friendlylocalwhumper

[friendlylocalwhumper]

I love it when only Whumpee calls the whump what it actually was. When Whumpee talks about it, it's "when I was in captivity"/"when I was tortured/"when [traumatic thing] happened."

But when anyone else (Caretaker, Team, Friend etc) brings it up, they lose all confidence mid-sentence and start scrabbling around for vague euphemisms. "You know... last summer"/"when you were... unwell"/"when [really vague and barely connected reference to traumatic thing]."

Maybe Caretaker won't call it what it was because they're scared it might trigger Whumpee. Maybe they won't call it what it was because they haven't processed it themselves and still don't have (or can't bring themself to) have a full understanding of it. Maybe the topic is just generally taboo or Caretaker has more bad feelings about it than Whumpee. Who knows. But I just think it's neat.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

“From now on, you have no responsibilities, no stress. I understand if you need to keep fighting, though. You need to feel like this is completely out of your control, or else you’ll feel guilty for resting. It’s alright. Fight until you’re satisfied that there’s no escape. I won’t take it personally.”

[friendlylocalwhumper]

His heart is pounding so hard that it seems it’ll burst out of his throat. Stomach in knots, twisting, like his intestines are a furious snake intent on knotting itself tightly – fingers flexing into fists and stretching straight, over and over.

This is the end of the world. He’s going to die. He’ll get sick, he’ll cry, he can’t handle this.

His head feels fuzzy. A nervous sweat is prickling across his back, his shirt will smell, he’s making things worse, so much worse for himself. If only he could decide to stay calm. If only he could make his brain believe that he’s in control, that it’ll be fine.

Traitorous legs wobble beneath him. His mouth is dry, he should’ve drank water but it’s too late now. The lights are too bright. He’ll get hurt, he’ll get hurt out there and everyone will gasp,  he’ll be lifted onto a stretcher and driven away and that’ll be the end, he’ll never get another chance.

He doesn’t want this chance. It’s too late to back out now, everyone will wonder where he’s gone. It’s not like the team can just carry on without him. Can you have a heart attack at seventeen years old? His cleats don’t feel right, something must be wrong with them, can he switch to another pair in under sixty seconds? Not shaking like this, he can’t.

The announcer’s voice thunders from the air around him and Nick jumps, hands patting at his chest as if to make sure he hasn’t been exploded from the sheer volume of it. He pats along his uniform and lets out a big, slow breath between gritted teeth.

Someone is speaking to him, patting his back. A teammate. He doesn’t know which one, or what he’s saying, over the announcer. The friday night lights are so bright he can imagine the heat of them soaking through his jersey, under the padding, to melt his skin. Mom and Dad are up there in the stands waiting to see his number, to see him getting into position. The trombones will slide through the notes that mock the arc of the football through the air when it’s kicked. He’s gonna be sick.

Their team, the home team, is named, and the guys around him start jogging out. Nick feels his legs carrying him out onto the field. His heart is going to come to an abrupt stop while he’s on the grass, he’s sure of it. He forgets how to hold a football, his fingers are numb. The lights are too bright. He should’ve drank more water.

The band is playing. There may as well be a trumpet on either side of his head playing straight into his ears. The announcer says his name, calls him something like the hero of the school, for the records he’s been setting. Something about funding, and college, and volunteering.

Another clap on his back. It almost knocks him down. He wishes he would pass out, it would be easier. What’s the plan, what’s the play? Is the other team better at offense or defense, which players is he supposed to watch out for? Numbers swirl in his head. Under his helmet, Nick blinks away sweat dripping from his eyebrows.

The recruiter from yesterday floats back into his thoughts. A higher paying job than you could find after four years of college, she’d said with a smile. No more school so soon after you graduate. Hands-on work, and your grades are good enough that we could skip the interview. Imagine making money to support yourself right away, no more strain on Mom and Dad. Instead of them buying a car for you, you could buy a car for them. You’re an amazing player, but wouldn’t it be nice to have something else to be known for? Something you choose, something you do with your own hands.

The ball is in the air. It feels like a meteorite coming down out of the sky. The school nurse keeps warning him about concussions. Spinal injuries. To watch out for colleges giving him dazzling amounts of money because he’s valuable as a crash test dummy on the field.

He needs to talk to that recruiter again, he decides, as muscle memory takes over and his cleats dig into the dirt. He can’t take another night like this. All eyes on him, his lungs squeezing, so much success at his back and a humiliating trip to the hospital in his future. Mom and Dad crying about something that went wrong too soon, when he still had so much left to give.

A job. Something to make them proud, a way to give back, without all this terror eating him alive. Whatever that job is, he wants it.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

“ok lets do warm up sketch”

“oh..”

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series | Answers (pt.54)

“Take me back.” His hands are clenched around the edge of his seat, shoulders hunched, head lowered. A nervous sweat is beaded across his back.

Beside him, Quinn watches the houses blurring past outside the window. “You don’t really want to be there. You’re confused.”

“I’m not…” There is bitter rage in his voice, but he doesn’t make a move to hurt them. He’s changed, he’s more careful now. “...Can’t go back. Please.” The word is croaked with soft desperation. Every mile that they pass takes him further from the place he thinks he belongs.

“Calm down,” Quinn orders, and as they do, their magic floods into the car. They can appear disinterested by staring out the window and watch his reflection at the same time; Major sinks into the seat and shudders, hiding his face in his hands. The spy sighs. “It takes time to unravel conditioning. To… make the confused go away.”

He tenses beside them at their familiar condescending tone.

The driver, a stranger hired to do this, is relaxed too. Quinn hums with the satisfaction of their control.

~

Major drags his feet on the way through the door. Keeps his head bowed, chewing on his nails viciously.

“Oh, oh–!” Remy rushes at them first, hands hovering. Quinn steps out of the way, smiling. Soft healer hands hover around Major, desperate to find his pains and erase them, but Remy can see there’s something wrong. Major won’t look up at him. His shoulders are bowed with shame. He stands there with a burn across his chest, not even asking for it to be urgently healed, even though that pain is the kind he can handle least.

“Major?” Asks Remy, voice soft and high with concern. “We missed you, we were searching for you all this time, are you okay? No, of course you’re not… can I heal you? Please?”

A few paces away Quinn sees Tank approaching. They wear that pleased smile for a second longer until they see that he’s limping straight toward them, not his boyfriends.

“Tank…” Their hands rise in a half-hearted attempt to slow his approach.

His face remains calm and hard to read, even as he raises a fist, cinches it tight, and drives it in an arc to collide with their head.

Major flinches – Remy notices with a painful tightness in his throat that Major can flinch, now – as Quinn yips and goes sprawling across the floor, unconscious.

“Tank!” The fluttering healer startles, spinning on his heel to see Tank’s chest heaving with anger.

“You know them,” The largest man points accusingly at the teenager lying with their arms and legs splayed and eyes closed.

Remy’s mouth is agape as he stares between the two of them – the powerful fighter who never chooses violence unless he’s protecting someone, and the unconscious spy who looked just a little smug as they entered. “You think they had something to do with this? Or hurt Major, or…?”

The rescuee in question trembles, lowering to sit on his haunches and press palms to either side of his head, pulling on his hair with soft huffs.

Tank clenches his jaw. “They didn’t tell us…” He has to sit. With a grunt, Tank grabs a chair and pulls it to sit beside Major, elbows braced on his knees. “That they were going to get him. Hey, Miles…” He pats a large hand on Major’s head, sliding fingers into it to tip it back. Major complies, eyes wet with tears. “Were they in your head?”

Major’s bottom lip wobbles. It’s an uncharacteristically vulnerable look on him.

“Were you ready to come back?”

That wobble turns tumultuous. Fat tears gathering on his eyelashes, eyes skittering with panic, teeth gritting with distress, Major closes his eyes. But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lash out. He just stays sitting, head tipped back, waiting.

~

“You can lay down with us. It’s okay.”

Paler than he used to be, less muscle but not terribly skinny – more weight on him, maybe? – Major remains huddled up sitting against the wall. “Mmh… nah.”

“I can heal that for you?” Remy is wringing his hands, sitting on the edge of the bed. “If you want. I know how bad those hurt.”

No answer. He’s pulling at his hair again and looking distracted.

“We missed you, M-... a lot. Kenzo and Quinn were out there, asking questions, took so long to find each clue. I couldn’t do much, I… I’m not a fighter, I’m not smart like that. But, but I can heal. I can help if you’re hurting. Are you?”

Major shrugs and tugs harder.

“I see your hair is different,” The healer tries next, lips forming a slant of worry. “You hate it like that. We can bleach it again, frizz it out, get it back how… how you like it.”

As if he is being offered a way to make himself uglier instead of more comfortable, Major shrinks down further and hides his face in his knees.

~

The house is quiet. Simon pads across the carpet of the living room to confirm his suspicion: no Cupcake on the couch. He checks every room to make sure. Empty kitchen, empty hallway, silent bedrooms. The last place that he checks, the cage, is just as hollow.

Good. This is… good. He told Major to leave. It makes sense that he did. Even though he was weirdly determined to stay, even though he took burns and beatings just to get to stay longer.

