

Two days. Two days had passed since Caretaker sat Whumpee in their car and doctored their wounds. Two days had passed since they got Whumpee out of Whumper's compound. Two days. And Whumpee hadn't uttered a word.

Caretaker was sure that Whumpee just needed more time. Just needed some quiet and peace to realize they were safe. Then the normally bright and bubbly Whumpee would be back.

But that hadn't happened yet. Caretaker wasn't even sure they had seen Whumpee eat or drink anything. They just lay in their bed, curled up and silent. Caretaker had come in several times a day to check Whumpee's scabbed over wrists and to try and coax Whumpee into eating something.

"Whumpee, would you like something to eat?" Caretaker asked softly from the door.

Whumpee didn't respond. It was as though Caretaker wasn't even there.

"Please, Whumpee, let me bring you something. Or come out into the kitchen with me." Caretaker touched Whumpee's shoulder softly.

Whumpee began to scream and thrash violently, desperately trying to get away from Caretaker.

"Whumpee! Whumpee!" Caretaker shouted over Whumpee's screams. "You're safe. I've got you!"

But Whumpee didn't hear Caretaker. They continued to scream as they fell off the bed. Continued to scream as they scrambled back. And they screamed until they hit their head on the bureau and went still.

"Whumpee! Whumpee, no!" Caretaker rushed forward as Whumpee slumped to the side, their eyes unfocused and hazy. Whumpee flinched as Caretaker touched them, but didn't fight.

"It's ok, I've got you," Caretaker murmured softly as they lifted Whumpee up. "I'm just going to get you some help. You'll be right as rain soon." Caretaker walked to their car. They had to get Whumpee to the hospital. Between the rapidly growing bump on the back of Whumpee's head and their refusal to eat or drink anything, Whumpee needed help. And it was the kind that Caretaker couldn't give.

Tags: @janetm74 @crabofthewoods @beomsstudio @edutainer2022 @whumpbump @coramakesart @thathurt-doitagain @catnykit @idkwhattodowiththisaltiamsorry

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw referenced captivity #tw referenced torture (unspecified) #tw catatonia #tw blood #tw scrapes #hurt/aftermath #requests #queue #tw head injury

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1256

Submitted by Anon - thanks!

TW: starvation | disordered eating

If a character has become accustomed to prolonged under-nourishment, they probably won't be "fine" as soon as they can eat adequately. Of course there's the psychological recovery from whatever experience(s) they had, but also their body may not remember how to deal with normal amounts of food.

A few things they may experience when they start eating more (severe cases can be dangerous and require medical intervention, these are just in the "unpleasant" range):

Poor appetite and rapid/disproportionate satiety

Bad stomach aches

Increased lethargy/fatigue, in general but especially after meals

Suddenly needing a lot more sleep

Dizziness/shakiness/weakness if they haven't eaten for a few hours, even if they don't feel hungry.

#whump #writing #prompts #starvation tw #disordered eating tw #eating disorder tw #fatigue #aftermath of torture #captivity #aftermath of captivity

[furiousgoldfish]

for the abused children life is just being tortured and broken for most inane things like being sad or needing attention or making a face someone doesn't like, and then when you despite all efforts grow up, you're supposed to suddenly know how to stand up for yourself?? you're supposed to negotiate your salary?? tell people OFF?? without feeling like you will be crushed to the inch of your life if you even look at someone wrong?? what on the gods good earth

#child abuse #cptsd #avoiding confrontation #getting triggered by everything #tw mention of torture #abusive parents #aftermath of abuse

[slippedtheknot]

"Shirt off,"

Whumper, telling Whumpee this for another round of torture.

Caretaker, telling Whumpee this to clean Whumpee's wound.

#caretaker #whumpee #whump things #whumper #whump community #whump prompt #whump writing #whump blog #whump stuff #recovery #stern caretaker #tw torture #torture #aftermath

[hurtcomfortguaranteed]

Bheem works to rescue the best friend he wrongly believed had betrayed him, in the masterpiece of bromantic cinema that is RRR.

#rrr #whump #bromance whump #bromance #imprisoned #blood tw #aftermath of torture #claustrophobic prison #rescued whumpee #friendship that transcends words #clutching prison bars #that ought to be a full time tag #ram charan #n. t. rama rao jr

[rizzoto-whump]

For @figuwhump​ day 18

#whump #whump prompt #whump art #whump OC #whumpee #blood tw #chained #captivity whump #kidnapped whump #sadistic whumper #bruises #collar #Aftermath of Torture #beating #nosebleed

[autism-swagger]

Me: I need to draw Steph again

My brain: the best I can do is a shitpost

#this is so stupid 😭 #at least it's something 😞 #my art #Black Mask au #Steph tag #stephanie brown #the spoiler #dc comics #uhhh should I trigger tag this #tw blood #tw injury #tw torture #or at least the aftermath of it

[robinrites]

Villain Whumpee story part 3

last part here!

By the time Hero reaches the hideout with Villain, Villain’s whole crew has already arrived, eager to see their boss again. Thankfully, Sidekick quickly shoos them off, knowing that their boss wouldn’t want the crew to see him in this state. Hero thanks him, then carries Villain into the med room, extremely thankful Villain happened to have Medic on staff before all this happened. He lays Villain down on the table, then his head darts up as the door opens and Sidekick and Medic walk in. 

“Holy shit.” Sidekick mutters, taking in all the injuries on their boss. 

Hero can’t blame them either. Villain seems much worse than the last time he saw them. Hero can’t help but internally curse himself for taking so long. One of Villain’s shoulders is clearly dislocated, bruises and cuts and burns cover every visible inch of Villain’s body. Thick lines of scarring surround his wrists, throat, and ankles from where the shackles rested. Villain’s hand shows signs of being broken and healing wrong, which means they’ll need to re-break it so it can heal properly. Villain shivers, despite his forehead burning up. As Medic carefully takes Villain’s shirt off, the room falls silent. Every rib is visible, one or two even appear broken. Hero takes the scraps left of Villain’s shirt from Medic to dispose of and can’t help but notice how thin it is. He must’ve been freezing. He shakes his head to bring himself back to focus and notices that Medic has already got an IV running into Villain’s arm. 

“It’s just nutrients and water for now. I’ll probably add some sedatives once we really assess the damage.” Medic chimes in, noticing Hero staring at the IV. 

Sidekick places their arm on Hero’s shoulder, “It’s not your fault y’know? You had no way of knowing.” 

“Maybe if I had rescued him sooner-” 

“Hero, that’s not going to make it better. You did what you could.” Sidekick rubs his shoulder gently, “We have him now, let’s make sure it stays that way okay?” Hero swallows the lump in his throat and then nods. 

“How can I help?” 

One and a half years ago

Villain rushes down the maintenance tunnels under the prison and can barely stifle a laugh. “Oh my gods, I can’t believe my plan actually worked.” He steals a quick glance behind him, just to make sure he really isn’t being followed before continuing forward. When he finally reaches the end of the tunnel, he finds a duffle bag stuffed with civilian clothes to help him blend in, which he quickly changes into before climbing the ladder out of the tunnels. 

