#Aftermath of Torture

[martyr-inthedark]

Favorite Food

Tw: food whump, aftermath of torture, unreliable narrator, unreality

"Whumpee, what is your favorite food?"

Whumpee's eyes snapped to look up towards Whumper (not at him, never to look at him).

"S-sorry, sir?" It's best to ask for clarification than to do anything too soon. It was a lesson that caused Whumpee to chip a few too many teeth. Their heart pounded in their ears. It's been so long since they've heard their own name.

"I said," Whumper's fingers tapped the table he was sitting at, and his nose crinkled, "Whumpee, what is your favorite food?"

Dread swelled in Whumpee's chest. There was a right answer, surely. They took a breath, a whimper escaping their throat. Did they really have a say? Was this just another trick? A test Whumpee was doomed to fail? There were two options. They could be honest, and risk Whumper ruining another part of their identity. Or, they could lie, and Whumper could punish them for lying (he knew every time, the bastard-).

"Everything okay?" An intense blush filled Whumpee's pale face. Shit. Shit, they took too long. There was a right answer to this riddle. There had to be.

"Sorry, my lord. I am only deserving of what you give me," Whumpee finally choked out. They did not see but rather felt Whumper's eyes fall on their face for the first time all day. They could do nothing under his gaze except tremble on their knees and silently pray for mercy. They sat listening to the gentle 'hmph' from their master.

Whumpee flinched when Whumper stroked their hair, their first sign of affection in a long time. Whumpee wilted into their hand as cold finger tips traced down the side of their head, pushing hair behind their ear, falling down their cheek and finally landing under their chin. Whumpee's lip trembled as their gaze was directed to Whumper's fierce expression.

"Oh, my poor doll," Whumper tsked. Whumpee's new tears followed the same route Whumper's fingers did just moments before. "Whumpee, what is your favorite food?"

"I'm sorry," Whumpee started, mostly to soothe the risk that Whumper was getting frustrated with them, but also to buy themselves a moment to think. They had not thought of their favorite food in so long, after realizing that going home was not an option (anything to ease the pain of loss). Thinking back to a time that felt far away, it came to them, what they missed most. "I'm s-my apologies, sir. Um. I really love... it's hard to pick. Potato soup, or really any soup. Mostly potatoes. Sir."

"That's really interesting." Whumper let go of their chin and their eyes finally fell to their rightful place on the floor.

"Sorry," Whumpee whispered, falling quiet once more. They braced themselves for a bitter insult, a smack on the back of the head, anything, and nothing ever came. They continued to silently cry. What was Whumper going to do? They answered the question. Was it right? The not-knowing was killing them. How could they be good for Master if they didn't know what he wanted?

...

Evening rolled around and Whumper beckoned Whumpee to sit at the table. Dinner had been set, and Whumpee sank into their seat, not wishing to further annoy their master. It wasn't unusual for Whumper to want Whumpee to sit with them. However, it was rare that they had a plate or bowl, and the conversation from earlier still haunted their day. Whumper gestured, and Whumpee lifted the cover off their meal, and—

Potato soup.

Slack-jawed and wide-eyed they dared to look up at Whumper. This wasn't for them, it couldn't be. Whumper had already started eating, and though he had his mouth full, he commanded Whumpee to eat. Tears swelled in their eyes and they shook their head. They weren't supposed to eat until Master was done.

"Whumpee," Whumper warned.

Whumpee flinched. Whumper's chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. Whumpee shuttered at every slow step toward them. Finally, Whumper crouched down below Whumpee, taking their quivering hands.

"Look at me, sweetheart," Whumper said, gently stroking Whumpee's forearm. Whumpee sniffled and did as asked. Whumpee, for the first time all day, saw Caretaker's loving and concerned eyes. "The soup is for you, Whumpee. Just for you. You can eat it, or not eat it. Whenever you want. If you want to wait for me to leave, that is okay. If you want to eat it now, that is okay, too. Your decision is safe here, okay?"

Whumpee nodded, and wept. And they wept hard. No sniffles. No simple tears. They properly wept as Whumper-no-Caretaker pulled their starving frame into a hug.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I'm so sorry, Caretaker." All Whumpee could do was breathe out the words between sobs. They never felt more broken, more irreparable, than right there in the reality of Caretaker's arms.

"I know, doll, I know. You don't have to be."

"I thought—I must be an awful person—I thought you were him."

"You're okay. You're not in trouble. I'm glad you see me, now. I'm glad you're here."

Whumpee felt sick of themselves. They wished for a day they could wake up in the morning and feel whole. They wished for a day they weren't afraid of blinking wrong. They wished for a day where they could just eat their favorite food and it not be cold from waiting on them to get over their meltdown.

[whumblr]

Can we talk about one of the overlooked duties in a Caretaker's life? Informing the others what happened to Whumpee afterwards? Because it's a whole 'nother flavour of angst that I'm here for.

Caretaker having to call Whumpee's partner, family, friends. Bonus if they call from Whumpee's phone and they hear a cheerful 'hey love' or 'why you calling so late', and the tone just shifts when they hear a shaky voice that's not Whumpee's.

"Are they okay?!" And Caretaker turns to the still figure in the hospital bed and goes: "Well, they're alive and out of danger."

Maybe Caretaker just breaks, their own pent up stress and fear finally releasing, and they're sobbing on the phone, either in relief or in "I don't know if they're going to be okay." "Please come quick."

Or a calm "They're going to be fine." Long pause. "Physically."

[mj-iza-writer]

Whumptober Day 30

Recovery - Hospital Bed - Holding Back Tears - "What have I done?"

Warning amputation... quadruple amputation.

Quiet moans left Whumpee's lips as Caretaker adjusted them to a sitting position and tucked pillows around them to keep them sitting up.

"How are you feeling this morning?", Caretaker sat down in a chair next to the bed, "did you sleep well?"

"S-still sore from the procedures", Whumpee whispered, "I still feel them", Whumpee's eyes began to water.

Caretaker reached for a tissue, and dotted at Whumpee's eyes.

"I know" Caretaker sighed, they looked down at what was left of Whumpee's arms and legs. They had been removed by a madman with a power saw. After their rescue, doctors had to go in and correct the amputated limbs, making the stubs even shorter.

"Is it okay if I apply the medicine ointment now for you?", Caretaker smiled weakly, "I know those phantom pains are horrible. Would a little massage help you?"

Whumpee shook as they tried not to cry, they nodded to let Caretaker start.

"Here take a drink first my dear", Caretaker reached for a cup and placed the straw to Whumpee's lips.

Whumpee took small sips, they felt their was a knot in their throat.

Caretaker set the cup down and cupped Whumpee's cheek.