The house is too empty. Simon obsessively goes to each room and turns on every light in it. Turns the TV on even though it’s broken, just so the place isn’t silent. And then he sits on the edge of the couch fidgeting with his phone.

The house was broken into before. Major killed them all, defended himself, defended Simon. And the door, the door was open, that one time…

Major didn’t want to leave. Hope blooms in his chest, painful with the knowledge he’s probably wrong. Major didn’t want to leave. Probably wouldn’t have just slipped out, he would’ve boasted, would’ve shoved Simon into the cage and bragged about his victory if he was going to escape.

~

They wake in a darker room than the one they remember being in. Quinn is careful not to show that they’re awake yet, keeping their eyes closed and their breathing slow.

“Tell me what you know.”

It’s been demanded of them enough times that it’s not a surprising first thing to hear upon regaining consciousness. Quinn takes a moment to assess the damage, feel if they are in any pain – nothing, aside from their head throbbing. Now, their eyes crack open.

They are not restrained. They’re in their own room, even, lying on their bed, arranged on top of the covers. Tank sits beside them, watching.

“Tank,” The spy mutters, then clears their throat. The source of the pain seems to be at their cheekbone. Their eye feels warm. “You hit me.” A shred of impressed surprise in their tone. He’s never hit them before.

“Mmh.” His grunt is an acknowledgement with no mirth to it. “Tell me.”

He’s so direct. Never interested in knowing more than he needs to. Quinn clears their throat and drags themself up to sitting with an unwilling squeak of pain as their skull throbs in protest. “...I brought him back for you. He’s safe now. That’s not what you wanted?”

“Quinn.”

Their brows shoot up. “Hmm?”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He has a hand on their laptop, they realize belatedly. “But I considered it. That’s where I’m at.”

“...Okay. What do you want to know? What was done to him? Where he was?”

Muscles at the corner of his jaw flex. “Whatever will affect him.”

Quinn feels at their bruising cheek and eye as if checking for blood, to see if he will look guilty. He does not. “Right. Well, he was kept in a cage sometimes. Muzzled, blindfolded. Beaten, burned, cut… but only sometimes. Mostly, he seemed to like it there. Drank a lot of beer, watched TV, talked… just talked, a lot, with the guy. Simon.”

Broad shoulders tense with pain seem to tighten as they speak. His eyes are on them, and it’s more eye contact with Tank than they’ve ever made. “How long were you watching?”

Interrogations are routine. It’s being asked questions by a friend that feels odd. Quinn frowns. “Two weeks. Tank, I…”

The laptop arcs through the air and smashes against the wall before they can even process that he’d begun to throw it. Quinn’s staring in shock at the scattering metal debris for one second, distracted long enough that he can grab their hand and hold it firmly in both of his. Their head snaps back to stare, bewildered, as he takes their pointer finger in one fist.

“This seems like the only thing you understand.” His face is as measured and calm as ever, but there is a fire in his eyes. Quinn is breathing faster now. “You left him there after you found him. Then you mindfucked him to get him here. You think that’s okay.”

For the first time in this conversation, Quinn looks frightened. Worried. Grave. “Tank – Tank, you wouldn’t.”

The crack is soft, muffled by his hands. The spy sucks in a ragged gasp and then covers their mouth with their free hand, brows drawn up. Fresh agony rips up their arm and runs down their spine.

“I don’t want to,” Tank agrees solemnly. His grip is so tight on their wrist that they know it’s pointless to even try to pull free. “I don’t like hurting people. But like I said, this… might be the only thing that matters to you.”

He’s taken their middle finger, now, and he’s bending it to get the right grip in place. Quinn’s chest is heaving rapidly. “Wait, wait, just – it’s not the only thing, I, I care, I wouldn’t…”

The second finger snaps. They stifle a scream into a ragged, muffled sob, lips sealed tightly shut. As their vision explodes into flaming colors and their hearing goes out for a second, Quinn can feel the ring finger being examined next.

“...wouldn’t?” He prompts drily. “You were saying…?”

“Mmh… nnh… I wouldn’t… wouldn’t have gone in there, if I didn’t care… he’s, he was, like Jon, I was scared, I was scared…”

That third finger gives way with a more audible crack. Quinn sobs openly, now, voice going hoarse and shattering into airy rasps.

“Please don’t lie to me. I know you, Quinn. It wasn’t about being scared. I don’t want to make Remy heal a whole hand, three breaks will be easier.”

They never knew he was capable of this. They know, they always know what everyone could do. This is a humiliation, to be surprised. Quinn is shaking violently. “I, I, I wanted to see. What was g-going on there. Major, Major being good. I’m sorry. I don’t know why, why I’m like this…”

Their pinky, held threateningly in his fist, is lowered. Tank presses their broken fingers between his palms to hold them steady, and watches Quinn biting their lip and crying. “You found him, and you left him there to watch. To learn about him. Right?”

“R-r-... right, I’m sorry!”

All at once he drops their hand. Quinn pulls it close to their chest with a whimper, drawing their knees up to protect it.

Tank sighs. “Next time, please just tell me. Everything, from the start. I hate this.”

As he stands to leave, Quinn drops some of the pitiful trembly act and draws a steadying breath. “Will you get Remy?”

He waves a hand dismissively as he walks out. “On it.”

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy , @apokolyps , @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite ,

@wollemi-whump , @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire , @notactuallyluska

@neverthelass , @whumpr, @hellodecisionparalysis, @sir-fenris

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series | Through the Cameras (pt.53)

“Don’ wanna leave. Didn’t… open the door, not tryna leave. Lemme stay. I… I got no one else.”

Simon is on Major. Straddling him. Major is sobbing with the gun to his head. The two of them are nose to nose.

“You can… the cage, the shit on my head, you can - whatever, just don’t, I didn’t do shit don’t kill me for it I don’t, I don’t wanna die feeling like, like this, I was being good, I just… fuck, please…”

Quinn has never heard him begging so desperately before. Sitting on the floor with their laptop balanced on their thighs, they watch intently, their scribbled blueprints temporarily forgotten. If Major is about to die, they don’t want the others to see it. Quinn will bear the weight of it alone.

“Just hit me and, and lock me up, I can do that.”

He’s being good. Major is being good. At first they thought this was a sex thing, that he was sold to warm this guy’s bed, but that’s not what it looks like so far.

It’s hard to imagine what could have possibly been done to him to make Major act like this. He’s like a different person entirely.

~

“It was someone.” Simon speaks, finally, thumb running up and down the side of the gun as he thinks. “It was someone. Not him.”

Major chews grotesquely on his fingernails. “Not Diego?”

Simon shakes his head, glancing toward the doors in the hallway, looking paranoid and uncertain.

“Your master?” Major asks, sounding vulnerable. “He’s dead, right?”

“Yeah,” Simon mutters.

“He’s not like, a ghost.”

Simon is fidgeting like he’s the captive here. “He was… a lot. My master. If you knew him, you wouldn’t believe he could stay dead.”

Quinn’s eyes are locked onto their screen. It’s fascinating how open these two are with each other. How Major knows about his captor’s trauma and discusses it without fear. How Simon appears to be haunted by his old master, how he clings to that gun.

Very, very interesting.

~

“I owe you an apology.”

Simon’s words jolt Quinn awake from their nap. They peel a book page from the drool on their cheek and squint at their laptop, turning it down surreptitiously so no one will overhear.

“Huh?” Comes the idiotic hum of Major’s low voice.

“I need to say sorry to you,” Simon amends.

A slow, amused smile creeps across the spy’s face. The realization that Major doesn’t know the word apologize comes belatedly and makes their stomach tense with the need to let out a laugh.

“For beating the crap out of me?” He’s picking at the table with stubby fingers.

Simon’s expression cracks from stress to a half-amused smile. For each question Major asks, he answers that no, he’s not sorry about that.

Cupcake hums, scratching at his cheek and wincing in pain at pressing on a bruise there.  “Okay. What, then?”

“The three whole syllables thing.”

Major looks clueless for a second, then his face shuts down into something more careful. “Dunno what you mean.”

“Yesterday. The door thing. When I told you to come up with three whole syllables.” The reminder hangs in the air unchallenged. “...That wasn’t fair.”

Cupcake shrugs up one shoulder, head hanging. “Nah. ‘s fair. I think.”

He never used to express so many thoughts, use so many words, around here. Quinn lays their head back down on their folded arms and closes their eyes to listen.

“You know I don’t think you’re stupid, right?”

Major looks confused. Upset. “Then you’re stupid. I don’t even know what that is.”

Simon hums. “Don’t know what what is?”

“What you said. Three whole… I heard it before. I know it’s mean. I dunno what it means.”

Quinn snorts, burying their face deeper in their arms to muffle their startled laughter. God, Major is stupid. Doesn’t know what a syllable is. It’s endearing, in a way.

“Does that bother you?”

Oh. Simon sounds… compassionate. Quinn lifts their head and watches once again.

Major shrugs. He still won’t look up. “Not knowing? Nah. I’m not like Quinn. Don’t know everything. Or anything, I guess. Bothers me when it gets pointed out, I guess.”

Interesting. They’ve never heard him talk about this. Never thought he was fully aware of it. His bringing up their name is intriguing, too. Seems to indicate that he’s sensitive about how much smarter Quinn is, and that thought makes them feel the tiniest twinge of guilt.