Villain pops his head up hesitantly, and upon seeing that no one is around, he slides the street cover out of the way and quickly climbs up, making sure he slides the cover back in place before moving to a busier street to try to blend in. Six blocks to the safehouse, and then I just have to wait for nightfall to get out of the city. How hard could this be? Ten minutes pass and Villain finds himself standing in front of his safehouse, or as he likes to call it, his “totally nondescript house in the ‘burbs’”. Villain walks around the side of the house, then picks up the rock his henchmen told him the key would be in. 

Villain slides the key into the lock easily and smiles, he closes his eyes as he throws open the door, saying “Honey, I’m home!” In a mock suburban tone. When he’s not greeted by a gaggle of henchman, he opens his eyes. The keys fall, and his stomach drops as he makes eye contact with none other than Superhero. “Y-you.” Villain takes a step back, panic beginning to fill his whole body. Villain’s heart sinks as the realization that there’s no winning this fight settles into his mind. Six months in prison means little to no exercise, and since he hadn’t planned on staying in the safehouse more than a couple hours, all his gadgets are at his lair outside the city. 

“Me.” Superhero says with a smile, stepping closer and closer to Villain until his back is pushed up against the door he’d just come through. Superhero grabs Villain by his chin, forcing him to make eye contact. “What, you didn’t think I’d just let you go, did you?” 

Villain tries to push fake confidence, “Since when do you care about low lifes like me? I’m usually Hero’s problem…So maybe you should just let him deal with me.” Villain’s heart races, he’s heard from other villains about how Superhero fights with no holds barred. He takes out all his anger on who he’s fighting, that’s part of the reason Villain is glad Hero is his archnemesis, and not Superhero. Well, that and the fact that Villain might have the tiniest crush on Hero, but that’s an issue for later. 

Superhero shakes his head, “Tsk, but then you’d just escape again. Don’t you get tired of the same old cat and mouse game, Villain?” Villain yanks his chin out of Superhero’s grasp and tries to shove him away. “Don’t try to fight me on this.” Superhero shoves his forearm against Villain’s throat, pinning him to the wall. “This should make you a little bit more agreeable.” Villain barely registers the glint of a needle before he feels a sharp prick in his neck. He tries to say anything in protest, but all that comes out is jumbled, until he feels darkness take over and his body hits the floor. 

Villain wakes up in a cell, and if it wasn’t for the glaring lack of dull prison decorations, he thinks he would have forgotten what had happened hours (or days, it’s hard to tell when you’re unconscious) prior. In spite of feeling groggy as hell, Villain pushes his hands underneath him to maneuver himself into a seated position. It’s only after he’s done this that he notices the shackles wrapped around his wrists and ankles. Chains connect his wrists to each other, and the same for his ankles, with one additional chain on each “pair” leading to a bolt in the center. His head darts around, checking for any hidden camera or microphone in the room. 

“Alright Superhero!” Villain shouts, his voice shaky from nerves. “You’ve got me! You can take me back to prison now, I won’t escape I promise!” 

A door slides open, frightening Villain who flinches back briefly. Superhero steps in, towering over Villain who is doing his best to put on a brave face. 

“Ah!” Superhero smiles, “Glad to see you’ve woken up. Now, I think I heard you say you wanted me to take you back to prison, is that correct?” Villain silently nods, holding his breath. “That’s what I thought. Let’s get one thing very clear, okay?” He crouches down to eye level with Villain, grabbing his chin, just like he had earlier, to assert control. “You don’t tell me what to do. I am in control here. You are just a sad, pathetic, little Villain who needs to be taught some manners. Understood?” Villain spits in his face, or at least tries to. A lack of water results in barely a spattering of spit, which angers Superhero nonetheless. He lets go of Villain’s chin and stands up. “So this is how we’re going to play this hm?” 

He turns around and exits the room briefly. Villain scoots as far back as his chains allow and releases the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. Before Villain even has a second to collect his thoughts, the door opens and allows Superhero back in, who is now holding some mysterious object behind his back. 

“W-What’s that?” Villain’s heart races a bit as a sly smile builds on Superhero’s face. 

“I had really hoped we could do this the easy way, Villain.” Superhero shakes his head, “But, I can already tell you are going to make this anything but easy. So instead, I get to try something I’ve always wanted to try.” He reveals a black bag, “Tell me, Villain, have you ever tried sensory deprivation on any of your victims?” 

“Victims? What the hell do you mean? I never hurt a soul while I’m out-” Villain’s eyes widen as Superhero begins to pull items from the bag. He watches silently as a blindfold, headphones, and a gag are laid before him. 

“Pick one.” 

“What the fuck do you mean by ‘pick one’?” Villain’s back presses up against the wall. 

“Fine. Guess we’re doing them all.” Superhero grabs the blindfold first and quickly ties it around Villain’s hair, purposefully making sure some of his hair is tied up in the knot. 

“Wait! Wait!” Villain tries to beg quickly, “Superhero please don’t-” A metal gag covers his mouth and Villain can hear a lock turning on the back, he shakes his head, tears starting to form in his eyes as he shakes his head, trying to avoid having headphones put over his ears. 

“Don’t get too comfortable now.” Villain can picture Superhero smirking as he says this, making Villain’s stomach turn. “I’ll be back to take these off when I decide you’ve earned it, understand?” When Villain does nothing to acknowledge him, Superhero smacks him across the face. “I said, understand?” Villain quickly nods, then he feels big headphones slide over his ears, blocking out any other words Superhero might say to him. 

In the end, Superhero leaves him like that for a week. Halfway through the week, he takes the gag off, purely so he can hear Villain beg. Sometimes Villain calls out for Hero, which always makes Superhero laugh, especially knowing that Hero is looking for Villain. Sometimes he cries for his mom, and other times he begs Superhero to listen to him. If Villain could hear, all he would hear is Superhero laughing at him, mocking him. Maybe it was for the best that way.

#villain whumpee #villain whump #hero and villain #whump #sensory deprivation #whumpblr #hero x villain #whump prompt #flashback #hurt/comfort #hurt/aftermath #torture tw

[friendlylocalwhumper]

whumptober alt. prompt no. 2: aftermath of failure

“Please, ple-, please, I can’t…” Chapped lips rasp out the faint, desperate words. Tear-beaded lashes flutter slowly. Quinn’s chin wobbles as they try to keep pleading, but can’t find the breath to.

Scar-ridged hands swipe over Quinn’s body quickly, harshly, healing magic seeking out the worst of the damage. They arch up when he presses on their stomach and finds tension that shouldn’t be there. Internal bleeding is bad, especially if they’re already pale and breathing weakly and crying from the pain.

Across the room, Tank lies vulnerable, too, rolling the back of his skull back and forth on the ground. His arms are limp under misshapen shoulders, one of his hips jutting out wrong, his chest purpling from busted ribs. He howled so loudly with each injury that Major’s head is still throbbing. If Major listens very closely, he can hear his big boyfriend moaning deep in his throat.