"You don't have to hold back tears in front of me.... you know that right? You have every right to cry, scream, and be angry. What that person did to you... what they took from you... I understand. You are uncomfortable and trying to be brave, but you don't have to do that, not any more."

Whumpee huffed a few times, trying to contain themself. They looked down over themself. Their missing arms and legs. Just stumps.

"Wh... why did this happen... who does this to someone?", Whumpee whispered, "please Caretaker. Help me understand?"

Caretaker looked over them, "I know you are use to me being the fix all the problems person. I unfortunately don't think I can fix this with just talking, and I don't think I have the words that can even start explaining how sorry I am that this happened to you. The guilt I feel that I wasn't their to protect you. I'm so sorry."

Whumpee sniffled a little.

"Can I, can I have a hug", Whumpee whispered.

"Yes you can absolutely have a hug", Caretaker stood from their chair and leaned over the bed, "you know you can always have hugs."

Caretaker lifted Whumpee up and pulled them close.

"I'm here for you. I will help you to the best of my abilities", Caretaker cuddled Whumpee, "I promise you."

Whumpee nodded. They buried their face into Caretaker's shoulder and started to cry.

Caretaker gently ran their hand up and down Whumpee's back.

After a few minutes Whumpee looked up.

"H-how am I supposed to live like this. The doctors already said prosthetics wouldn't work for me. I can't even correctly ride in the car."

Caretaker nodded, "well, in a few days, we will receive a harness seatbelt. This will be able to be installed into any cars you ride in. It will keep you safe", Caretaker started to lay Whumpee back down, "for everything you can't do... you have me to help you. Oh, and you will get a few nurses to help you as well. You'll have one every other day."

Caretaker started to massage the ointment on, "after this and breakfast, what would you like to do? We have some free time today."

"I don't know", Whumpee watched them, "I don't have a lot of energy right now."

"Well I get that. We can have a low energy day if you like. How about we find a series to watch. I'll order some snacks and drinks; we can cuddle if you like", Caretaker smiled.

"I don't know if I can stay awake long enough to watch movies", Whumpee started to get upset again.

Caretaker looked at them with concern, "hey", they whispered.

"I'm sorry", Whumpee sobbed, "I don't... I don't mean to be mean, but..."

"Whumpee you don't have to feel bad or anything. If you are not feeling up to it, that's fine. I'm just talking out loud for if you wanted to do something", Caretaker smiled, "we don't have to do anything at all if you don't want to. I will quite literally sit beside you all day and keep you company or climb in that hospital bed to cuddle with you if you want me to. Anything you want."

Whumpee sniffled a little, causing Caretaker to grab another tissue.

"Cuddles would be nice", Whumpee hiccuped from crying.

"Yeah, we can cuddle. I'll get breakfast in you, then you can pick where we will cuddle", Caretaker smiled, "do you want me to read to you?"

"No", Whumpee looked down, "can we just talk? Like we use to."

"Yes absolutely", Caretaker nodded.

Caretaker laid Whumpee into their bed. Then climbed in with them.

"Alright scoochie, scooch", Caretaker joked as they squeezed in. Whumpee's bed had guard rails on the side so they wouldn't roll out. This made their bed a little snug.

They laid on their side and hugged Whumpee close to them.

One hand wrapped around Whumpee in a hug. Caretaker played with Whumpee's hair with their other hand.

"What do you want to talk about?", Caretaker smiled, they leaned in and placed a gentle kiss to Whumpee's forehead, "I'm all ears."

"Anything except for the amputation", Whumpee sighed, "but I might warn you. I may fall asleep."

"That's fine", Caretaker chuckled, "you need your rest. I may fall asleep as well. We can have a sleep day today."

Caretaker thought for a few moments.

"Ah, I know. That writer you like.. they are coming out with a new book, and I've already pre-ordered it for us", Caretaker smiled, "while you were resting in the hospital I went ahead and read the series as quickly as I could to get an idea of what was going on. I am completely caught up, and I understand why you enjoy the series."

Whumpee's eyes twinkled, "you did?"

"Yes we still have a month or so until it ships to us, but we can read it together if you like" Caretaker smiled, "or if you want, I'll help flip the pages for you while you read. I'll read it after you're done. Whichever you want."

"That would be fun to read it together", Whumpee smiled.

Caretaker grinned, that was the first smile since the accident.

Caretaker watched as Whumpee's eyes closed and opened again.

"I think you are getting tired", Caretaker sat up for a blanket.

"I think so to", Whumpee smiled weakly as Caretaker pulled the blanket up and covered them both.

"I think I am too", Caretaker yawned back, "do you want your bed back, or do you want me to stay here?"

"Please, will you stay with me", Whumpee pleaded.

"Yes of course I will" Caretaker went back to playing with Whumpee's hair, "I'll stay right here for as long as you need me to... I promise."

Whumpee nodded.

Caretaker left another gentle kiss on Whumpee's forehead when they finally fell asleep.

'I'm so sorry', Caretaker thought to themself as they cupped Whumpee's cheek, 'you have been through something I would never wish on anyone. You are being so brave, but I know you Whumpee. You are so scared. Even a little ashamed. You are always so self-conscious.'

Caretaker lovingly watched them sleep.

"I love you so much", Caretaker whispered, causing Whumpee sleepily smile.

Caretaker leaned up one last time to kiss Whumpee's forehead.

"I promise... everything is alright."

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all.

@villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived

@sacredwrath @porschethemermaid

@monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz

@bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13

@notpeppermint @cyborg0109

@idontreallyexistyet @painfulplots

@whumpbump @everythingsscary

@skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr

@theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee

@candleshopmenace @whumpanthems

@lavndvrr @ivymyers

@starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

@lumpofsand @watermeezer

@indigoviolet311 @whumpy-mountains

@3-2-whump @risk606

@electrons2006 @paperprinxe

@whumprince @kaz-of-crows

@mis-graves @decaffeinatedtimetraveler94

@sausages-things @ragin-cajun-fangirl

@isikedmyself878 @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud

@valravnthefrenchie @glennemerald

@jasperthecapser @does-directions

@deafeninglittlecrown @jumpywhumpywriter

@blackbirdsinatrenchcoat @mylifeisonthebookshelf

@thenormalestever @whatwhump

@galatic-worm

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 3 Part 3

Again the winner of last week's poll! There won't be a poll this week because I'm planning something a bit different. I hit 1000 followers this past week and have been wracking my brain about how to celebrate! Wasn't up for doing prompts or adding more projects to my list, though, so I didn't want to go that route.

But I did come up with something that I think everyone will really enjoy. Especially those of you who have been voting for Carry Your Heart (I see you in the tags!). So look out for that post.