“Quinn. One of your friends?”

“Not my friend.” Major finally lifts his head, grinning a moment and throwing his hair back. “Loser kid who hangs out with us. Know-it-all.”

Okay. The guilt has vanished. He’s a moron. The spy sighs, bored again.

“...They’re, like, married to this fed.”

Simon’s brows shoot up at that. “They’re a kid, but they’re married.”

Their heart leaps into their throat. Quinn turns the volume down further and leans in close to listen hard. A slight tremble makes its way into their hands. Why is Major telling him about Jon? And that’s how he describes it, like they’re married to some fed? What does Major know about it? Nothing, he doesn’t understand it at all.

“Well, not a kid really. Nineteen, act like they’re sixty. Boring, up their own… yeah. And not really married. I mean - I don’t know. Maybe he married them. Not like they’d know.”

“How would they not know if they got married?”

They feel queasy. Quinn adjusts the angle of the screen, fidgets with the arrow keys. Just hearing about it makes the inside of their elbows itch.

“‘Cause he keeps ‘em drugged out. It’s creepy, way creepier than here. He has, like, pictures of them all over the place. In the hall, on the table here. Floppy, big doe eyes. They go, oh, Jon, I’m so sorry, Jon, I’m yours, I’m yours…”

Palms slapping to the back of it, Quinn slams their laptop shut. In the new darkness and silence of the room, they shiver with adrenaline. How dare he. He deserves it, everything that’s been done to him, everything that will happen in the next session. Quinn hates him. Everything Jon did to him, Major… Major deserved it.

The thought sits like an anvil in their skull. The whole conversation weighs them down. Quinn scratches carefully at their forearms and crawls under their blanket, chewing on the inside of their cheek.

…It’s stupid not to keep listening. The two of them could be talking about something important. To let Major’s usual snide, boorish attitude get to them… no, they can’t let him have this.

“My Master was like a god to me.”

As soon as they have the screen up again, Simon is speaking liquid gold. Quinn sits up again, scraping their forearm raw as they focus in.

“What?”

“Smarter than anyone else I’ve known. Furious so much of the time, just… so loud. Cursing. He beat us, didn’t even need the belt usually. The muzzle, the blindfold, the cage… all were his. Whole house was.”

That was Simon’s master’s house. Which means Quinn can find his master, can find everything they could need on this man. A notebook and pen are snatched up from beside them, and quickly enough to make sweat prick across their skin from the pain of using their hand, Quinn jots down as much as they can glean.

~

“Yup. He’ll be good now.”

The man named Diego – dark short hair, darker eyes, a cruel grin – stands with his hand on Major’s head. Major is in a… a little pink maid dress. Bows in his hair and around his arms, a silk choker around his throat.

“How did you get him in that?” It’s the question that Quinn wants to ask.

Diego’s hand pets heavily over the curve of his bare shoulder. Major flinches from it and tries to hunch his shoulders closer together. “Needed some help relaxing. Like this.”

The bottle glugs audibly. Eyes widening then squeezing shut under his curtain of hair, Major draws quick, panicky breaths from his nose, then starts panting.

Fist in his hair, cloth coming up to his face.

They’re going to throw up. Holding their stomach and breathing very carefully, Quinn tries their hardest to keep watching. The drugging, the possessive hands. The ability to make Major look so small and frightened. He’s so much like Jon.

~

They’re both in the living room, that much is clear. There was faint pink light and then the room went black.

Knees throbbing and cold from the dirt, Quinn winces and shifts to sit fully on the ground.

The low hum of talking. Grunts. A near-scream. Blinking with something like boredom, the spy stretches to sneak a dangerous peek through the glass.

Simon is leaning over Major on the couch, fist to Major’s chest. They’re speaking so close to each other, quiet and tense.

Discomfort twists in their stomach. It still feels so wrong to see Major holding still. Listening. Nodding. Not putting his hands on whoever has his attention for too long.

They’d like to believe that they don’t understand why Major wouldn’t leave. Want to be oblivious to how it feels in there, how it feels to be stuck in a house where you have to be good to earn food, blankets, positive attention. It would be easier to do this if Major was just a uniquely moronic, short-sighted prisoner.

As it is, Quinn swallows past a lump of disgust in their throat and slips in through the window that they ensured would be left unlocked.

~

He looks so peaceful. Tragic brown curls splayed, chest rising and falling slowly under his new iron-shaped burn, hand on his stomach as he snores.

Quinn lays a tender hand on his shoulder. “Major,” They whisper, rubbing to wake him as gently as possible. “Major…”

His eyes crack open. Then widen suddenly, although he makes no moves, just stays lying on his back. “Oh,” He says dumbly.

“Let’s go.”

He blinks, slow and thinking. “...Go? You… you’re here for me?”

It takes concerted effort not to mock him. “Yes. Come on, he’s asleep. There’s a window open.”

His leg twitches. Major grabs at it, rubbing at a twinged muscle or something. “Uh. I don’t… Tank and Rem not here?”

“They’re outside. I had to sneak in, quietly. Get up, this is our chance.”

He sits up, far too slowly. Stretches the sleep from his shoulders and shakes it from his hair. “Yeah, uh… cool. Cool. Lemme think a second.”

“No. Get up. We’re leaving.”

He staggers to his feet and allows himself to be pulled toward the hallway by his wrist. The whole way he’s chewing on his lip.

~

“Where are they?” He’s shivering. The night air isn’t that cold. Must be terrified. Quinn shoves him along to get into the car.

“Who?”

“Tank and Remy.” He’s twisting, fighting getting into the backseat. “Stop. Hold on, Quinn. Where are they?”

They pause. The driver, some guy Major doesn’t even recognize, waits patiently with his hands on the wheel.

“Quinn. Where – where the fuck are they?”

The curse is a whisper. He’s scared to curse. Simon got to him bad. “They aren’t here. They’re at a house, okay? I’m bringing you to them. They’ve missed you.”

Major takes a step back. He’s trembling, bare-chested with a fresh burn, pajama pants low on his hips. His brows are furrowed, lips set in a startled grimace. “They didn’t come.”

“No.” Quinn raises a crooked finger. “No, it’s not like that. Major, just listen. They would’ve–”

He’s gone before they can come up with the right combination of words to make him listen. Back turned to them, storming back to Simon’s master’s house.

“Alright,” They mutter, setting their jaw. And with one push they unleash their magic to let it spill out through the air. The feeling of obedience, needing to listen, abandoning the hope of thinking independently.

Major’s steps falter until he’s standing still on the walkway leading to the front door. His shoulders are quaking with emotion.

“Come here,” Instructs Quinn. They watch with grim satisfaction as he turns and walks right back to them, his fists clenched at his sides. “Get in the car.”

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy , @apokolyps , @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite ,

@wollemi-whump , @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire , @notactuallyluska

@neverthelass , @whumpr, @hellodecisionparalysis, @sir-fenris

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series | Missing (pt.52)

“Is this really a problem?” Quinn is calmly picking at lint beneath their fingernail. Lips drawn down at the corners, shirt falling off one shoulder, they look as disinterested as their flat tone sounds.

Remy’s hands are knotted together, twisting. “Major is missing. Gone. He – he’s never gone.”

“Except when he needs a pack. Or a six-pack. Or feels like stabbing someone.” That elegant shoulder shrugs up. “Maybe he went on a killing spree. Or he slept with someone and crashed there.”

The healer shakes his head. “I don’t know. He wasn’t getting antsy. And two weeks is a long time, for him. How will he get home when he wants to?”

The teenage spy stifles a laugh, raising a crooked hand to hide the slight gap between their front teeth. The hand waves as if dismissing their own rude giggle. Of course, Major couldn’t read street signs to find his way back. He can’t look up directions on his phone and comprehend the map, he can’t be polite to someone for enough consecutive seconds to ask for help. If he’s not here or a few blocks away straight down the street, he’s lost.

“Well. Like I said. Is it a problem that he’s gone?”

From the couch comes a soft grunt. Quinn’s cruel, relaxed smile fades into a more thoughtful frown as Tank shifts to put less weight on his hips where he sits.

“Yes,” Is his contribution, firm and quiet.

The freckled spy sighs. “Fine. I’m just saying. Name one thing he does that doesn’t make our lives worse. I’m biased, I don’t even like him. Does anyone? Do either of you?”

Remy stops pacing to frown at that question. Tank sets his jaw and chooses, as always, to keep his answer out of the air.

“He’s probably dead.” They’re standing, now, and picking up a sweater to slide into. “Mmh, I’d call it an eighty percent chance. Fifteen percent: he’s lost but having fun.”

“What about the other five?” Remy’s voice is high and tense. “What, he left, you think?”

Quinn smiles again, eyes empty. “Like he could find better than us? No. Five percent… well, he’s a healer.”

~

Evenings used to be so loud. His laughter, rude jabs, smashed bottles, obnoxious bits carrying on for far too long.

This safehouse’s living room is too quiet. Quinn’s spine tingles with it. Tank sits on the floor in the center of the room with Remy working on him, Sonia sitting face to face with Tank murmuring steadily, Riku trying to whip up warm broth in a kitchen with no electricity.