The brushing at Major’s hip distracts him, and his hands fall from Quinn as he turns to see that it’s Remy’s fingers brushing up against him, reaching feebly. Those big, kind eyes are full of fear, but not recognition. Blood drips down Remy’s cheek from his nose, from the corners of his eyes, from his ears. It sticks his back to the floor, too. Remy healed everyone, healed as much as he could, accepting the lashes from the whip as he went just for the chance to help his friends. Eventually he ran out of magic, and with that exhaustion came the blindness, the bleeding, the frigid skin and fading hearing.

Riku and Sonia lie in a pile where they were trying to protect each other. Sonia fought well, even better than Tank did, but when one of their captors lit up a cigarette, something in her posture changed and she got sloppy, got easier to pin. Major didn’t see what was done to the girls, but they’re being quiet and still and it’s freaking him the fuck out.

The burns across his body hurt, hurt a lot, but he almost feels numb to them right now as he sits heavily and looks over each friend, thoughts slow and jumbled. He just doesn’t know what to do.

Soft fingers keep knocking against his side. They find a shredded sleeve and tug on it, trying to pull him closer. Major jerks away from Remy’s touch, stomach flipping with guilt.

“Please,” Croaks the healer who lost his sight and hearing and too much blood from being too generous. Major slams his hands over his ears and squeezes his eyes shut, knees folding up to his chest.

He can still hear Quinn’s low weeping, and how it’s getting more and more feeble. He can hear Tank’s near-silent whines - he won’t even ask for healing, he doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt for him. The girls are too quiet, the captors are gone but not for long, and Remy’s still grasping at him.

The downed healer says something. Major growls in frustration and slides his hands up into his hair to pull on it, tugging frizzy locks in opposite directions. It makes his headache worse.

“...for me,” Continues his soft, drained boyfriend. Remy’s voice is cracking. “Ignore the - can you hear me? The pain. The, if anyone’s d-, dead… look for what’s gotta get fixed, now.”

Major tugs harder and grimaces through the burning of his scalp. Hits the side of his own head once, twice, trying to make his brain work.

Remy has found Major’s thigh and has laid his palm on it. “Bleeding out, cracked skull, ribs bending wrong, internal bleeding.” He’s rubbing Major’s leg in small swipes of his thumb. “Look at who has that.”

Reluctantly, the overwhelmed healer looks over at each body, reading tension and amount of blood spilled and varying levels of consciousness. Tank’s in so much pain, he deserves to be fixed up first, he always gets fucked up so bad protecting everyone - but Quinn’s stomach is full of blood and they’re fading, it looks like - but Riku, Sonia, are they dead or just halfway there?

He reaches down and snatches up Remy’s hand, crushing it in an anxious grip. Remy’s face crumples with discomfort and sympathy. “Weakest breaths, then.”

Instead of looking around, Major closes his eyes and listens, now. Quinn’s breathing is pretty bad. Tank’s is choppy with pain. Riku’s is quiet but even with focus. Sonia’s - he can’t hear it.

Remy’s hand is thrown aside, Quinn shoved out of the way as Major throws himself onto his feet and then skids to his knees beside the pile of two girls. Rough, impatient hands tear Riku up and back, violently unwrapping her arms from around the smaller girl. Riku whines in stress but can’t resist being manhandled, clutching at the stab wounds down her thighs.

Curled up on the floor is Sonia, short black hair ruffled, knuckles swollen, ankle twisted. Her eyes are closed and her chest is still.

He shoves two fingers up under her jaw, presses a palm over her heart, checks if her skin’s still warm. The heartbeat is weak, and… her body jolts once, weakly. An unconscious, spasmodic attempt to breathe. He yanks her jaw down, reaches down unflinchingly to try to find an obstruction in her throat, but there is none. She doesn’t react to him searching. Flustered with distress, aware that her brain could be taking damage already, he just plants one hand on her throat, the other over her lungs, and pours out the first burst of healing magic that he’s dared to use here.

The magic is soaked into her throat, tugged in by the injury, and he figures out after a second that something in there broke. The trachea or whatever. She was strangled, and everyone was too busted up or busy taking their own beating to save her.

“Fuck,” Mutters the healer, and he focuses fully on fixing the small bone. It’s less than a minute before her body rocks, tenses, and then she coughs once before sucking down a ragged breath. Her blue-tinged lips go purple.

If he’d waited another minute, if Remy didn’t help him figure out… he has to keep working, fast. Major leaves Sonia curling up on her side and choking out confused sobs, not even bothering to get to his feet, instead crawling in a wild rush to get back to Quinn. Like Remy said, internal bleeding. His hands press down over the tense stomach and pour in magic to close internal wounds, seal up organs, redirect blood where it should go. Quinn tries and fails to scream with the deep ache of it.

His own nose itches. Major swipes at it with the back of his hand and finds blood. As soon as Quinn’s stomach feels squishy like it should and they’re trying to form words, he abandons them and goes to Tank.

He didn’t even see the shape of Tank’s face from over there. Crooked jaw, crushed eye socket. It looks like he can barely breathe around the trickle of blood down his throat. One eye blinks blearily up at Major, but he doesn’t reach for his boyfriend.

Scarred hands pour out healing magic until the jaw thunks back into place, and the eye socket takes on its old shape, and the left shoulder uncrunches, and the right shoulder pops into its joint, and the hip grinds slowly until it too can be shoved back into its place. It’s odd that Tank isn’t screaming, howling in the thunderous way he did earlier. Major’s cloudy eyes flick up to inspect his boyfriend’s face, only to find that it is stretched in a scream.

A cold, twitching hand rises to feel at his own ear, and comes away bloody. Major backs away from his latest victim and swipes again, paranoid, only to find more blood dripping down from his earlobe.

Movement in the corner of his vision catches his eye, and he finds Remy trying to rise, stuck to the floor by his bloody flayed back. Nausea settles heavily in his gut and Major crawls over, slower than before, to grab his other boyfriend by the shoulders and pin him, healing him simultaneously. The golden light flows down to mend Remy’s back, and there again Major sees screaming that he can’t hear. Remy can’t hear it, either. Nearby, Quinn flinches from the sound.

Blood splatters on Remy’s cheek. For a horrifying moment Major wonders if somehow his skin was punctured from the inside as if there were an alien infesting Remy’s body. But then another small splatter appears, and he realizes his nose feels clogged. Still bleeding from there, then. At least Rem’s almost unstuck from the floor, almost able to get up and cower if he needs to.

Pain explodes in his back, and with an undignified screech that he can’t hear, Major collapses onto Remy. He’s dragged off and flipped over to gasp and blink up at the guy standing over him with a crowbar.

They can’t be back for more already. Everyone was almost dead. Major tosses his head side to side to watch as the other captors find each of his friends where they lie and drag them up, or start a new beating, or pin them to the floor. He might be yelling, might be cursing, he’s not sure. His throat aches already from whatever he’s doing in protest, but it’s hard to tell if it’s coming out coherent at all. The end of the crowbar rests against the underside of his jaw, and Major falls silent, aware of just how easily that dense metal could turn his head into soup.