In addition, I've just posted the first chapter of Arc 2 on AO3! Link below.

Story Summary: Jack and Maddie install a new ghost shield on the house which activates the moment Danny tries to step into his home. His secret is out and his parents are determined to excise the ghost from their son.

Luckily Danny isn't alone. The Young Justice, Sam, Tucker, and Jazz aren't going to leave him to suffer.

Arc 1: AO3

Arc 2: AO3 (incomplete); Tumblr - First, Final

Arc 3: First, Previous

Word Count: 1.4k

-----

Fire rushing through him jolted Danny awake. His back arched as he cried out. He screwed his eyes tight, not wanting to see what torture his parents were going to come at him with next when he realized what the sound of his cry meant: the muzzle was gone.

As were the restraints. And he was lying on something soft. Trying hard not to hope, he opened his eyes.

Sam and Jazz were leaning over him, concern clear on their faces. They were in some sort of ambulance or van.

“How are you feeling,” demanded Sam.

Danny took a moment to answer, his chest was pure agony. He didn’t even want to think what it would feel like to sit up. And even past that, everything was sore. Though the fire that had woken him up had dissipated, the tell-tale feel of ecto-dejecto. “Pretty much the worst I’ve ever felt,” he answered honestly.

Sam and Jazz both winced and his sister grabbed his hand. He squeezed her fingers weakly.

At the foot of his bed stood Tim in full Red Robin getup and Kon as Superboy.

He couldn’t hold back the smile as he met Tim’s gaze. “You came,” he said.

Tim didn’t smile back, but some tension eased out of his shoulders. “I always will,” he said. “Been telling you that since we were ten years old.”

“I know. I’ve always known. Thank you.”

Jazz squeezed his hand again and he looked at her. “Red Robin and Superboy are going to take you away from here. Robin will help you recover.”

Sam nodded. “Yep. And the rest of us are gonna focus on making sure Amity is safe for ghosts once and for all.”

Danny shook his head. “I should be there with you guys, fighting.”

“Nope!” interrupted Jazz. “Not even a little. You’re going to focus on getting better, got it, Danny? That’s all we want from you.”

“But the ghosts—”

Sam covered his mouth with her hand. “Stop it right there. Tucker is working with Impulse and Wonder Girl to get the portal locked up. No one will be coming through. No one—ghost or human—will be in any danger while you’re gone. I promise.”

Danny slumped into the bed. Even the slight change in position caused waves of pain to radiate from his chest even through the healing ice he could feel implanted in his body. He whimpered and closed his eyes until the throbbing receded just a bit. “I trust you. I do, it’s just…”

“You’re used to taking care of everyone,” finished Jazz for him. “We know. So let us take care of you for a change. We love you, Danny.”

“Love you, too, Jazz. Sam.”

“Be good for bird-brain there, got it?” ordered Sam.

Danny gave her a half-smile. “Are Tim and I ever good together?”

She laughed. “Well, don’t burn down Gotham, capiche?”

“Capiche.”

“We have to go now,” said Jazz.

Danny gripped her hand tighter. “Don’t leave me.”

Jazz winced, but leaned down to kiss his forehead. “We need to make sure the Guys in White aren’t going to get involved further. And you need to get someplace safe.”

Danny huffed a half laugh. “Gotham is safe?”

Jazz rolled her eyes at his poor attempt at a joke. “For you it is. Now, I’m leaving Red and Superboy with a case full of ectoplasm for you and our entire supply of ecto-dejecto. I just gave you your first injection. Please try and eat something and drink your ectoplasm regularly.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Jazz.”

Jazz sniffed and it was only then that Danny realized it was wetter than usual and her eyes were watery. He tried not to feel bad for his jokes when she replied, “Yes, it is whatever I say. Glad you agree.”

Sam cackled, and now that he was paying attention, Danny could hear the hysterical edge to it. “You’d better text us multiple times a day, ghost boy. Don’t try and lie to us, either. Kon’ll tell me the truth about your condition. And as soon as we can arrange it, we’re coming out your way for a visit.”

“Course I will, Sam. Give Tuck my best?”

“Duh. He wishes he could’ve come with us, you know.”

Danny nodded. “But he’s better with the tech stuff and that is just as time sensitive.”

“Yeah. Now, get some sleep,” Sam ordered. “You’ve got a long drive ahead of you.”

Danny gave the rote answer after too many all-nighters taking care of ghost attacks before school, “I’m dead, I don’t need sleep.”

His sister squeezed his hand. “Ghosts who just went through what you did need their sleep. Love you, Danny. Get well and I’ll see you soon.”

“Love you, Jazz.”

She kissed his forehead one more time, followed by Sam. And with another two rounds of farewells and love yous, he was alone with Tim and Kon.

“Thanks for coming,” he said again.

“Obviously we weren’t going to leave you there,” said Kon. “Being a lab subject isn’t fun. Especially not that kinda lab experiment.”

Danny couldn’t quite hold back the flinch at that description. It was accurate, but blunt.

Tim walked over until he was sitting by Danny’s bed. “Just listen to Jazz and get some rest. We’re going to be taking the long route to Gotham by going south to start. If we stop for food in a few hours, think you could handle a smoothie?”

Danny shrugged and bit back a yawn. “Could try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Kon moved towards the front of the vehicle as well. “Looks like it’s time for us to skedaddle. I’ll keep the road from jostling you, ghost-boy.”

Danny gave a small smile and let his eyes close. As he did, he tried to mumble his thanks and he hoped it came across.

---

The next time he woke was more gentle. Someone was tapping on his shoulder and calling his name. But even so, as he was pulled closer to awareness, the pain made itself more and more known. He tried to cling to the darkness, but the tapping wasn’t stopping, nor was the person calling him.

He blinked open his eyes to see Tim’s concerned face. He wasn’t wearing the domino anymore, or his costume. Just a sweatshirt and jeans.

“Hey, Danny,” said Tim. “I’m going to need you to try and eat a bit right now. Kon got us those smoothies I mentioned. I’ve also got yogurt if that’ll be easier for you. But the smoothie will have more nutrients.”

Danny closed his eyes. He wasn’t hungry and didn’t want to eat. Why did Tim have to bring him back to consciousness for this? He hurt and just wanted to sink back into oblivion.

The tapping on his shoulder began again. “I know, Danny. But you have to eat something. And you should take some ectoplasm, too. So just stay awake for a few minutes.”

“Mm ‘wake,” said Danny without opening his eyes. He shifted his weight, hoping to push himself up to eat, only to scream in pain as his chest protested any movement.

“Shit! Don’t move,” said Tim too late. “I’ve got a spoon here. I’ll feed it to you, okay? So just stay exactly where you are.”