The healer’s soft hands are tracing an arc over Tank’s body to find injuries and mend them one by one. The pace is slow as Remy works to keep his magic from running out before the job is done.

Those broad shoulders are sagged with exhaustion. Dark brown smears of dried blood are caked across squishy arms, splattered across his torn T-shirt, staining his knuckles. Tank looks like he just dragged himself out of the zombie apocalypse, half-dead.

As she speaks softly to him, Sonia’s eyes are fixed on the wound that she’s got her fingers buried an inch deep in. Where he kneels, Tank gives no sign of pain aside from hands trembling where they lie in his lap.

Sonia gives a triumphant squeak and wrenches the bullet free finally, dropping it to the floor and then slapping away Remy’s hand to begin stitching the small, deep wound closed.

“Save it for the knife shit,” She snarks as she begins weaving thread through torn skin. Tank’s hands remain open and shaky, refusing to close into fists.

Dutifully, without complaint – usually Remy is so nervous about the tones of others, but in healer mode he is a machine – the healer moves on fluidly to mending the stab wounds across Tank’s back. He works with a frown as his mind naturally wanders to imagining Tank fighting off too many at once, getting tackled and pinned onto his stomach, taking a couple of stab wounds before managing to flip over and fight back some more.

As per usual with the muscle-heavy fighter, most of the damage is from Tank himself. Knives sank into him but he twisted and flexed and wrenched himself around with such force that the wounds ended up so much worse. With distant worry Quinn watches Remy lift Tank’s arms experimentally, one and then the other, examining his ribs.

All of this to find one noisy, violent, useless jerk.

~

They jolt to consciousness with a hoarse gasp, bolting upright until they’re stopped with palms to their chest and they’re forced to flop down onto their back again. Wild, panicked brown eyes skitter across the faces and ceiling above them in search of a threat that is gone.

Sonia. Riku. Remy is above them, looking concerned. Their chest is heaving for air in tiny frantic jerks, mouth hanging open.

“Quinn?” The healer says expectantly. Not unkindly, but with dangerous hope laced into it.

The spy licks their lips and nods absently. From the warmth under the base of their skull they surmise that they are lying half in Tank’s lap. They fight the urge to look up at him. “Uh. Mmh, right. The, uh… the, the place is… what I thought. They have, there’s…” Someone holds their hand to stop swollen fingers from knocking into each other with their tremors. Quinn licks their lips again, eyes closed now. “Guys taken in off the street, or prisoners from somewhere else. Blindfolded, lined up… being trained for something. Put down if they don’t succeed. Uh, it’s a… an efficient operation. There were accounts, billing… payments. Orders placed, and… paperwork, they have paperwork for ones slated to be sold.”

“Sold?” Tank asks as he holds them steady.

Quinn tries to nod. It’s too awkward, and they ache. “Mmhmm. He was… he was sent out from there a few months ago. I found his file. I can recreate it, I read it. Can you… can you help me get to my laptop?”

~

Birth name: Miles [No last name]

Nickname: Major

Height: 5’7”

Weight: 225 lbs 

Hair color: Brown (bleached white)

IQ: 80 (Note: slow processing and limited reasoning skills, explain instructions clearly)

Demeanor: Violent, antisocial, sadistic, restless

Identifying marks: Burn scars across hands, arms, chest, back. Tattoos partially visible along edges of scarring.

Notes: This fucker killed two of ours and broke my nose on the way in. Turns out he calls himself Major, so he’s the one that kills cops and feds when they get close. Was expecting a hell of a turnaround time on him, but something must’ve clicked during the initial thinning out. Trauma with gunshots? Blindfolds? He seems pissed off about obeying, but he’s learning fast anyway.

Tank pours over it a dozen times. Violent, antisocial, sadistic, restless. It’s a good summary of the man who has haunted, and charmed, and stuck by him for a few years now. The height and weight are slightly interesting because he’s never been told the numbers before. The IQ sets sad concern in his chest.

Of course he broke a nose during the intake. Probably growled and bared his teeth, too. The edge of the laptop creaks under his fingers as he reads over the paragraph again.

It’s unbelievable that Major survived the abduction, the initial thinning out, judging from this and what Quinn saw. Major is impulsive, he’s self-destructive, he’ll do what he shouldn’t just because someone tried to convince him not to. He’d run into moving traffic just to prove he didn’t care about the danger of it. Especially if someone hot was watching.

Then again… there is the fact that Major was curled up at the end of a mattress when they first met him. Eyes dim with miserable defeat, with too little energy to care much about his position. As wild as he is, as thick and stubborn and cruel as he can be, there is some part of Major that can be good. Good like a cowering dog is good. It’s a part of him that is buried far out of sight but never truly gone. Tank is familiar with it.

The knowledge that that Major was sold for three thousand dollars is a cold stone in his stomach.

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy , @apokolyps , @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite ,

@wollemi-whump , @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire , @notactuallyluska

@neverthelass , @whumpr, @hellodecisionparalysis, @sir-fenris

[friendlylocalwhumper]

unreality, broken

a sequel to @friendlylocalwhumper‘s gorgeous unreality series

“I miss Lux,” says Alex, taking a bite out of his cheeseburger. “I hope he’s okay.”

Taryn’s hands are on the frigid steering wheel, touching only with fingertips to avoid the burning cold. “Me the fuck too.” Lux had texted them, and told them he’d had a family emergency, and he might be gone for a couple of weeks.

Taryn hadn’t believed that shit for a second. For all she knew, the mindfucker could have him, could have made him send that text. So she’d scried for him. There he was, sitting at a window watching the snow fall, looking vaguely unhappy in the company of a tricolor beagle puppy. Taryn had felt stupid, for invading Lux’s privacy.

The twins hadn’t known Lux had family. They’re glad he does. The only family they have is each other.

And the Resistance, they suppose. It’s family of a sort. Another twenty cheeseburgers sit in bags in the back seat of the black Toyota, for the kids in the safe-house. Cheeseburgers, and chocolate chip cookies. The Resistance kids have been torn from their parents, rejected by their peers, and most recently attacked with poison gas from some warlock-hating lowlife. Healthy food, the twins think, should not be a priority. So they’re out, driving in the fresh hell that weathermen term wintry mix, in order to get them some sort of treat.

Alex nearly chokes on his burger as Taryn yelps and slams on the brakes, which hum and shudder as the car narrowly avoids careening into the pickup truck in front of them.  “What the hell, Tare?”

“Shit, sorry. But. Is your magic tingling?”

“You mean, different than it usually does?” Alex’s voice is tinged with sarcasm.

“Yeah, there’s something…” Taryn bites her lower lip in concentration, looking off to her lap. “That warehouse, wait, your magic always tingles?”

“Never mind,” says Alex, quickly. “What do you — aaahh!”

A wave of pure power ripples through the car, and Alex jolts back against the seat in alarm.

“Now you feel it,” says Taryn. “Right, let’s go in there.”

“Is that a good idea —“

Taryn parks the car, makes herself invisible, then does the same to Alex, and apparently, there will be no further argument. They’re going in. Their footsteps appear in the snow, rapidly erased by the wind. 

The door to the warehouse is wide open, creaking on its hinges as the wind buffets it back and forth, snow blowing into the room, and as the twins enter, they stop in horror.

There are bodies on the floor. 

No, they’re breathing, just unconscious.

The twins can’t look at each other, while they’re invisible. They can’t exchange the glance that says what they’re both thinking, the what the fuck happened here, the should we get out of here. But they know, without saying, that they are having the same thoughts. Together, they both walk towards the cell in the back, the one that seems to be the epicenter from which all the unconscious people flew.

At the sight of what is in the cell, the twins know, too, that the same sick feeling is rising in each of their throats.

Lux.

Or, what used to be Lux. The family emergency was a hoax. What Taryn saw when she scried — a hoax.

The still form crumpled on the floor is barely recognizable as their friend. His skin is a sickly grey, his eyes, open but unfocused, are sunken in their sockets and rimmed in purple. The contours of ribs are visible where his shirt’s ridden up as he fell.  There’s blood on his sleeves, a drop of blood running from the corner of his lip, dried blood at his nose.

When Alex kneels to check his pulse, it’s there, oh, thank God it’s there, but it’s sluggish. Too long, between beats. When he breathes, it’s only the slightest of shallow wheezes. His neck is cold as stone, and almost as rigid.

“Drained out,” says Alex, “I’ve never —“ Never seen it this bad. “Let’s go.”

Without a word, Taryn casts a spell to make Lux light, and scoops him into her arms. They dart away, back into the car. They’re on the same page. Get Lux out, get him safe, then tell Daniel exactly what the fuck they found here. 

Taryn rests Lux’s head in Alex’s lap in the back seat, then gets back in the driver’s seat, ignoring all rules of safe snow driving to get Lux back home. Alex murmurs Lux’s name, over and over. Lux. Lux, we’ve got you. Lux, we’re going to help you. 