He can’t hear anyone being hurt, can’t quite see the new damage with the new fuzzy dark spots floating in his vision, but as the crowbar is raised over him, Major knows that all that healing was pointless. He didn’t save anyone.

#whumptober2023 #no.30 #aftermath of failure #oc #writing #gore tw #near death tw #broken bones tw #internal bleeding tw #loss of senses tw #quinn #major #riku #sonia #tank #mine #captivity #torture

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Unjust

for Angstpril, Day 9: Devastation

cw: aftermath of torture, mentioned hand whump, death/war mention

previous ///// masterlist ///// next ///// chapter art

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The trial of the Shadow King was surrounded by all kinds of ceremony. Gaiety and gruesomeness found common ground as people celebrated what was sure to be an impending execution.

Tansy wasn't sure what to think of it all.

The festivities were fun, more elaborate than they'd ever seen, despite the murmurs from the locals that it would've been grander were it not for the now-ended siege.

Siege or not, it was still many times grander than any of the small-town festivals Tansy had attended growing up. But they weren't exactly looking forward to the event it was all leading up to.

Not for any loyalty to the overthrown monarch. To hell with the Shadow King, his end couldn't come soon enough. But watching that end happen was a different story.

They knew the finer details of the trial had already been sorted through before the public portion; really, only the final verdict and sentencing was left, set to take place in the spacious city square. It was already full when Tansy arrived, people packed in like fish in a net. They were intent on at least watching the end of the trial, even if they hadn't made up their mind about whether they'd stay for the execution or not.

The morbidity of the event gave them pause—in the little seaside village they'd grown up in, punishments weren't publicized—and while they'd witnessed countless deaths on the battlefield, this would be different.

But didn't they want to be there for it? Didn't they want to see for their own eyes, that the tyrant was really, truly gone?

Didn't they want to feel like all their ghosts could finally be put to rest?

Tansy had been seventeen when they'd seen their first battle.

Sixteen, when they were forced to make their first kill.

Fifteen when they'd seen the smoke.

Lost their home.

Buried their family.

And all of that was because of Cerus. Every sacrifice they'd made, every personal boundary they'd crossed, was to see his defeat.

So they would see his defeat.

They'd never met the king, of course they hadn't. They'd faced his soldiers, his orders, his unjust laws, but never the man himself. To Cerus, Tansy was a nobody in an army of nobodies. But the nobodies had prevailed.

They didn't know what they expected to see as they craned their neck to get a better view of the center of the square, where the Shadow King would be brought to hear his sentence.

A beast, perhaps. A monster. A towering man who looked as ghastly as the dead he raised. Certainly not the wretched figure that was dragged onto the cobblestones.

The chained king had been dressed in rags, blindfolded, and gagged. His skin was nearly translucent, painted in dark purples and greens and criss-crossed with jagged lines of red, and his hands were chained in front of him, so swollen and misshapen Tansy had to look away.

They locked their eyes on the ground, willing themselves not to look up, wishing they'd never come to the square, wishing they could erase the sick feeling of pity growing in their stomach.

Cerus didn't deserve their pity. Cerus deserved everything he'd gotten and more.

But no matter how true that was, no matter how much hatred they had for the king, they couldn't see him as anything other than human.

A horrible, merciless one, but that didn't make him any less a person.

"People of Feyadel." A voice boomed through the square, and Tansy looked up to find its owner. General Nisha, one of the rebel leaders.

"You gather to hear the Shadow King's fate." The General paused, their lips tightening to hint at a grimace. "After much deliberation, an outcome has been decided by the New Council." Their gaze slid to Cerus, eyeing him with contempt. "Cerus Hollowthorn. Former ruler of Feyadel. Dark mage, necromancer, and self-proclaimed Lord of the Undead."

The crowd was silent, a thousand people holding their breath.

"You are sentenced to live."

A tangible shock swept through the crowd like a tidal wave, murmurs of disbelief following in its wake. To live? Why wasn't the Council going to put him to death? What were they thinking?

The General continued, their voice louder now.

"It has been determined that death is not a sufficient punishment for Cerus's crimes," they said, and the crowd began to hush once more at their words.

"He will not die, but serve. He will be stripped of his titles, his lands, and his magic, and he will slave away in his own mines, toil in the shipyards his armies demolished, the fields he burned. Cerus will not die, but with his own hands will be forced to rebuild all the lives he sought to destroy."

At this, cheers erupted from the surrounding crowd.

Tansy wanted to join them—wasn't it a fine example of poetic justice?---but couldn't find their voice. They were unable to shake their utter conviction that death was enough. That death would have been enough.

But they dared not speak of that.

The sealing of Cerus's magic took place in public, as his execution would've. Holy mages called in from distant temples brought out needles and bowls of ink, tattooing runes onto Cerus's bruised flesh, chanting all the while.

The Shadow King didn't struggle. Perhaps he was too weak, or perhaps he'd resigned himself to his fate. Tansy wondered if he had even an ounce of regret; if not for all his wicked deeds, at least for the choices that had led to this moment, but even if the blindfold were not present, they'd be too far away to read his expression.

Slow and steady, the runes spread up Cerus's arms like the tendrils of a kraken, reaching up to circle his throat. The Shadow King fell unconscious before the ink reached his shoulders, but the priests paid him no mind, continuing their work until each arm and a good portion of the man's neck was covered in the black markings. They finished with one final rune, about the size of a hand, etched over his heart.

As Cerus was dragged away, Tansy found they couldn't stop themself from imagining what it would be like; to have everything taken from you, to be hated, powerless, alone. No matter how earned it was, it made something in their chest ache.

Sound bloomed around them once the chained king was gone, music and laughter and cheerful shouts, but Tansy felt numb to the jubilation.

They might've been able to celebrate a death. Something quick and deserved. A life of promised torment, in the shadow of the hatred of your former subjects, wasn't something they could find joy in.

They left the square without so much as a glance at the surrounding festivities.

Despite the hard-won victory, despite the promise of peace for Feyadel, Tansy knew they wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight.

§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§•§

@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles

#angstpril2023 #fic #day 9 #devastation #now i need to change chapter 2's title to fit my 'un' theme #also wanna draw the rune tattoos #penumbra: shadow king #whump writing #villain whump #royal whumpee #villain whumpee #hand whump #whump aftermath #tw torture #i wonder where he's going next :) #also i love Tansy

[serickswrites]

Lake Lachrymose

Warnings: captivity, bruises, restraints, torture, rescue, hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, caretaker and whumpee, implied death

Caretaker took a moment to breathe. Whumper was in cuffs, their reign of terror over. It was a nightmare how long it took them to find and defeat Whumper. But Whumper would no longer be a problem.

Whumper's compound was on the edge of a remote lake. A place that Whumper had used to dispose of their victims and also torture them. A place that Caretaker was sure they would never return. They couldn't look at the lake's still surface without seeing the pictures of the victims.

Now they just had to check the compound for survivors of Whumper's torture. As Caretaker swept each room carefully, checking for any signs of life, they tried to stop themself from imagining the pain Whumper's victims endured. No more. There would be no more.