Danny gripped his sheets, unable to do anything else as wave after wave of pain over took him. Tim kept up a litany of reassurances and stroked his hair. Eventually, Danny was able to think past it again.

“Don’t think I can sit up,” said Danny.

“Of course not,” agreed Tim. He held a styrofoam cup between his knees and carefully took off the lid and straw. “Just let me. Take at least a few bites. Swallow as is, don’t try and chew. Just do what you can, okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Danny and Tim fed him the first bite.

Danny hated this. Hated it so much. Here he was being spoon fed like a baby all because his parents… He shut his eyes and took the next bite. He wasn’t going to finish that thought. Tim was here and that’s what mattered.

Danny wasn’t sure how much he ate, but it couldn’t have been much. His eyelids were getting heavier and heavier and the pull of oblivion stronger.

“Wait, Danny. Stay awake just a little longer, okay?”

Danny groaned but forced his eyes open again.

Tim showed him a bottle of ectoplasm. “Just a few swallows of this, too. Okay?”

He didn’t want to. He’d rather just go to sleep again, but he opened his mouth obediently. By the time he finished his third spoonful, he couldn’t fight it anymore and slumped into the bed. The pain receded back into blackness for a time.

-----

Next

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Danny is going to be getting all the comfort throughout this. All of them will, tbh. Because no one is happy and they all need a hug or five.

Let me know what you think!

[aceofwhump]

Torchwood 4x07 "Immortal Sins"

[chaotic-orphan]

hello there!

ive been scouraging whumpblr end to end and stumbled across your masterpiece of a story- heroic betrayal. I have become rather deeply obsessed with your beautiful writing, and was merely wondering, if you would, perhaps, by any chance, write another wonderful part to the story, perchance? >o<

Heroic Betrayal (XI)

Read part one // Masterpost // continued from here

A little Flynn centric chapter? Mind into the betraying, backstabbing bastard?? Hmm?? More likely than you think👀 also… so sorry it’s late, I was on an adventure today <3

[whoops sorry, I meant to publish this in reply to the ask - which, thank you Nonny for reaching out, I'm delighted you enjoyed and you found it at a great time because the next part was to be updated today! XD]

*~*~*~*~*

Flynn led Morgan with his hand in hers, an arm around her waist in case her legs buckled or a sudden drop in energy gripped her. He wanted to be sure she stayed standing and if he she couldn’t, make sure she was close enough for him to catch and keep her on her feet.

Halfway up the stairs Morgan stopped walking. Flynn looked at her.

“Why— I thought we were watching a movie,” she said with a pout, her pupils nearly eclipsing the beautiful colour of her eyes. It turned Flynn’s stomach.

“We are,” he told her, forcing a smile on his face. “I have a TV in my room.”

Morgan stumbled back a step with a shake of her head. Her eyes widened as she almost slipped off the step with a startled sharp breath. Flynn hooked his arm tighter around her waist, pulling her flush against him before she could fall backwards.

Her wide eyes exposed her blown pupils, her brows crinkled in relief as she gazed up at him. “Thank you,” she breathed.

Flynn’s heart stuttered in his chest. He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

He started making the way up the stairs again when Morgan protested again. Her brows furrowed. “But… the movie,” she said, her voice pained.

Flynn nodded. “We can watch it in my room,” he repeated patiently. Morgan shook her head and went to pull back again. Flynn’s grip tightened. “Morgan—”

“Please,” she said, her voice light and airy and painted with a deep sadness. “Please, I don’t want to go back to a room, can’t we— can we…” she trailed off, her brows forming a groove over her eyes, casting them in shadows. Her eyes themselves glazed over, losing her trail of thought. “I…”

Flynn didn’t need her to explain what she was about to say. He could feel her confusion, the fogginess of her mind clouded by the painkillers Supervillain gave her. He clenched his jaw, hands tightening around Morgan. She didn’t… fuck, she didn’t deserve this. Any of this.

“We can watch it downstairs,” he said softly. Morgan’s confusion cleared, replaced with a light happiness like the sun that revealed itself from the parted clouds after a storm.

“Really?” She asked, excitement replacing the fog. Flynn swallowed.

“Yeah. Really.”

They started their descent which was more difficult than their ascent, but they made it to the bottom without Flynn having to carry Morgan down. Something he knew she would hate him for when she sobered up tomorrow. God, what a mess. He never… he never thought that Dad would take it this far, that he—

Flynn never saw him as terrifying as he did today. When Morgan just had to keep pushing until he snapped. Flynn should have… he should have done more! Done something, stopped him. If he knew— if he knew what the result would be he—

He almost scoffed at himself. Those were a cowards thoughts, something he and Morgan could agree on tomorrow when she was herself again and hating him. But he didn’t want her to hate him. He wanted to be like how they were, even though he knew it was impossible as he led her past the basement and across the front door into their giant living room.

Morgan paused again, gasped. “Holy… what the…” Flynn looked at her and he wished he didn’t. The child like awe on her face at seeing Flynn’s favourite room in the house was something he wished he could picture and frame and hold forever in his head.

Morgan was always stunning, but looking at her without any of the stress of life on her shoulders, without any hatred or pain in her expression Flynn felt his chest tighten at the sight. The sun shining in from the floor to ceiling windows bounced off her silvery white hair, making it glow like a halo around her head. It bounced off her pale skin too, making her radiant and other worldly as she took in everything.

Flynn turned his head to follow her line of sight, hoping to find the wonderment she felt, but his gaze always trailed back to Morgan. She was far more stunning to look at.

“Your TV is massive,” she said with a soft laugh, as if in disbelief. She started walking and Flynn walked with her, but it was as if the room had steadied her, like it put her under a different trance and lured her towards the beige leather couches a few feet in front of the TV.

She giggled as she settled into the couch, her eyes taking a mischievous glint that Flynn registered too late. She pulled at his hand and yanked him down. Caught by surprise, Flynn lost his balance. One hand shot out to the back of the couch so he didn’t fall straight on her while Morgan laughed under him, grinning as he steadied himself with a knee on the couch beside her hip.

“Morgan,” he said, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. She grinned up at him, eyes glinting with the same mischief as before. She wrapped her legs around his hips and moved him until he was lying on top of her on the couch, supported by his elbows. “Morgan, I—”

She shook her head. Her expression softened as she reached a hand up to cup his cheek. Flynn swallowed as he felt the calluses from her palms stroke his cheek from years of training with her blades. He should get up, he should get up.

He should really get up.

He didn’t want to get up.

“I missed you,” she whispered. Quietly, almost imperceptible, but Flynn heard it and it may as well have been thunder cracking across the sky for how loud her words were. His brows furrowed over his eyes, eyes pained as he looked down at her.