Lux doesn’t respond. Doesn’t seem to hear or see or feel. Alex holds his hand anyway, just in case somewhere in there, he’s capable of recognizing that small comfort. Drained as Lux is, Alex knows, any attempt to simply pour magic into him will make Alex as bad as Lux. So the healer is measured with his spells. Clearing the blood from Lux’s lungs, helping him breathe, speeding the passage of blood through cold vessels.

As he casts, something feels good, to Alex. Better than magic usually feels. There’s an energy, warm and soothing at the center of the healer’s heart, easing up the passage of air through his lungs, easing the tingling at the insides of his wrists. “Tare, are you giving me magic? Without touching —” Alex hadn’t known that was possible, even for them.

“No — not me —” They look at each other, and identical eyes widen in horror as Alex drops Lux’s hand, jerks his body away from the unconscious warlock.

Lux’s body lacks the energy to see or speak or move. He’s barely able to keep his heart beating.

Still, he’s trying to push the last of his life force into Alex.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

a sequel to: https://friendlylocalwhumper.tumblr.com/post/183303706411/alexs-rescue-punished

Three days. Lux has been screaming for three days.

Lux had looked a bit off, since Alex got back. But of course he would be off. He went into that cellar of nightmares, carried the shell of Alex out, saw the healer begging for mercy in that all-too-familiar way.

But when the howling began, with fingers wrapped in his curls, shaking and sobbing into his pillows, Anders knew.

He’d tried to get the Hunter out immediately. He’d wrapped scarred hands around Lux’s head, a quick thrust of magic, get out, mindfucker.

The Hunter had thrown him back so hard he flew across the room. Anders hit the wall with a thud and slid down it, scrabbling his hands against the floor to shield his leg from the impact.

Lux hadn’t seemed to notice. He simply continued howling, writhing, deep in the clutches of agony so pervasive that all other awareness was gone.

~

There are moments when the Hunter seems to tire, when Lux’s screams dull into whimpers. During these moments Alex, barely able to walk, insists on helping.

Respite, such that it is, never lasts longer than an hour. The screams always return.

They put him in his room, spell the door to block out the sounds, so that others can sleep. Sometimes, Anders tries to sit with him. It doesn’t make a difference. There is no Anders, to Lux, not now. Even so, there’s something amazing, coming from Lux’s lips between screams. I’m - m’n’t — not sorry —

Lux calls Anders brave, sometimes. But only Lux is strong enough to be defiant for his friend in the face of such pain.

~

Taryn opens the door to Lux’s room, her mouth a hard, set line. “I know how to fix it,” she says. Anders is surprised he can hear her, now, over the sounds Lux is making; he realizes that the screams have gotten weaker, hoarser, but no less desperate. Lux is clawing his hands into his head, nearly pulling his hair out, thrusting his skull against the pillows as if to try to press the agony away.

“He’ll — he’ll throw you out, like he did me,” Anders says, but his protests are feeble. He wants her to try. Anything, for Lux to stop feeling this pain.

“Daniel and I have been researching,” Taryn says. “I know how to do it, and — and he doesn’t, doesn’t know my mind.”

“All right,” says Anders. “Go for it.”

Taryn sets her jaw in her pale face, and presses both hands to Lux’s temples, her hands filled with light.

The sound from Lux’s mouth rises to a shriek, then stops abruptly, his face still contorted in agony; he shudders as if seizing under Taryn’s hands. Taryn’s eyes flash, the light at her hands gets brighter, and she speaks words, deep and guttural, in an old language, with a voice that doesn’t even sound like hers.

Still, Lux shakes. Light flashes.

Anders watches with his palms raised, wanting to intervene but too afraid to hurt them.

After thirty seconds that seem to last an eternity, Lux finally, finally, crumples on the bed, freed. His face is blotchy, covered in sweat and tears. He’s dragging feeble gasps into his lungs. Utterly limp on his pillows. Taryn staggers back, the light in her hands flickering.

Lux, they both breathe.

“An-n-, nhhh,” Lux attempts, his searching hands weakly floating in the direction of Anders’ voice, grasping out for comfort. There are marks, bloody marks, in those hands, in the shape of fingernails. “Th-th — T-tare —“

Anders’ heart catches in his throat. Taryn gasps out, lightly coughing into her blouse, “No need to thank me, Lux.”

Gently, ever so gently, Anders scoops Lux’s head onto his thigh, puts one arm over Lux’s shoulders. “Lux, Lux, I’m here, it’s me, it’s Anders, it’s over, Taryn got him out.”

“H-hurts — An — An —“

“You don’t have to talk.” Anders rubs his fingers together and they glow with blue light that chills the air around them. They’re just cold, a cheap imitation of Alex’s numbing magic. But still, when he slides that light into Lux’s hair and rubs lightly over Lux’s temples where he can feel the veins throbbing, the deep lines carved around Lux’s eyes relax a bit. “Nhhh,” Lux moans in relief. He gestures, weakly, to where on his head he wants Anders’ cool, soothing fingers to go.

“You’re so strong, Lux,” Anders whispers, still watching Lux’s face, tears springing into his eyes that he blinks away quickly.  “So fucking brave.”

“Nhhh-n…”

“Don’t even argue. You are.”

Anders will stay, like this, rubbing blue light between Lux’s curls, until his friend can finally, finally rest.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series | Sticking Point (pt.51)

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

Major lies flat on his back, stuck to the floor with sweat, shivering so hard that biting into his lip has it splitting open.

He wants to heal it. But that would make this convenient for Simon, wouldn’t it? Make it chill, that he did this. Like Major will just heal himself and run out like a scared dog.

Nah. He won’t. Hissing out sharp breaths and dragging himself up onto his elbows, Major slowly, slowly makes his way out into the hallway. It’s quiet. Simon’s probably in his room crying or some shit.

The carpet scrapes his skin and makes it itchy. Major tears at the fibers impatiently every time the agony gets bad enough that he has to take a break. Flop down on his back and breathe hard.

He makes it all the way to the couch. Almost stays sitting on the floor and just leaning up against it, but… Simon deserves some shock, so he digs his elbows into the cushions, plants his knees, and without letting his burn touch the edge, hauls himself up. It takes a tactical roll onto his side, and then gasping like a fish on land for a while, before he can sit up. But goddamnit he pulls it off.

Snatches up the remote. Flicks the TV on.

It’s broken, but it still makes noise. Spurts some light out at the shattered corners. Major slumps back, propping his legs up, and with a triumphant sneer, he turns the volume up to 100.

Here comes Simon. Major’s grin turns tense but he holds it. Gotta stick the landing.

“What are you doing?” Demands Simon, standing in front of the ruined television. Major obnoxiously leans to the side as if still trying to see the screen.

The healer shrugs. “What I always do. How ‘bout you?”

“I told you to… you haven’t healed?”

Major yawns, ending the stretch with a bored hum. “Nah.”

“I – you – heal it.”

It amuses him to see that Simon’s hair is falling out of its bun. He wasn’t expecting someone to still be in his house. He looks frazzled.

“Mmh. I’m good. Grab me a beer?”

Simon steps closer. Major’s eyelids flutter in a muted flinch before he goes back to looking nonchalant.

“That doesn’t hurt?” His hand is on the burn before he can stop it. He wouldn’t have stopped it, Major likes to think, as his stomach flips and a chill races across his skin. Infuriatingly, a dizzy moan escapes him.

“Nnh… nah. F-f-feels… like nothin’.”

A sour look comes over that tattooed face. “There’s something wrong with you.”

Arms braced across the back of the couch, panting and grunting in agony, Major beams. “Ah. Ha. You, you’re one to talk. Fhhh, fuck…”

With a grimace Simon pulls his hand back, peeling some blood and pus with it. The healer shudders violently and his eyes roll back to squeeze shut, short sharp breaths huffing from behind gritted teeth.

“Why did you call for me?”

The question gets Major lifting his head from where it had fallen back, squinting at the man standing before him. “Huh?”

The mess of his hand gets wiped off on his pants, and Simon stares intently at him. “Why did you say my name. When he had you on the floor. I saw the video.”

Any smug mirth, any masochistic dark amusement in Major’s face melts away. His expression hardens into a glare. “What.”

He crouches down condescendingly, one hand on his captive’s knee. “You were trying to crawl away. Crying. He grabbed your ankle, pulled you back.”

Major’s breathing hard from his nose and gripping onto the couch tight enough to nearly rip it.

“Got back on top of you. And you cried for me. Why?”

Nostrils flaring, the healer’s lip twitches into a sneer. “Careful,” Is all he says, low and gravelly.

Simon squeezes his knee. “I’m not the one who needs to be careful. Tell me what you were thinking.”

More slow, tense breaths. “Get your hand,” Major mutters, “...off of me.”

It’s easy. Routine by now. Major hasn’t listened so now comes the punishment, the consequences to help him listen. Simon balls his hand into a fist and climbs onto Major’s lap fluidly, using the leverage of his knee planted on the couch to drive his fist into that chest.

As the blow lands at the center of his burn, Major chokes on a scream, gagging on the cry and then drawing in a desperate breath.

“Why did you beg for me?”

His fist reels back again. Major whimpers when it peels from the burn, and flinches from the coming punch. “I don’t know!” He all but shouts, voice cracking open in desperation. His arms are raised in defense now. “F-fuck – don’ even remember.” He whines against his will, panicked, when his jaw is grabbed and eye contact forced.