Just when Caretaker thought that they had cleared every room, they opened the last door to see someone chained to a wall and huddled in the corner. They were hunched low, shielding their face with their outstretched hands. "Please, no more!"

Caretaker took a step forward. "I'm here to help. I--" they reached out a hand to the person.

"PLEASE!" They shrieked as they flattened themself against the wall. "I DON'T! NO MORE! I CAN'T!"

Caretaker could see the bruises marring the person's pale skin. Clearly they had fought Whumper every step of the way. Caretaker stopped moving forward. They dropped to their knees to be on the person's eye level. "I'm Caretaker. I won't hurt you. I promise. I'm here to get you out of this place."

The person paused. "C-Caretaker?"

Caretaker smiled and nodded. "Let's get you out of these cuffs. We'll get you out of here and to the warm truck. I've got blankets. The medics will take a look at you too."

Caretaker waited for the person to give them a signal they could proceed. Caretaker watched as their breathing slowed until they finally nodded. As Caretaker worked to uncuff the person, they asked, "What's your name?"

"Whumpee," the person said, eyes following every move Caretaker made. "My name is Whumpee."

"Nice to meet you, Whumpee," Caretaker said as they freed one of Whumpee's wrists. "I've got you. You're safe now."

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whump community #tw captivity #tw restraints #tw torture #tw bruises #rescue #hurt/comfort #hurt/aftermath #caretaker and whumpee #mwm2024 #mwmday17 #queue #prompt: lake #tw implied death

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 17 - "Lost in these Memories" (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure)

More Fugo whump for today's @whumptober fic, (With Stand Hugs!)

~~~~~~~

Prompts Used: Collar, Touch Aversion, 'Leave me alone' Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5 Character: Fugo

~~~~~~~

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Bucciarati made up the tray of food, purposefully placing the bowl of soup, the spoon and napkin, and the glass of water as he mentally prepared to face his youngest team member again.

It had been five days now since Fugo had gone missing on a mission—three since he had been found, and he still hadn't left his room since they'd brought him home.

Bucciarati wasn't entirely sure what to do. Any attempt he had made to coax Fugo out had been met with firm denial, and while he could certainly understand such a reaction after a traumatic event, he knew Fugo was suffering and, worse, suffering alone. He had so far refused any comfort Bruno or Abbacchio tried to offer him, simply staying curled in bed, wrapped in blankets.

Bruno sighed and knocked on the teen's door before letting himself in, knowing he wouldn't get an answer.

"Fugo? I brought you some dinner," he said quietly as he entered the dim room.

Fugo briefly looked up at him from the book he was reading before flicking his eyes downward once more. "You can just put it there," he mumbled nodding to the side table.

Bucciarati did as asked and hesitated before he left. "Pannacotta, I'd like to check your injuries again if that's okay?"

Fugo's hands started to shake instantly and Bruno felt terrible for even bringing it up, but an infection wasn't going to do him any better either.

"No—n-no. I really can't stand anyone touching me right now. I—I can't. Please. I can do it myself. I promise I'll clean them well."

Bucciarati closed his eyes briefly, but nodded. "Alright. I'll leave the medical supplies in the bathroom for you. But if you need help with the ones on your back—"

"I don't! I'm fine!" Fugo snapped, then ducked his head, wrapping his arms around himself. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's all right," Bucciarati told him gently. "Please try to eat something. And let me know if you need anything else."

He slipped out of the room, and his fists clenched in fury the instant the door was closed, teeth grinding.

He and Abbacchio, along with the other soldati had already demolished the gang who had taken Fugo, but what good did it do when the damage had already been done? Fugo had been doing so well recently. He'd stopped jumping when Bruno and Abbacchio accidently brushed him, just generally doing better with human proximity. He'd even started to accept hugs when he was having bad nights, calming in Bruno's careful hold.

And now all of that had been erased instantly by the cruelty of his captors, using his aversion to touch against him. Mocking, hurting, using knives and fists to demolish the fond touches Bruno sought to provide when he was sure Fugo would be okay with it, taking that gained trust and tearing it to pieces.

The image of Fugo when they'd finally found him in that cargo container would forever haunt Bucciarati's nightmares. Shivering in a corner, bloody and bruised, bound hand and foot with a collar locked around his throat, keeping him upright so he could not pull away from his captors without choking himself.

Even the act of freeing Fugo had sent him into a panic attack and there was no comfort Bruno could offer aside from words, which was harder than he had thought it would be.

One look at the teen panicking and sobbing had sent Abbacchio back out to start delivering a justified beat-down of the bastards who had dared hurt Fugo.

And when they got him back, Bucciarati had only been able to do the bare minimum to tend to Fugo's injuries before he flat-out pushed him away and retreated to his room where he had stayed ever since.

Abbacchio met him in the kitchen, breaking Bucciarati out of his brooding thoughts.

"How is he?" the other man asked quietly.

Bucciarati shook his head, grabbing bowls to dish soup out for him and Abbacchio even though he wasn't hungry. "I honestly don't know what to do. There's no telling how long this will go on, especially if he refuses help—"

Abbacchio held up a hand. "First of all, hovering isn't going to help him," he said.

Bruno huffed. "I know that. And I'm trying not to, it's just…"

"I know," Abbacchio replied with a sigh. "I don't like seeing the kid like that either. But he needs space right now. He knows he's safe here and that's going to have to be enough for the moment."

Bucciarati pressed his lips together, knowing the other man was right.

Abbacchio's advice didn't help when he heard Fugo screaming in his sleep that night. He had to get up to see him even though he knew he would be rejected.

"Fugo?" he called as he tapped on the door, hearing the moaning and shifting of blankets. He opened the door and saw the boy wound up in his sheets, struggling, eyes and jaw clenched tight as he let out breathless sobs, chest heaving too quickly.

"Pannacotta," Bruno called firmly, standing beside the bed.

The blond only continued to struggle against the sheets, breaths becoming more and more panicked. Bruno finally had to reach out and help, unable to watch this anymore.

But Fugo flailed the instant Bruno touched the sheets. "Don't!" he shouted. "Leave me alone!"

"Panna, I'm just…" Bucciarati tried, but he pulled away.

Fugo's eyes finally opened and he scrambled to sit against the head of the bed, eyes darting around frantically, not seeing anything.

"Panna," Bruno called again and his head whipped over toward him. "You're home. You're safe. It's just me here."

Fugo's face crumpled, and he curled into himself. "I hate this, I hate this," he cried.

Bruno pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat carefully, making sure he wasn't in any way crowding Fugo.

"It's okay, Pannacotta."

"No it's not!" Fugo snapped, scrubbing at his eyes as he hugged himself, fingers digging into his ribs. "I-I fucked up! I got captured, and I l-let them control me, and I c-couldn't do anything about it!"

Something rippled in the corner and Bucciarati looked over to see Purple Haze materializing. The Stand moaned forlornly as it hugged its knees and rocked back and forth. Fugo didn't even seem to realize his Stand was out, proving how much distress he was currently in. As long as Purple Haze didn't start punching things though, Bruno wasn't going to worry about him.