“Morgan…” Flynn said, his voice cracking with emotion. He knew the subtle shift in her expression that she wore when she was going to kiss him. She leaned up but Flynn stopped her. He grabbed her wrist, gently pulled it from his face and pressed a kiss to her knuckles as he sat back on her hips, knees straddling either side of her.

A look of hurt flashed across her features and she turned her head away, a tinge of red bloomed on her cheeks. Flynn swallowed the lump in his throat as he climbed off her. She curled in on herself as he did, staring down dazed at her right hand that was wrapped in thick bandages.

“What kind of movie would you like?” Flynn asked, grabbing the remotes and coming back to the couch to sit beside her. Morgan just stared, slightly flexing the tops of her fingertips.

“He stabbed me through the hand,” she murmured, her voice distant, faraway. Flynn closed his eyes. Gods. “I… I can’t feel the connection to my blades.”

Her eyes flashed to Flynn’s, ensnaring his attention within her gaze.

“I… I feel empty, wrong. Like he… he- severed—” her bottom lip trembled as she cut herself off and she turned back to look at her hand, at her twitching fingers. The only movement she could make. “I can’t feel them.”

Flynn stood and turned to kneel in front of her. Watery green eyes met his, looking more like glass that was so thin even a breath could shatter them.

He grabbed her good hand in his. “Morgan, it’s just whatever painkillers he gave you, okay? Your body is exhausted and it probably doesn’t have any energy left to use your powers.”

“But… but I can always feel them,” she whispered. And her voice. Oh gods, she sounded so scared. “There’s-” she gasped, shaking her head as she started to sit up. “No, no, no. There’s something wrong. He… he—”

Flynn followed her up into her sitting, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of her hand.

“He… oh gods, Flynn,” she said. She couldn’t contain the tears anymore as she broke down. Tears that had pooled in her eyes spilled over her eyelids and down her face in sudden, swift streams. She lurched forwards and wrapped her arms around Flynn’s neck and pulled at him, pulled him closer, sobbing into his shoulder as he held her. He put his hand over her shoulder to avoid her bandaged head and pulled her from the couch into his lap.

“I can’t— I can’t… I can’t, Flynn, I- I…” she whimpered while Flynn held her as tightly as he could without hurting her. He felt his own face burn with shame as he heard her cries and the violence of her back convulsing with the force of her wails.

“I know, I know. It’s just the drugs, Morg—”

Morgan pulled back sharply, her eyes glistening with tears as she shook her head. “No, I can’t… I can’t stay here anymore. Please… please, I can’t. I- I-”

Flynn was glad when Morgan closed the distance between them and buried her head in his shoulder again so she couldn’t see the expression on his face. If she could she would have seen his heart break on his face, his guilt draining all colour from his cheeks followed by the familiar sharp, burning red of shame.

He tightened his arms around her. He reached for her mind, and regretted it instantly. It was all jumbled chaos and fretful, fleeting thoughts. If he could just… just lessen her pain for a little while, so she didn’t have to feel so—

No.

No, gods fucking no. That was so wrong. So sick. It wasn’t Morgan he cared about if he did that. That would only be good for him. She deserved to express her emotions exactly as she felt them.

How many times had he thought to carelessly traipse through her head like he was welcomed there? Even before this, Morgan barely tolerated it, but now… in her state, it would be a betrayal more monstrous than bringing her here.

He felt so helpless to soothe her. What could he say? I’ll help you escape? I’ll get you out of here? He… he couldn’t…

He…

Morgan needed to be out of the way if Supervillain’s plan was to go ahead, and it must. It would only be a few weeks, a couple months at most and then Morgan would be let go. She would be released and all this would be like a bad dream.

Flynn could… he could make it seem like it was just a bad dream she had. If she wanted, and only if she wanted. He couldn’t— no he wouldn’t use his power on her again without her permission. Dad and Villain took what they wanted from her, and forced her to do what they wanted. Flynn had to be different.

If she was to ever trust him again, he had to be better.

Morgan lay boneless against Flynn’s chest, her sobs died and gave way to heavy deep breaths. Flynn held her tight, cradled to his chest like a child his chin resting on her head.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Flynn blinked surprised. She drew lines with her fingers over his breastbone, tracing invisible patterns over the fabric of his hoodie. “I’m sorry for what I said about your mother… I was… I was angry and I—”

Flynn tightened his arms around and let out a sigh. “You don’t have to apologise, Morgan. I know. I understand.”

“I shouldn’t have said it,” she said, her voice clogged with the thick, viscous emotion that sticks to the throat like toffee and early morning grogginess that follows crying. “Especially in anger, I knew it would hurt you.”

Flynn said nothing for a moment. What was there to say? Should he apologise for all the awful things that he’s said and done to her, they’d be here for hours.

“You were hurting too, Morgan,” Flynn said softly. “It makes sense that you’d lash out with words. It’s the only thing you can do here.”

“It was below the belt.”

“And what Dad did to you isn’t?” Flynn asked with a scoff.

Morgan let out a breath of a laugh. “I guess, but I—”

“You don’t have to apologise to me, Morg. I’m sorry that I was distant and cold. I know that I’m your only friend here and I should’ve—”

A rough palm on his face silenced him. He looked down at Morgan, into her crystal clear green eyes that were as magnificent as the dead sea. She didn’t say anything. Instead, she leaned up and pressed her lips to his.

Her lips were salty from tears and Flynn wanted nothing more than to kiss her back fervently but she was high on pain meds and she would hate him if they—

She pulled away after a short, sweet moment and Flynn stared down at her, his shock evident on his face. She smiled warmly at him.

“I won’t give out to you tomorrow for it,” she said softly. “I just… needed to. I don’t want to fight anymore. I—”

She glanced down at her bandaged hand, wiggled her fingertips. “I understand now. I get it. I’ll stop fighting everything.”

She looked at him through her lashes. “I’ll stop fighting you. We can… we can go back to how things were, can’t we?”

Flynn stared at her, lost for words as her eyes glazed with tears again. “Please, I’m— I need you to—”

Flynn cut her off by pressing his lips to hers, fiercely. Wet tears hit Flynn’s cheeks as he stood, catching Morgan’s legs under the knees. She pulled back and gasped at the sudden movement, as Flynn turned and lay Morgan down on the couch. Her smile twitched at the sides, drawing up at the corners into a smirk, hands hooked around his neck and pulled him down on top of her again.

Flynn grinned against her lips, hand on her hip as hers wandered into the back of his hair and pulled him down further. They pulled away, breaths mingling between the inch of space between them.

“You are so beautiful,” he told her and Morgan swallowed.

“I missed your hair,” she said with a giggle, twirling a piece of his fiery red hair between her fingers. Flynn smirked.