“I think you do remember. It might be fuzzy, but you do. Why’d you call for me?”

“‘Cause… ‘cause…” His breaths are dangerously shuddery. Simon wonders if that’s just from the pain. “Ghh… ‘cause you’re all I got.”

taglist: @morning-star-whump , @lthrboy , @apokolyps , @paperprinxe , @vampiresprite ,

@wollemi-whump , @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees , @whumps-and-bumps , @defire , @notactuallyluska

@neverthelass , @whumpr, @hellodecisionparalysis, @sir-fenris

[friendlylocalwhumper]

[friendlylocalwhumper]

Whumpee who holds out during torture. They're sassy, fight back, refuse to break.

They finally get saved. They smile at their rescuers through bloody teeth, joking with 'what took you so long huh?', but it's weak, their voice already trembling.

When their bonds are being cut loose, they start to show more cracks. "I- I'm sorry". They feel bad for even needing to be rescued.

Caretaker reassures them it's not their fault, and they'll always rescue them.

Whumpee has been holding out, but they were scared and in pain, and when the bonds are finally gone and Caretaker is here, they break. They're pulled up and they start crying, wiping at their face with shaky 'I'm sorry''s.

Caretaker just pulls them into a hug and lets Whumpee break.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

Whumpee who's chained up or strapped down or collared or cuffed.

Finally, finally it's the night of their escape. Months of planning. Gathering tools, a wayward paperclip or a discarded scalpel, planning and planning and learning and planning, all done and hidden under whumper's sadistic, watchful eye. They did it.

Now it's time. They gather their tools. The cuffs fall to the floor with a soft clink, the shock collar powers down and clicks off, and they can take in a full breath for the first time in months.

They were just about to force their shaky hands to pick the lock on the door when--

The door swings open, slams into whumpee so they almost lose their footing.

There stands whumper, towering over the petrified and sprawled form of whumpee.

Whumpee prepares for the worst. They know whumper, they know that wrathfully cruel glint of the eye, they know whumper's rage, they know, they know, theyre dead, they know, and so they start to beg for forgiveness, they're sorry they're sorry they're sobbing and throwing themself at whumpers feet gasping for air once more and they beg for any small semblance of mercy, fat tears spotting the floor.

And yet. Whumper doesn't do anything.

Then they laugh. At whumpee. Not their usual laugh, better suited to a horror movie villain than any actual human, the one that made whumpee's stomach twist almost as painfully as the knife breaching their flesh. No, this was bright. Joyful. Fond.

They call whumpee adorable or naive or stupid or silly. They take away their supplies and redo the restraints. Whumpee goes along as if floating above on a cloud of freedom, and whumpee has never, ever felt the pounding of their heart or the terror that seized their body more than they did right now. Not the torture, not the starvation, not the restraints, not the demeaning and the never-ending pain, not the sadistic glee with which whumper stripped away their humanity.

In what could almost be called a loving embrace, whumper's fond looks and gentle touches scarring their flesh more than the whip ever could.

There was supposed to be pain. There was supposed to be torture, they were supposed to be on their knees crying and begging for forgiveness, they were supposed to never be able to escape again after this, they were supposed to be broken beyond repair.

And then whumper leaves them. "I'll see you tomorrow, the same as usual," they say joyfully.

And then. Silence. Darkness. Alone as they have always been.

And whumpee understands what whumper seemed to know all along. And, finally, in the still darkness of their new home, they start to weep.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

August of Whump 2025 - Day 16

This is a little sequel to this piece!! Sir Archer is still @that-one-thespian's

TWs: betrayal, beating, broken bones, blood, kidnapping

body swap / disorientation / dissection

Mariano's vision swam as he got his eyes open again, his head dangling unsupported over Archer's arm as the trees passed by. "Wh...?" Mariano tried, limbs heavy in the way that only being drugged could cause. "Sir...Sir Archer? Are you hurt?"

"Shh." Archer said, making no move to hold him differently. Dimly, Mariano wondered what had Archer so distracted.

He blinked as the world tilted and rocked with every quick, quiet step. Archer was probably just listening for pursuers. They were attacked, after all, they had to get away. He shouldn't make things more difficult for his knight.

He couldn't lift his head. The rush of upside-down trees was dizzying, so he just let his eyes fall closed. Archer knew best, right then. At the very least, his brain didn't seem to be as scrambled as Mariano's was.

He didn't know how long they ran, but a door slammed open. The clatter of wood on wood made Mariano jump, nausea flaring as his surroundings rushed back in. They were in a cabin, rustic and windowless and simply furnished. Darkness closed in around them as the door swung shut.

Were they being chased so doggedly that Archer was willing to face absolute darkness?

Mariano felt himself get set down onto a wooden chair. "Sir Archer, what's happening?" He asked, his voice a hoarse wheeze. Something metallic clicked shut around his throat, and all at once Mariano's magic was pressed beneath his skin.

A chill ran down his spine. "Sir Archer?" He tried again.

Knuckles, armored and unforgiving, slammed into Mariano's nose. He yelped, agony and numbness flooding his face all at once. "Sir Archer, I'm--" His voice rose, confusion pitching it higher. What was wrong? What had he done to upset Archer? so terribly?

He'd never so much as raised his voice before, much less hurting his prince on a whim. He took his duty so seriously, something had to be terribly wrong. Someone was probably threatening him.

"It's, it's okay." Mariano started, voice already thick from the blood that had started to run down his face. He lowered his voice, hoping to sound reassuring. "Whatever they want, I can he--" Another punch this time, even harder as it sailed into his left cheekbone.

Mariano fell to the floor from the force of it, the side of his head knocking against the wood. Before he could say anything else, before he could comfort Archer? further, an armored boot found its forceful home in the softness of his stomach. He couldn't even cry out as he was sent through the abyss that had swallowed them, the vague outline of the door spiraling away until his back hit the wall.

Had Archer? always been strong enough to kick him across the room like that? He was four inches taller, and powerful, but something about it felt off. As Mariano wheezed and curled in on himself, swallowing down blood and bile, he kept trying to reconcile what he was witnessing.

Luis would've been proud.

"Sir Archer, please stop, I'm sorry!" He tried, voice cracking. Maybe whoever was forcing his bodyguard to do this wanted to see him in pain. "Please!"

An awful stomp on his hip forced another strangled noise from Mariano's lips. Something gave under the pressure, a pop echoing quietly amidst the violence. "Shut up." Archer? said, voice stony and cold. "I don't want apologies."

Something was too wrong.

?Archer?'s tone sent ice down Mariano's spine, settling terribly in his stomach. That didn't sound like Archer playing a part. Nothing about this sounded right, but that did sound like Archer when he was truly, sincerely angry.

Try as he might, he couldn't see ?Archer?'s face. Even when hands that had only ever meant safety gripped the front of his shirt and hauled Mariano up to his feet, he couldn't shake the need. What was ?Archer? thinking? What had Mariano unknowingly done to his knight?

Why wasn't he turning on a light?

Wracking his brain, he couldn't think of anything. Not that he had much time, as ?Archer?'s fist found his face again and again, before his knee rammed into Mariano's side to send him sprawling. Stunned, suspicious, confused, Mariano tried to speak and just let out a tiny, airy noise.

?Archer? was silent as he stalked to the other end of the room, heavy steps uncharacteristic. He didn't light any lamps or candles. Instead, ?Archer? came back, the jingling of chains telling Mariano everything he needed to know.

"Sir Archer won't let you get away with this." Mariano mumbled as manacles were clicked shut around his wrists and ankles. He wanted to put more force behind it, more venom, but the blood running down his throat felt impossible to get his anger past.

That awful gauntlet backhanded him. "We'll see." Not Archer said. "But until then, you're mine."

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper

@bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @whumpbees @painful-pooch @raigash

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Hunter walks over, not bothering to wipe his bloody knuckles onto his jeans on the way over. His fingers slip into Lux’s curls. “What do you think of them, my light?”

Two familiar faces greet him when he opens the door. Lux blinks and soaks in every detail of them – hazel eyes, square jaws, tousled brown hair, brilliant grins. The side of his foot braced against the inside of the door shifts slightly, less defensive. “Eli? Ash?”

The twins look even happier to hear he recognizes them. “Hey, man!” Cheers Ash, reaching forward to nudge him on the arm with his fist. “Scried to find you. This place is nice, you did okay for yourself! Man, did you get taller? Your shoulders are huge now – is that scruff? Dude, you got hot.”

Eli pushes his brother out of the way with his shoulder, looking less exuberant. “Lux. Can we come in? It’s been tense out here. We wanted to talk.”

“What a wonderful mind you have.” The hand in those dark curls turns in place as the Hunter moves to crouch down. Lux is tense with fear. He knows what’s coming. His captor loves it. “I wonder what other funny little thoughts you’ve got in there today.”

After a flash of a tense smile at the compliment, careful blue eyes scan behind them and find nothing but a quiet street and noisy crickets. “You’re alone? Not hurt?”

A pair of nods. Ash raises his hands as if surrendering.

The door opens slowly. Lux stands aside, welcoming his old friends with a half-hearted wave. “You can put your shoes over here. We’re about to sit down for dinner. No cursing, please.”