"You didn't let them control you, Fugo," Bruno told him firmly. "They tortured you."

Fugo shook his head. "But I'm the one who let them see how much it bothered me. I told them to stop, but they—they just made a sick game of it. And I forgot—I almost forgot how much it could hurt." His voice hitched on a sob again. "Because I didn't have to worry for so long but now every time I try to sleep, it's just…that in my head again. But worse, because it's that and my recent capture combined."

Purple Haze wailed again, echoing his user's distress, burying his head in his knees.

Bucciarati's heart ached to hear Fugo talk about it. To know that his mind was so cruel as to combine his recent trauma and that of his horrible past only hurt all the more. He could only imagine how much mental anguish Fugo was going through.

"I don't…know how to make it better," Fugo sobbed. "I didn't want to be like this anymore, but they fucked it all up and I don't know what to do to fix myself."

Bucciarati barely resisted the urge to reach out and offer some form of comforting touch to Fugo. The boy was shaking so hard, just barely keeping the panic under control.

"I am so sorry that this happened, Panna," Bruno told him sincerely. "But none of it was your fault. It was all those bastards back there, and they won't be hurting anyone ever again—I can assure you of that. And you don't have to 'fix' yourself. There's nothing to fix. You survived, Panna, and sometimes that's its own strength."

Fugo didn't say anything. He simply pulled his knees up, making himself small, arms wrapped around himself. Bruno didn't think it was possible for someone in a room with another person—and a Stand—to look so alone, but Fugo was suffering so much right now that his pain burrowed deep into Bucciarati's soul and curled up there.

Purple Haze wailed again and Bruno straightened up, knowing he had to ask at least, for his own sanity if nothing else.

"Do you… want a hug?" he asked softly, seeing the way Fugo kept hugging his arms to his chest. "It's okay if you don't but I wanted to offer."

Fugo let out a soft sob. "I-I do but…I don't think I can handle that much touch right now. I just…I just want it to be like it was before and I'm so fucking mad!"

Purple Haze moaned, rocking forlornly in the corner. That was when Bucciarati had an idea.

"Panna, do you mind if I try something?" he asked, holding up his hands, palms out. "I'm not going to touch you, but please let me know if any of this is too much."

He manifested Sticky Fingers and the Stand crossed the room to kneel in front of Purple Haze. Fugo's stand shifted and looked up at the other. Sticky Fingers slowly opened his arms, not making a move, but waiting.

Purple Haze hesitated, moaned, then suddenly lurched forward and practically tackled Sticky Fingers backwards, letting out a mournful sound.

Bruno watched, shocked as Purple Haze curled up against Sticky and his Stand held onto Haze tightly, rocking him back and forth. It was an odd sensation, both physically and mentally comforting, like being wrapped in a soft blanket and just the perfect temperature.

After a few moments, Purple Haze started to let out a gurgling, almost purring sound, drooling against Sticky Fingers' shoulder.

Bruno glanced over to Fugo to see how he was taking this, and saw a slight embarrassed flush on his cheeks, as he watched the Stands, but his breathing had calmed down a little and he wasn't quite so tense anymore.

"Is it okay? Like that?" Bruno asked him hesitantly.

Fugo nodded. "Actually, yes. It's not bad at all."

Bruno smiled, relief flooding him. "That's good."

Fugo clenched the sheets in his hands, staring down as his cheeks flushed again. "Could you…stay, until I fall asleep?" he mumbled.

"Of course, Panna," Bruno replied, settling into the chair. "I won't go anywhere."

Fugo let out a shuddering sigh and lay back down in the bed, allowing Bruno to help untangle the rest of the covers and tuck them back into the mattress. He then took up a book and stayed there reading until Fugo fell asleep. All the while, Sticky Fingers and Purple Haze stayed cuddled together on the other side of the room.

Over the next few days, whenever Fugo was having a hard time, Purple Haze would appear somewhere in the apartment and Bruno or Abbacchio would deploy their Stands for comfort and hugging. Abbacchio had been somewhat hesitant at first, but Moody Blues had had other ideas, going directly up to Purple Haze and pulling him into a firm embrace.

Another week passed and Fugo finally ventured out of his room for more than just the bathroom and water.

"Feeling better?" Bruno asked kindly as he set some breakfast in front of Fugo.

The blond nodded, and though he was still covered in bruises, showing up all too much on his pale skin, he did look a little better. He picked at his nails, then looked up at Bruno. "Could I…try a hug?" he asked.

Bruno didn't say anything, simply opened his arms to let Fugo come to him.

The boy hesitated, then got out of his chair and came forward, tentatively looping his arms around Bucciarati before he leaned fully into him with a long exhale.

Bruno lightly wrapped his arms around Fugo's shoulders. "How's that?" he asked.