“Is that all you missed?”

She hooked a leg around his thigh and pulled their bodies impossibly closer. She laughed at the surprise that blanketed his expression before smashing her lips to his again, smiling against them. He tightened his grip on her hip as his other hand travelled to her cheek before he broke the kiss.

“No,” she said. “I missed your smile.” Flynn swore his lungs stopped working as she reached up and traced her thumb over his bottom lip. Something shifted in her expression as she stared up at him, her eyes suddenly faraway. “Your real smile.”

“Morgan…” he said with a sigh. She closed her eyes as he took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips.

“I know,” she whispered. “I… I know. I know now, I do. For you, for Sidekick,” she glanced at her bandaged hand. “For… for myself, I know now. I promise.”

Flynn had the sudden urge to break something. He wanted to tell her that she shouldn’t have to know. She shouldn’t have to be here, but she… if he could ask her to stay out of it, and she would, they would have never have had to go to these extreme measures.

Flynn didn’t say any of that. Instead he gazed down at her and smiled, exposing his dimple. “What movie do you want to watch?”

She grinned up at him.

Flynn closed his eyes, his head hanging. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes!” She said, her eyes alive with mischief. “I get to choose. You asked me, and Supervillain said I can’t sleep so…”

“Anything but that, Morgan, please.”

“If I have to suffer here, so do you.” Flynn laughed as he climbed off her and grabbed the remotes.

“Fair enough.”

They watched Twilight. Halfway through New Moon, Morgan was cuddled up to Flynn’s chest, buried under a thick blue throw blanket, her bandaged head resting on his shoulder.

Flynn sensed Supervillain before he walked in. Flynn unconsciously tightened his hold around Morgan’s waist. He checked his watch that Villain and Flynn got him for his birthday when Flynn was sixteen.

“It has been long enough. She should be fine.” Flynn kept his eyes on the TV as he spoke. “I see you’ve made up. That’s progress.”

“You went too far today, Dad,” Flynn said, his voice hard. “Stabbing her through her hand—”

“I went as far as I had to.”

Flynn turned his head, eyes narrowed as he caught Supervillain’s impassive stare. He knew where Villain got that look from, and he hated it.

“You could’ve just threatened—”

“Her beloved Sidekick?” Supervillain asked, raising his brows. Flynn scoffed and glanced back at the TV. “She is… a very spirited girl, Flynn. Anything less than what I did today wouldn’t have gotten through to her. You and I both know that.”

Flynn clenched his jaw, a surge of helpless fury ran through his veins like a bush fire. “You said you wouldn’t hurt her.”

“I said that I would do whatever is necessary to ensure she doesn’t interfere.” Flynn glared at the television as Supervillain walked towards the couch. He stood directly in front of the screen so Flynn’s glare was on his chest instead. “Don’t forget what side you’re on, son.”

Supervillain’s eyes slid to Morgan who slept peacefully while they spoke. “She is a very beautiful girl. I understand your love for her… it was the same I had for your mother,” he said softly. His eyes found Flynn’s again, a glint in his eyes like metal threatened to cut Flynn. “But just know, that if I had merely threatened her today, she would still despise you for what you did to her. Remember that while you’re scorning me in your head.”

Flynn blinked at him, like a toddler caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Supervillain’s lips twitched and he shot Flynn a wink. “A parent always knows. I’ll leave you both.”

Flynn looked down at Morgan, his expression heavier than before. “And Flynn, for the record,” Supervillain added. “I am happy to see you’ve made up.”

Flynn didn’t reply.

Happy for me, Flynn thought bitterly, or happy for you.

*~*~*~*~*

Orphanage roll-call: (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @xenlust @books-are-everything @micechomper @shywhumpauthor @aarika-merrill @0eggdealer @watermelonrandom @tippytappytyping @swift-perseides @gloriousqueen101 @isnortkoolaidpowderteehee @jumpywhumpywriter @bitter-space @lumpofsand

@xxgalgurlxx @silentpotat0 @ladygwennn @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog

@sunflower1000 @whump-till-ya-jump

[bentnotbroken1fanfiction]

Working on chapter 3 of YGTWG and the angst, just keeps angsting.

It will be HEA I promise, but I'm gonna make it hurt first.

[ro-sham-no]

Sam’s wall breaks, and he won’t stop screaming.

it's his birthday so you KNOW i had to whump my boy

It’s been two days and fifteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming. 

Blood droplets fly out of his mouth with wracking coughs as he chokes on hurried inhales, mucosal spit gumming up his trachea.

It’s been two days and sixteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

The only times he’s been silent in the last two days and seventeen hours is when he’s unconscious. The first bout - four hours and twenty-three minutes of silence - Dean’d just clocked him in the jaw when it was clear Sam was going to scream himself into involuntary suffocation - diaphragm and abdominal muscles locking up from the abuse. Dean knocked him unconscious for those four hours and twenty-three minutes, after six hours of his weeping and gnashing of teeth.

By the time he had woken up, Dean had shots of sedative and they were two hours into a twenty-eight-hour drive to Bobby’s - if nothing else, Dean’s efficient. Sam didn’t take notice.

And if the sounds he won’t stop making can be described as screaming, then the sounds he makes when Dean has to touch him while he’s awake can only be described as a death wail. Wailing and scrambling to get away from Dean with a fervor that earns them both violent shades of bruises.

It’s been two days and twenty hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

During the drive, whenever Sam’s anguish would escalate back into hair-tearing, along with beating his fists against his arms and thighs and threatening to bash his head into the windows of the Impala, Dean would pull over to force another dose of sedative into him. 

The sounds he makes while Dean tries to subdue him… Well, even in the most remote location on their route, Dean was afraid the farmer whose house they could just barely see in the distance would be able to hear. It had to have been at least three miles away, with how flat the land was, and Dean was still worried that someone would hear. 

Sam won’t stop screaming, and his screams are deafening- except when he’s unconscious, from the shots Dean gives him, the screaming is just in Dean’s mind. A haunting kind of tinnitus that rings in Dean’s ears, just as nauseating as the real deal, but a touch less heartbreaking.

He only allows himself to sleep for the first few hours of Sam being down for the count, despite the catatonic state that seemed to have taken over him. Dean wasn’t about to risk Sam waking up without him. They sleep together in the car, in the weeds and the bramble off of back roads, hidden from view. Baby’s paint has never been so scratched up.

It’s been two days and twenty-three hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

They’ve been at Bobby’s for the last twenty-four of those, trying to hold back on the sedative, because god knows they can’t keep it up forever or Sam’s heart is liable to just straight up quit, so they’ve been rationing it. Walking the nerve-wracking line between acceptable amounts of incomprehensible human suffering and causing an overdose that could just kill Sam, for good this time.