Ash looks surprised to be given instructions. Eli already has his sneakers kicked off and he elbows his twin as a silent, Do the same.

“No cursing? Yeah, I guess you never did, huh?” Says the one who is belatedly wrenching off his shoes without untying them. One of his hands has a tremor to it, some nasty scars woven around his knuckles, and he doesn’t seem willing to use it.

Lux opens his mouth to answer. Before he can, a six-year-old comes bounding into the entryway and crashes into Lux’s hip. He smiles in surprise at the sudden contact and ruffles her frizzy hair.

“Penny, these are some of Daddy’s friends. This is Ash…” He points to the one who just snatched his trembling hand out of sight, “And this… is Eli. Ash, and Eli.” His voice is bubbly with kindness, his words slow and clear to help her remember.

“‘Kay,” Penny chirps. She tugs on his shirt until her dad is stooping down, and then whispers in his ear. Giggles and runs away.

Eli crosses his arms and hums proudly. “Lux, you have a family.”

For the first time since they showed up, Lux grins. It is a broad, easy smile that they’ve never seen on his face before. “Come meet my husband.”

“Forced telepathy… that’s gotta hurt,” Muses the other voice. The screams, really, spoke for themselves. “Can you talk, man?”

“I d-d-don’t kno-ow,” Lux stammers, dipping his head down. He doesn’t know, only can think of the pain, even thinking of it hurts. Noise, light, thoughts, they all hurt. He’s sagged forward in his despair.

The dinner table is loud and bright. Ash gets wrapped up in a conversation with Penny and Emory about some TV show while Eli leans in to speak with Lux. “Thank you for this. It was rude to just show up, we know. You’re really so different now, it’s crazy.”

But Lux seems like he was already off balance to begin with. Already confused.

And, now, Lux is crying to himself. Tears drip from his cheeks and the end of his nose, the way his head is dipped down.

“Oh, hey…” Eli gives his brother a helpless look, shaking his head. They’ve never made someone cry from being confused before.

“Hey… Lux, right? It’s okay, you’re… okay,” Ash says, falling completely flat with offering comfort. “Uh… why’re you crying?”

Lux sniffles, looking terribly small for someone that the twins thought might have an agenda against them. “Nnh, I-I… ‘m s-scared and, and, and m-my head hurts, and I, I don’t kn-know if - if there’s two of y-you… if you’re re-eal… ‘m conf-fused…”

The father smiles somberly. “It took a long time.” His voice is low. When he glances across the table, his husband looks concerned for a second before his expression softens into trust and he returns his focus to Ash’s conversation. “There were a lot of close calls. Stayed safe long enough and I got some more muscle, I guess. Ha.” Lux pats his stomach, squishing the slight weight there like the silly dad he clearly tries to be. “It got peaceful out there, somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention. Now Penny goes to… m-magic book fairs, and magic-themed birthday parties. It’s – I’ve been working on it. Accepting that things are different.”

Now, Eli’s holding Lux’s hand, looking concerned, as Ash tries to help Lux sit up. Lux is sobbing too hard to manage it himself.

His back is in shreds, and his mind has been torn into, and he’s mumbling a string of apologies.

The twins exchange a look.

“Hey, Lux?” Eli says hesitantly, using his voice for the first time since his throat was slashed not an hour ago.

“‘m sorry, s-so, so sorry, c’n be good, I can, I’m s-s-sorry… w-was bad…” Lux’s voice catches and more tears stream down his face. “Sorry, I, g-god, I’m sorry…”

His back is a mess of torn skin and blood, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs, his ribs still broken - they can’t lay him down, on his front or his back.

Eli’s pushing mashed potatoes around with his spoon. “...Yeah. Different. It’s… better, for sure. Lux, have you noticed… anything bad?”

The warlock at the head of the table swallows a sip of water and sets the glass down carefully, his pinky preceding the glass to soften its descent. “Bad?” He’s whispering subtly now. Barely making eye contact. “Like what?”

“Like… Asher’s had these headaches. The bad ones. And with the news…”

“The news, they, they profit off of startling stories, it’s not unusual,” Lux offers uncertainly, repeating a reassurance that Emory gives when he’s nervous. “It’s not… like it used to be.”

“Sure.” His spoon wanders over to the gravy to spread it aimlessly. “So you haven’t had headaches?”

Left with his arms chained up, still feeling scared, wanting more assurances but too nervous to ask for them, Lux keeps quiet as the Hunter approaches Ash.

Then the Hunter touches his hand to Ash’s head, and Ash starts screaming desperately, horror dense in his cries. Lux shakes, looking over to Eli - but Eli’s watching in horror as his brother’s mind is invaded. So Lux curls in on himself as best he can, hides his face against his knees, and tries not to breathe harsh enough to cough. He doesn’t want to draw any more attention to himself than he’s already gotten.

“N-no.” Emory looks over when he hears the stutter, and Lux shakes his head to delay that conversation. To Eli, he whispers more. “No. He’s not… he hasn’t talked to me in a long time. He’s gone. Or… or moved on. M-... maybe he just… changed.”

Penny is bored, slouching in her seat and making her broccoli have a conversation with her pork chops. Emory is laughing with Ash about a favorite singer they have in common and their latest antics on stage.

“Ash woke up hurt the other night. Out of nowhere. No one laid a hand on him.”

Ash is so afraid, he reacts viscerally to contact that’s anything like what happened when his mind was invaded just once.

The Hunter likes it. He touches Ash’s shoulder, then the side of his neck, then his cheek; Ash huffs out frightened breaths, not looking at his captor. The whole world has narrowed down to the precise distance between the Hunter’s hand, and Ash’s temple.

Those fingertips get close, and Ash can’t hold back a quick, quiet, “Please.”

“O-okay,” Lux croaks, looking almost distracted. He is slumped in his seat, now, his jaw tense. “Alright. So… that sounds like…”

“The Hunter.”

The whisper wasn’t as quiet as it could’ve been. Emory’s head snaps up. Penny gets more engrossed in her make-believe dinner conversation. Lux keeps his gaze cast down at nothing and waits until the other conversation slowly picks back up.

Eli grows restless. Shifts in his seat and crushes the sides of the chair with his hands. He needs Lux to talk. His brother has been in pain, has been oddly quiet, has been keeping secrets. Elian hasn’t felt this scared since the months after their escape.

There is a soft, muffled crunch sound from somewhere near Lux. Eli cranes his neck to look for something that could have been crushed under a shoe on the floor, or maybe something made out of sticks that could have fallen and broken.

In his chair, Lux has gone rigid, his eyes closed. He breathes slowly from his nose: long breath in, choppy breath out, long breath in.

Eli slowly focuses on the other warlock. As if he’s creeping down a dark hallway in a scary movie, he reluctantly looks closer at the man’s shoulders. They don’t look any different, but Eli recognizes the pale, terribly still look of Lux when he’s been hurt.

The Hunter snaps his fingers, then, fingers bloody from beating Eli, and Lux screams desperately as his chest blooms with dark hues of black, blue, and purple. There are thuds and popping sounds in his chest, somewhere, and his ribs, broken and healed with magic, snap again.

Eli is still being beaten.

“Stop, you fucking -”

Another snap, and Lux starts coughing and gagging wetly, bringing up blood. He starts digging his heels into the floor, struggling terribly to breathe. Something’s wrong, inside. Wide, wild blue eyes center on the Hunter’s back, then on Ash, pleading silently for help. His strangled, blood-clogged wheezes clash with Eli’s grunts and groans.

This isn’t fair. Lux can’t be hurt. They came here for help, for answers, not to make his life hell again.

Lux isn’t doing anything. He isn’t crying, isn’t trying to get anyone’s attention. Eli watches him quell the quaking of his hands on his armrests, clutching them in a desperate grip.

“Poor darling, it must hurt to shake like that.”

A shiver and a whimper come hand in hand in answer to the taunt. Staying close, his presence surely suffocating, the Hunter lifts a hand to one of those twisted shoulders and traces over the jagged top of the joint, up his tense bicep, following the line of arms twisted far back and held there too long by thick chains. Little more than rope would be necessary, but it’s a thrill to see the little bruised indentations in the warlock’s wrists from the metal links.

“Tell me how it feels, my light.”

His chin is wobbling. “A-... Eli,” Lux breathes, barely loud enough to be heard at all. His eyes are closed.

“Yeah, Lux?”

“I n-... need… you to, to help.” His curls are longer than Eli ever saw them before, long waves now. Those stretched curls are trembling. “My f-family, don’t want ‘em to see, ple-ease…”

“Okay!” Ash announces cheerfully, standing up. “I’m gonna go look for ice cream. You got some?”

Emory stands as well, pushing in his chair and helping Penny out of hers. “Oh. Sure. We’ve got chocolate, vanilla, maybe some popsicles…”

“I want strawberry!” Penny challenges, bounding into the kitchen.

“Well, we can put some strawberries on the vanilla…”

As the three of them leave the room, Lux lets out a hushed, breathless sob. His shoulders shake with stifled whimpers.