"I think I'm getting there," Fugo said sincerely.

~~~~~~~

Check out my Whumptober Masterpost HERE for more stories!

If you want to follow me on other social media or ask about commissions, find my info on My Carrd

#whumptober2023 #no.17 #collar #touch aversion #leave me alone #jojo's bizarre adventure #fanfic #aftermath of torture #implied/referenced torture tw #illusions to past abuse tw #pannacotta fugo whump #parental bruno bucciarati #sentient stands #stand hugs #jjba part 5 #angst #hurt/comfort

[undertheopensky]

Become Like Stone 1

Whumptober Day 6: Made To Watch

Characters: Four, Legend

Trigger warnings: HARD warning for torture in this one; blood, burns, violence to a child (if you personally consider Four a child)

Read on Ao3!

After an eternity of piercing screams, the man returns the metal rod to the coals they’d brought in. Four slumps in his chains, panting.

“Oh, are you tired, baby?” The woman reaches for his face with one manicured hand.

Four snaps at it.

She slaps him, open handed.

Undeterred, Four tries to kick her. Hung from the ceiling with his toes just barely brushing the ground, even trying just swings him backwards and away from her, making her laugh in a high, girlish titter.

“Now that’s just rude,” she says, sounding delighted. “Darling, would you?”

That’s the way it’s been. The woman talks, sickly and cooing, playing at softness while cruel glee lights her eyes. She’s the one in charge.

In contrast, the man hasn’t spoken a word the whole time. Not when he first chained Four up. Not when he’d beaten him on the woman’s orders, striking hard and precise with fist and metal stave. Not when he’d whipped his back bloody.

Not now, as he holds the red-hot metal to Four’s ribs, emotionless in the face of Four’s screams.

Legend screams too, curses and threats and pleading in equal measure. He doesn’t know how long it’s been; the windowless stone cuts them off from outside so completely it may as well not exist. They come and go at random, too-short intervals. And the whole time, the pair have been fixated on Four, on making him scream and struggle and bleed.

He doesn’t even know what they want.

Four gasps with equal agony and relief as the metal is taken away. Sobs catch in his throat; every movement of his chest pulls at burn-tight skin and open wounds. Red and black burns march down his torso in neat lines, marred by the way the skin bubbles and warps. The latest one is white in the centre, blisters already forming at the edges.

The woman giggles and claps her hands. “I think that’s enough for one day. Darling, come.”

“Hey!” Legend thrashes in his own chains. “Hey! Let him down first, you assholes! He can’t breathe! HEY!”

The man doesn’t so much as glance at him as he picks up his tools and wheels out the bucket of burning coals.

Legend roars wordless rage after them, then turns his attention on his brother. Chained to the wall as he is, it’s all he can offer.

This time Four’s been left shaking and crying. If he holds himself up on tiptoe the weight of his body doesn’t drag at the mangled arm, but the upwards stretch of his torso pulls at the burns.

He coughs, low and wet, and Legend goes cold all over.

“Ledge?” Four’s voice is faint and rasping. “Can you… talk to me? Please?”

Legend would do just about anything for Four right now. “About what? Stories?”

“Just -” Four shudders - “anything. Please.”

So Legend talks.

He talks about sneaking into the castle to visit Fable, because no one would let a commoner boy in to talk to the princess.

He talks about the headache that learning Subrosian was, compared to Labrynnan - “You do not want to know what they do to their verbs, it is a travesty” - and about his half-completed smithing apprenticeship. How he’d tried to go back to it, only to be interrupted by this portal business.

He talks about the apple orchard back in his Hyrule, that nominally belongs to him but he can barely stand to look at. The house that had been all but empty until Ravio moved himself in.

He talks until his brain short-circuits, his words failing like they always do, eventually. When he stops being able to piece sentences together, he falls back on music.

Legend doesn’t sing much, prefers the precision of a well-tuned instrument, but he has a nice enough voice. He sings travel songs, stamped into his mind like muscle memory from singing them over and over; the wordless tunes of the dancing songs Din had taught him, when he’d broken his ankle and couldn’t dance himself.

He even sings the Royal Lullaby, which in some eras he could be killed for knowing.

Four makes a soft noise and blinks hazy eyes. “Th’ sounds nice.”

“You like that one?” Legend’s heart hurts. Four’s barely stirred the whole time and he can only pray his stupid rambling is somehow making things easier. Letting Four’s mind wander somewhere the pain isn’t so all-encompassing, and he’s not precariously balanced between strained breaths and total agony. “I have lots. Played a lot.”

“Mm. Seen y’r c’llection.” Four’s eyes flutter closed. “Wh’n we get out, ‘m g’nn teach you… minish songs.” He smiles to himself, just a little. It’s still enough to make one of the cuts on his face crack open, starting to bleed again. “Sing it ‘gain?”

Even in the face of this suffering and misery, Four can still think ahead to ‘after’. Still smile even though he’s in agony.

All Legend can do is sing.

-----

Read Part 2 here!

#whumptober 2023 #linked universe #lu four #lu legend #tw torture #tw blood #tw burns #this one is shorter because every time it threatened to become a 5k monster i cut another 500 words off #but more seriously the pacing was giving me hell #so i'm treating this as an 'excerpt' of something that will hopefully never get written #followups will be focused more on the aftermath #(i hope) #skies writes

[turn-the-tables-on-them]

Another brilliant commission from @albino-whumpee, of Joey finding Slipknot.

#darkness falls #slipknot #joey #whumper turned whumpee #look at the boi #whipping tw #whump #torture aftermath #traumatized whumpee #supervillain whumpee.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Thank You For Fish

CW: Aftermath of torture, caretaking, glass in skin, captivity, loneliness, isolation, mer whumpee

For @whumptober 2022, day 2: cornered / caged

Signs of the Sea Masterlist, follows directly after Creeping Ambition

-

The sound of the mer's cry echoes off the ceiling and walls, his back arching, fin slapping down against flat with a heavy smack. 

"Sssshhhh, hold still. Just a few more."

The mer whistles and looks up to where the Bahram looms over him. The human man lays a hand on his cold shoulder, palm warm and soft compared to the mer. Brown with red and pink and beige beneath looks odd, in the mer's eyes, much stranger than the familiar cool grayish-white of the mer's rubbery, waterproof skin. 

"Just a few more," The Bahram repeats, and his thumb rubs, soothing, back and forth. Laid out on the platform over the small circle of water he must live in alone, the mer closes his eyes, breathing the water-heavy air through flared nasal slits, gills flat against his neck. 

There's a pause. "I'm sorry," the Bahram says, voice low. 

Then sharp bright pain spikes at his left hip and he whistles, his tail twitching and jerking. "Nnnnn… nnnnnnooo, Bbhhh-rrrmmm," He wails, forcing his lips to form the clumsy, noisy syllables around his sharp fangs, to shift his tongue in their blunt song-speak. 

"It's okay," The Bahram repeats, his jaw set and hard. "Just two more. Hold still for me, just two more…"

The pain suddenly rises again, a wave slamming the mer against a dry hot shore.

 "Got it!"

"Nnnnoooooooo!" The mer's head smacks back into the platform as a glass shard is pulled out from burying itself so deep that Kima feels hot dark blood well up over the skin below his navel. "Nnnnnooooo, sssssstuh-... puh-"

"I can't," The Bahram says, but he pauses, lowering his head. His chin dips, and the mer opens his eyes and whimpers as he watches the saltwater dripping from the Bahram's, running down his face like floodwaters finding the sea. "I have to clean it all up, Kima, it's my-... my job-"

"Nnnno hurrrrt, nnnnoooo…" Kima's voice rises to a shriek, and he jerks upwards only to have the Bahram's strong hand lay flat on his chest to force him back into his back. "Nonono-... Nnnno, nnnno-"

"Last one," The Bahram says, but the mer barely hears the words over his own whistling keens, and they mean nothing, only sounds. 

The last piece of glass is the worst. 

"Okay," The Bahram says, and leans down. His forehead presses against the mer's. His voice is a whisper even though the two of them are alone. "Share with me. Share it."

The mer whimpers and feels the Bahram's thoughts open to his own. Split between them, the hot throb of pain through his stomach and down his tail is lessened. Both of them breathe, and the Bahram's breath is humid, there is water in it. 

Hurt. 

I know, I know, I'm sorry. But if I left them in, they could infect, they'd make it even worse.

Hurt, Bahram. Kima hurt. 

I know, I know… it's over now. 

Give blood? Fish for hurt? 