On the 72nd hour - that’s two days and twenty-four hours, or three days and zero hours, or 4,230 minutes and zero seconds, or 259,200 seconds and -

It’s been three days and zero hours, and Sam is awake, but he stops screaming.

And on the third day he will be raised…

Dean rushes over to check on him, but Sam is still breathing, heart still beating, body still holding itself upright, and he’s stopped screaming.

Now, though, two lines of salty tears trail down his face. For all his hysteric shrieking over the last three days, through all the rocking and swaying and the occasional distinct syllable of “no” over and over again, he hadn’t actually shed a tear, until now.

It’s been three days and zero hours and Sam’s tears are silent. 

He’s staring far off into the distance - into the wall that’s four feet in front of him - and he is silent. Even his gasps are inaudible. No sniffling, not a single huff or quiver of breath. Just tears.

It’s been three days and zero hours and two minutes and both Dean and Bobby are in the room now, staring at Sam with undisguised fear-horror-confusion. 

They stare at him and he begins to shake. Lightly, at first, but it grows. It always grows. Sam is silent, and he’s shaking, and his eyes stream tears with the consistency of a downpour, and Dean moves back in front of him. He’d stepped away to yell for Bobby out the door when it looked like Sam would live after his abrupt descent into silence. Dean steps back in front of him and reaches out to touch Sammy, and now Sam’s not silent. A three-minute silence and now it’s broken by Sam scrambling backward with a gasp that’s really more of an inhaled moan of fear, hastening back so far that he pushes off of the bed he’d been sitting on.

He crashes to the floor, out of Dean’s reach even as the man leaps forward with a cry of, “Sam!”

But Sam’s flight had been too fast, so he crashed to the ground and has now fallen silent again, but Dean can’t tell if there are still tears because Sam has wedged himself into a ball in the crease between the floor and the wall, form-fitting his back and ass over the baseboards hard enough to bruise. He’s hiding his face in his knees, still trembling, but still silent, so Dean can’t tell if the tears have stopped. He isn’t sure if that would be better or worse.

Because now it’s been three days and five minutes, and Sam’s curled up in sublimation. 

He’s crammed against the wall, his knees are up in front of him, spread only far enough to shove his head between them - but down quite far, uncomfortably so, contorted - but his hands aren’t curled up like the rest of him. Instead, his hands are held out around his legs, stretched around them and then upward, palms out like he’s receiving something sacred. Or like he’s giving it away.

It’s been three days and six minutes and Sam is trembling in sublimation.

The room is silent, Dean and Bobby don’t know what to do, but he isn’t hurting himself and he isn’t screaming so they wait him out.

It’s been three days and thirty minutes, by the time anything happens.

At first, Bobby thinks it’s the creaks of his house. At first, Dean thinks it’s the creaks of his soul. They’re both wrong, they realize, as the sound is actually coming from Sam, but it reverberates in such a way that it’s equally loud from every corner of the room. Dean wonders, faintly and somewhat hysterically, when Sam learned ventriloquy. 

It’s a low but resounding utterance, indistinguishable at first, but becoming more distinct with every syllable, losing its eerie ambience and beginning to actually come from Sam as its focal point. Whatever Sam is saying, deep into his chest in a tone that aches, becomes clearer, but neither of the other two men can understand it.

Sam’s palms are still held up in front of his shins. His head is still shoved between his knees, and he’s still trembling. He finishes his recitation but doesn’t fall silent. Instead, he switches to a language that Dean realizes with a jolt that he can understand the words, seconds before Bobby realizes it, too. 

“Pater noster, qui es in שְׁאוֹל, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in שְׁאוֹל et in terra.”

A sickening aura falls over the room as both lucid men hear the exceptions to the otherwise familiar prayer. “On earth, as it is in שְׁאוֹל,” Sam had said. Sheol, the subterranean final resting place. The pit. “The place of no return, the land of utter darkness and deep shadow.” 

Hell.

Our Father who art in the pit of utter death and darkness…

It’s been three days and one hour by the time Sam finishes his contritions. 

By then, he’d recited that first chant in the same unknown language twice more, alternating it with the Latin rendition of the Lord’s prayer.

Hallowed be thy name…

Dean has a gnawing, sinking feeling in his gut that he knows exactly what that other language is.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in שְׁאוֹל, the deep shadow.

The cadence, the tone; they’re the same. Distorted by the foreign, guttural tones of the other language, but they cut through Dean with the same taste. Sam is repeating the same thing over and over again, just in alternating tongues. The familiar Latin combined with the unfamiliar, grating timbre of the other. 

The repugnant language of the wretched Divine.

Those accursed, winged beasts, just like the one his brother, his Sammy has been locked up with for an earth-year. And who knows what that timeline looked like, in the depths? Nothing sears in your mind quite like the crushing realization that virtually no real time has passed when you return from it, Dean remembers. The rock constantly lodged in the base of Dean's chest, taking up space where his lungs are supposed to go, which screams out, your pain was never real.

Did time distort further the further down you went in hell? Was Dean’s 40-year stint a mere blink in the face of the time Sam had been locked up with that thing that did this to him?

The only reason Dean’s stomach isn’t on the floor in front of him is because his stomach is empty, the pervasive ache of the last few days locking it up tight. Sam has been screaming and Dean hasn't been eating, but he's never been less hungry in his life.

It’s been three days and one hour and Dean’s been crying for every single second of them.

The wailing and screaming had gouged at him, in that way little baby's cries gouge at unsuspecting figures passing by, striking that deep, maternal cord within them. The same way little toddler-Sam’s cries had always gouged at Dean. The same way, too, that not-so-little teenaged Sam’s sniffles into his pillow that he thought were muffled had always gouged at Dean. 

If the screams had been gouging at him, this reverent recitation was gutting him. Viscerally, like a fish being pulled sharply off of a too-big hook that it had somehow managed to swallow down too far. Catch and release turned into a pitiful horror.

But it’s been three days and one hour, now, and Sam’s finished his latest round of the Lord’s prayer - Latin this time - and he’s fallen silent again.

His hands are still held out, despite how bad it must make his shoulders and wrists ache with the tension of his stillness. Before Dean can think to do anything, though, Sam continues, but he breaks the pattern. Instead, his voice is much shakier now, and he starts to plead, the only term applicable to the tone of voice Sam has taken on: wretched, and full of supplication. Pleading, in Latin still,

“Elohim, Messiah - Please take this temptation from me. Please, as you have so graciously promised, benevolent Savior, tempt me not with this Sin of the Flesh. I am too weak, Father. This temptation is too great and I cannot bear it.

Temptation? Father?