“You can’t be good enough to make it stop. There is no point to the pain, this time. I just want to see you in pain. It’s going to get a lot worse, my light, and you’ll feel like you’re going mad. But eventually, I promise, it will be over. Your mind will be different, and your body won’t work how it used to, and you’ll never forget being a shell of a person for me. Are you ready, handsome, for that much pain?”

Shudders tear through him constantly, now. “M-m-mercy, please, please no, mercy, l-let me out, lemme, please, I can’t, I, I’ll be - I’ll do, an-nything…”

Fingers slipping through those curls, bone creaking under the force he’s placing between the warlock’s shoulders.

“I was, was, was wrong.” His skin is terribly pale. Every breath is a battle to keep his shoulders as still as possible. “He’s… it’s him, I don’t… I don’t have to be good.” The affirmation comes out almost as a growl.

“You don’t,” Eli agrees, leaning forward. “Lux, I’m sorry, if we brought this on… what can I do? If I could heal you, if I could…”

“Just… I need to leave. Pen can’t, Emory can’t… I-I won’t let them see this. Help, help me… h-help me go s-somewhere I can, can, somew-where I can…”

Cry. Scream. Shake. Elian swallows past a lump in his throat and nods, standing.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

you ever think about just how terrifying it is for a whumpee to be tied up.

the helplessness they feel when they're not even able to cover themself for protection when someone strikes them. not able to run away from a threat. not even to curl up and writhe from pain. often forced into a position so uncomfortable that they start to cry and tremble from the agony of it.

and just the fact that they're forced to be like this until someone else frees them. be it caretaker or whumper. forced to be vulnerable and rely on others for all their needs (and possible rescue).

and they could stay like that for a long long time, freedom completely stripped away and life forcibly put at a stop.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

The Cycle series | Please Stay (pt.50)

“You shouldn’t have done it.” Daniil’s arms are all scrapes and dark bruises, folded up against his chest. He looks serious and scolding as he lies folded up under the bed to hide.

Simon lies on his stomach, cheek pressed to the floor, one arm stretched out across the carpet to hold Niil’s hand. “What? I’ve been good. I’m not… I’m trying not to make him angry anymore.”

Dark curls curtaining across his face almost enough to hide his pensive eyes, Daniil shakes his head. “The drink. In the office. You should’ve said no. You should’ve run.”

The chill of the air conditioning seems to worsen. Simon shivers. Remembers seeing Niil’s legs around the edge of the desk, hearing soft sounds of discomfort. Master’s clear, deep voice, commanding enough that Simon’s legs had turned to jelly. “Don’t know why I didn’t.” He squeezes the former TA’s hand and inches closer when it’s squeezed back. “It didn’t feel real. I couldn’t, I didn’t even think to leave you like that.” Grazing fingertips along the ridge of Daniil’s cheek, he feels the slick cold of tears.

“I’m sorry you got caught up in this.” In the dark under the bed he scrunches his face up. It looks like he wants to mash his face into the floor with upset but it’s not worth the energy it would take. “It was mine. My problem. Got so much worse, when… if it just stayed how it was, we wouldn’t…”

“Come on, just come out.” Simon pats Daniil’s cheek and then backs away to make room. Takes his friend by the wrist and gently, insistently pulls until they are both out from under the bed. Daniil wobbles on his hands and knees, and doesn’t fight it when Simon pulls him into a hug. He trembles in the embrace, eyes on the door over Simon’s shoulder.

“We shouldn’t,” Whispers Niil, bracing his knees like he wants to pull away. But his chest stays pressed to Simon’s and his arms slide to wrap around his waist tightly. “Si, please don’t get us in trouble.”

A wooden creak down the hallway. In an instant they fly apart from each other, Daniil scrambling to the far side of the room and Simon clambering onto the bed. He adjusts the pillows desperately and shoves against them like Master last saw him, eyes big and blank. On the floor Niil braces his palms against the floor and swallows. Both of them stare at the door, silent and breathing hard.

It is silent. No movement out in the hall. Simon glances at Niil, adjusts to be sitting less like a cowed beaten dog, swallows past a lump of shame in his throat.

The door flies open. Simon flinches back so hard that his head bumps against the headboard. Daniil doesn’t move a muscle. Master crosses the room in a handful of strides and as he rubs his head sorely, Simon gets smaller and averts his gaze.

“Front,” Is all that Master says, and in the two seconds he has before the choice to obey is yanked away from him, Simon flips onto his stomach. He is able to get his legs unfolded and hands up by his head before Master is on him, and then the opportunity to move is gone.

A fist in his hair. His head cranes back so far it hurts, and a glass presses to his lips. Simon’s lips part with a soft gasp and he winces as the drink is sloppily poured, drinking as much as he can.

The burn of the scotch is welcome. He still flinches hard when the glass shatters across the floor.

Master snaps his fingers. Daniil is close seconds later, sitting at the head of the bed. As his sense of orientation and gravity flip around, colors swimming in his vision, Simon blinks up at Daniil as his head is lifted again and placed in his lap.

The warmth and smell of the man he loves is enough of a comfort that he doesn’t much mind what Master is doing. Simon hums dizzily. Whimpers, even, with a pathetic needy hum as Daniil works fingers into his hair.

“If he’s bad, cut him.”

The order is confusing. Meaningless. Until Simon tips his head enough to see a shard of glass in Daniil’s hand, confidently held inches from Simon’s cheek.

As it begins, Simon whines and buries his face in Niil’s lap. He shudders with disgust and works on relaxing, making this as easy as possible.

“Roll,” Says Master, and Simon tries to move his hips to obey. To seem eager about the rocking motions. His hips don’t want to listen. Everything is dizzying and fuzzy.

Daniil pulls his head up by the hair and slashes with the glass. Simon yelps as heat spreads across his right cheek; before he can try to reach for the gash, his head is dropped and with a sob he resorts back to hiding his face.

“Beg.”

“Mmh, plea-,” Simon mutters, twisting to try to be heard. “Please, Mmh…” The pain, the rhythm, the daze, they’re hard to fight through. His scalp burns again at being pulled up by his hair, and this time he manages to lock terrified eyes onto Daniil’s grimly determined ones before the glass slices above his eyebrow.

“Ple-mmh!” He sobs as his head is dropped again. “Please, Master,” He cries, muffled against Niil’s thigh.

“You just can’t stop screwing up. Give him another one.”

Simon expects to be cut again. He shoves hard into Daniil’s lap, trying to escape the punishment, but finds that instead Daniil reaches for something on the nightstand. Trembling, Simon is caught off guard when his head is lifted by a hand under his chin this time, and cool glass presses to his lips.

Another drink. He tries to shake his head, to turn away – how can he obey if he can’t think? – but Niil grips harder and begins pouring. As he wrangles Simon into holding still and drinking, hunching down over him, Daniil manages to whisper by his ear, “It’s okay. Just drink it. It’ll get easier. I’m here, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Master groans in approval when Daniil pulls back, and Simon flops again, and relaxes against his will. Like it’s his drugged liquor and presence that whipped Simon into shape. As Simon melts into Daniil and takes shaky, deep breaths, he thinks of Niil’s words over and over again. I’m here. I’ve got you.

It starts to hurt less. He gets less commands, but still fails to obey them well enough – each cut across his face is less of a burst of agony, until they only feel cold-hot and weird. Each time his head is lifted, his blown pupils can barely make sense of Daniil’s pretty, concerned face.

Time melts and slides. Simon groans, trying to shift, only to find he is shivering. His face throbs hotly, sticking to the floor and his hand. He’s fallen off the bed, near the glass, shards of it making his thigh and stomach itch.

Maybe he was thrown off. There’s movement up there. Simon squints.

Master is on Daniil. Niil’s on his back, Master’s face buried in his neck, biting his lip hard.

Simon watches dizzily as it slows to a stop. He hasn’t been in the room with the two of them doing this, yet. He expects to see nothing more, for Daniil to be trapped under Master’s weight all night. But Niil carefully drags himself out from under Master, who doesn’t complain. Arranges Master’s limbs to be more comfortable and pulls the blankets over him. Adjusts the pillows beneath his head, pulls his glass of water closer on the nightstand.

Daniil limps so quietly over to the armoire and pulls out a pair of pajama pants to step into. He grabs another bundle of cloth and crosses to Simon, kneeling gingerly and tugging on his ankle to straighten out the first leg.

“Wha-...” Groans Simon, until a hand presses over his mouth. His brows furrow in confusion.

“Shh.” The next leg is guided into the fuzzy pants, and then Simon is being pulled up to his feet. He stifles a whimper on the way out of the room, allowing Niil to take most of his weight.

They get out of Master’s room and all the way to the second bedroom, where Niil sets him down on the floor. “I think he’d like you in the cage, but it might creak,” Daniil whispers, lowering a thin blanket across Simon’s shivering form. “So when he comes in tomorrow, make sure to stay put and be extra good. Okay? And I… I’m gonna go back in there.”

That draws a worried frown across Simon’s numb face. “Why? Just stay, please stay…”

A shake of those pretty curls, that tired face darkening. “Don’t make it harder. You can get to the bathroom if you need it? Get water?”

“Mmh… yeah. Niil, please…”

He’s gone before Simon can form the words to selfishly, stubbornly ask Niil to hold him again.

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