The guilt and self-loathing that lances through the mer's mind is unfamiliar and hard to read. It washes over him, riptide, steals the very air from his overworked lungs. You don't need to give any more today, Kima. 

Fish? Fish for hurt?

The Bahram pulls back, and looks away from him. The saltwater tears mark his face again. "Yeah," He breathes out loud, and their connection is gone. The pain overwhelms as it returns to him, and the mer whimpers, rolling onto his side, pressing a hand over one of the hurting places and pulling it back to find dark burgundy blood smears along his palm and marking the tips of his claws. 

"I'll get the fish," The Bahram speaks in a heavy voice, signing with hands as his mouth moves, hand flat, fingers up next to his face before he tips his fingers like a cup falling over and moves his hand forward, dropping it down to meet the other in loose shapes like the mer's claws, closing to fists as they move back against his body. Fluidly shifting as he says 'fish' to make the sign Kima knows best, dropping one hand and moving the other, palm facing in, in a wave pattern swimming through air. 

"Fsssshhh," Kima repeats, hopefully, and echoes the gesture with his bloody hand. 

The Bahram swallows hard at the sight, but nods. "Go," He says, and signs, pointing to the tank beneath them. The mer rolls until he is off the platform, falling just a few feet before slipping easily into the water below, gills opening up as nasal slits close. 

The spots where the glass was pulled out ache and sting, but being here in the water again feels so good that Kima can almost ignore it. He swims a slow circle around the tank, stretching out his tail and arms, as the Bahram climbs down the ladder and walks across the room. 

He opens a door, disappears into it, and Kima stays close to the edge, the wall he cannot see that cages him here, so he can watch for the Bahram's return. 

Water rushes and speaks around him. He hears the soft hum of something called the filter, the slosh of water slipping against the invisible walls near the top. He sings, an alone-song, just to give the water a little of the noise that makes it feel more like home. 

Kima hopes for living fish. Now and then fish stunned by the sudden change are dropped into the tank, and the mer hunts them with ferocious zeal, desperate to use his tail as he is meant to, to rip with teeth and tear with claws. 

More often, lately, the fish are already dead. 

Today, it is corpses dropped from the bucket into the water when the Bahram returns. He doesn't stay to watch, just climbs back down the ladder, walks away. 

The mer eats the sad motionless meal, because his stomach is empty if he doesn't, but it isn't right. And the Bahram used to try hard to bring living fish, but he doesn't anymore. 

 Something is wrong with the Bahram, and Kima is frightened because he cannot understand what has changed. 

Like how the Bahram speaks to him less. Instead, he stares and stares at him through the other side of the unseen wall, or he looks away entirely. 

Sometimes Kima watches him as he goes to the seat and moves his fingers over a rectangle, looking into another rectangle that beams a soft blue-tinged light. He wears black plastic circles over his ears, and sometimes laughs or cries as if they speak to him. Sometimes he holds a black thing in his hands while staring at another black-edged thing with moving things inside it that never seem to come out, like there are tiny other worlds trapped in these odd boxes. 

Sometimes, the Bahram eats. He sits with a bowl in his hands and eats slurpy things like narrow white curling worms in a steaming hot liquid, called ramen. When Kima pokes his head up from the water and opens his nasal slits, it smells good. Like salt.

When he eats, the mer knows it means he will soon eat, so he swims rapid circles around this small space, jumps up out of the water to the warm air under the little sun, chirps and clicks to try and make Bahram smile and laugh. 

Sometimes he does. 

Sometimes he doesn't.

These days, days of shared pain and dead fish, the Bahram doesn't speak to him much after the matriarch finishes hurting him. Just watches him, or goes right back to what he does on the boxes. And eventually, the matriarch calls for them again, and they… 

They must go wherever she says, he and the Bahram. The mer must hurt, because she wants to hurt him. And the Bahram must help her do it. 

But after, the Bahram is kind, offering to share his pain and fear. He needs there to be someone kind, and the Miah does not come so much now. 

Last time, she spat signs with her fingers about how she was tired of watching a child die. She didn't know Kima was watching her hands that day. 

But today, just outside the tank, the Bahram is looking, now. He sits on the couch, but he is looking at Kima. 

Kima tips his head to one side, white hair floating around him, gills flaring and closing again as he filters oxygen from the surrounding saltwater. Wide green eyes watch the Bahram as he watches back. 

Thank you for fish, Kima says with his hands in the human way. 

The Bahram looks sad and doesn't answer. 

His hair is dirty and his eyes seem dark and ringed in shadows. Along his jaw is darkness - stubble, the Bahram said once when the mer touched a delicate claw to his face and clicked. Kima blows bubbles under the water, but it doesn't make him smile. So he tries to remember the words, clumsy, claws catching in the water, languid and slow. He draws them from eyes down to jaw, turning his mouth into a frown, then closes all his claws but one and draws an oval from chin to the top of his head and back down again. 

Sad face. 

The Bahram blinks at him, then huffs a laugh. There's no smile in the motion of his shoulders, though, no real warmth. He signs back, mouth moving. If he speaks, Kima can't hear him, really. Just low tones, like a podsong, filtered through the sound of water. "Yes," The Bahram says with his hands and his face, "I think I have a very sad face now. I feel bad for hurting you, but she's right. If I quit, I lose… I lose everything all over again. If she fires me… I can't fail again, Kima. I'm so sorry. I can't fail another thing. Maman's heart would break."

Kima hesitates, hands hovering in the water, trying to turn his own thoughts - thoughts that look like currents and sound like the songs of his family - into the clumsier tooth, claw, tongue words the humans use. 

His tail flipper flicks back and forth, back and forth.  Bruises and scraped spots throb under his skin, where dark blood pools, at wrists and hips where the awful rough human vines tie him down. He tore himself free today, but the wounds rubbed deeper as he did. Everything aches with the beat of his pulse. Everything hurts.  

He touches his forehead with the tips of four claws, then folds three down as he draws his hand back and out, so only the smallest claw and his thumb stand out. 

Why? 

How can heart break?  

"It's a figure of-... Never mind. Why?" The Bahram echoes the motion Kima just made, and then looks to the side, towards the door that the mer is wheeled through. Beyond is the flat table with the tying-down, the pain, the needle-sticks, give blood. Pain that earns him the promise of fish, of food in his yawning, empty belly. 

Beyond that door is the place of matriarch of the Bahram, the female who directs the pod. Where his scales are removed, his skin cut away, sliced into strips the matriarch takes from him to study layers, she says to see how he stays warm. Beyond the door is the pain and terror. 

Kima shifts back through the water, away from even the sight of that door. His heart beats faster, when he follows the Bahram's gaze. 

The Bahram is silent, for a long time.

"Because I'm not getting better," The Bahram says, with only his mouth now. "Because I'm a monster, now, for money, and I thought maybe I wouldn’t care but I do. Because I'm a fucking failure. I'm as caged as you are, just as cornered, but I could leave, if I wanted. And you can't. Because of me.”

The Bahram stands up and walks away, ignoring Kima's signs to ask what he means. Even when he makes a fist and knocks on the tank, Bahram never looks back. He just goes to the desk and sits down with his back to Kima, who droops as he realizes the Bahram will not speak anymore and won't play with him tonight. Not even a little, not even the small gentle play that does not make him hurt any worse.  

He didn't want to play last night either. 

Or the night before. 

The mer winds his way through the water to the little cave he has to sleep in, slipping into the soothing, safer dark space set apart from the otherwise constant light. 

Alone, the mer curls around one of the real things, a soft ball of sea moss that he can hold. He wraps his arms around it and buried his face in its softness. In its tiny spaces he can almost smell the wilder waters he knows must still be out there somewhere, beyond the invisible wall around his little sea, outside and far away from this stone place surrounding him. To the edge of land where it meets the big water, where his pod - somewhere - swims free. 

He may never see them again - but he knows they are out there. 

He wishes the Bahram would play.

-

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