The formal tone rankles. The self-deprecation vexes. The use of Father to refer to the most foul being to ever walk above and below the earth seethes and horrifies. Dean is rankled. Dean is vexed. Dean seethes, and he is horrified.

“Take Him from my sight, יהוה, keep me away from His fraternal presence, please, Lord. Balm though He is to my soul, grateful though I am for this offering, I am too weak to refrain from Sin.”

Fraternal? Sin?

“I would naught but bastardize this precious gift, and thine hand wilt be forced against me, as thou shalt flay me apart; dissect me to make penance for my transgressions. I do not wish this, Father, so please: Take Him from me, do not allow my wretched Sin to pervade in thine realm.”

Just because Dean’s stomach is empty doesn’t mean it isn’t trying valiantly to make an appearance. At the word “fraternal,” Bobby had started pushing him out the door. Stunned, Dean hadn’t fought back. There’s bile on Bobby’s hardwood floor outside the bedroom Sam and Bobby were still in.

Sam spoke as if Dean’s presence was the temptation, one too great to bear. And he spoke as if to God, but Dean knew better, he knew where Sam had been. Where Dean let him go. No gods to be seen, not there. What Sin had Lucifer contrived between them, to make Sam pay penance for? What occurred between them for Sam to be… Flayed alive. Dissected. 

Dean’s not stupid enough to believe that's anything but literal.

Bobby swings the door mostly-closed just in time for Sam to finish his pleas and lower his arms.

It’s been three days and one hour and ten minutes, and Sam raises his head.

Dean watches through the crack in the door, concealed in the darkness of the hallway. He’s holding his breath and he’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself for not rushing right back to Sam's side. But something is holding him back, and he doesn’t want to name it. 

(Fraternal… Sin?)

Sam raises his head but keeps his eyes scrunched shut - tears and snot are dripping down his face, which is a blotchy red but somehow still pallid with fear. He’s shaking worse than before as he straightened his back out, sitting up and letting his legs fold down so he’s cross-legged. Not relaxed, but no longer contorted. Finally, he releases a shaky breath and opens his eyes, pointing down at the floor.

Bobby shifts his weight purposefully and Sam’s eyes fly to him with a wild flinch of fear. It hangs in the air uncomfortably long before he recognizes the man in the room with him, and he lets out a sob of what Dean hopes is relief.

He quickly bows his head and shifts up onto his knees in a simple prayer position, hands pressed together in a booklet of gratitude as he sobs out, “Thank you, Messiah, Morningstar. Thank you.”

Then, with a big sigh, he allows himself to look back at Bobby, but his gaze is clinical, observing. He whispers, through his hitching, wet breaths, “He did it. I can't believe he did it. He’s gone. I don’t have to do it again, not yet.”

Sam’s face crumples as he’s hysterical with relief, and Dean’s clawing his own arms raw and bloody outside the door, desperate to get to the crying baby and soothe it, desperate to kiss toddler-Sam’s scraped knees, desperate to tell teenage-Sam that nothing will ever change the way Dean feels about him, despite whatever darkness he seems to think is inside of him. But still, he’s held back by that unspeakable Sin between them. Lucifer didn’t contrive it, Dean knows that. He holds himself back.

Bobby speaks up then, gruff and wary, “Don’t have to do what, yet?”

Sam startles before finally, really looking at Bobby like he’s a human on the same plane of existence as him, not like he’s a mildly interesting fixture on a non-existent wall.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it, Bobby. It’s good to see you,” Sam cracks a smile, and it encapsulates one thousand shades of grief.

Sam continues quieter, once again to himself, “I wish it wasn’t like this. I’m sorry. So, so sorry. But you’re not Him, so it’s fine, it’s fine…”

Bobby squints at him long and hard, eyeing his more relaxed posture and at least somewhat lucid speech - odd though it may be - before he glances at the crack in the door and gives a tiny eyebrow raise that says, get your ass in here.

Dean slowly cracks the door open and calls out to his baby brother, just as he comes into view, “Sammy?”

His reaction is violent. If Sam was pallid before, he’s now a putrid shade of green, face twisting up in horror as he shakes his head, wringing his hands and mumbling out at first, devolving quickly into yells into the aether, into the corners of the room, “No! No, no- please, you promised, no-”

He collapses into himself on the floor, half hidden behind the bed, putting it between him and Dean. The trembling returns with moans and cries incessantly pouring out of Sam’s mouth as he buries his head in his hands, gripping at his face and whatever hair is in reach with too much force, wailing out a constant stream of no, no, no!

Dean takes an involuntary step forward into the room, drawn in by that maternal wretchedness. Desperate, always desperate, to comfort his baby brother. 

When his boot sounds on the carpet - muted but oh-so-loud to Sam’s ears - the cries lose their shape, hiccupping wails of no quickly becoming unintelligible and increasingly frantic, building and building until it can only be described as a howling scream.

It’s been three days and one hour and fifteen minutes, and Sam won’t stop screaming.

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

day 11: escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound + daero

Prompt from the Augusnippets @augusnippets challenge!

Path of Comfort: day 11: escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound

Could loosely be read as a follow-up to this, with the same caretakers

Content Warnings: demon whump, aftermath of captivity, aftermath of torture, trauma, nightmares, comfort, rescue, recovery, pain medicine

----

A week later and it still doesn't feel real.

The two humans tell Daero that he is safe and sound. That there will continue to be food and water, that their hands won't strike him. Their touches are soft, their voices quiet. They smell like citrus and cinnamon.

But still Daero flinches when either one enters the room. He still expects to wake in that damp dungeon, chained, beaten and starved.

Nightmares plague him, disrupting his much needed rest. On the worst nights, like tonight, his cries wake the humans and they are quickly by his side.

He is just awake enough to hear and feel them. One soothes him with kind words while wiping his tears away. The other holds a spoonful of pain medicine to his lips until he drinks. Then they sit on either side of him and wait.

In the moments just before falling asleep, when the medicine kicks in and he melts into the cushions, Daero feels something like peace.

[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.

[whumpyreader]

Price of Peace

TW: NSFW (18+ please), graphic torture, aftermath of torture, male whump, non-con nudity, sexual abuse

Fachtna was only twelve when he fell in love with his childhood friend, Ravi. Ravi was a sweet-hearted kind of boy, taller than most, who looked as though he could be bullied. But if he or anyone he loved were bullied, the bully would pay a price. That was Ravi–a lover but a no-nonsense kind of authority who ruled the schoolyard as a child. Fachtna was not so simple. He was the son of a tyrant–abused and quiet. He had learned too many times that he was stupid and it was best never to interrupt, love, or have an opinion. Maybe that’s why Ravi took him under his wing when Fachtna would visit the school. Fachtna was only ten and Ravi was a brave twelve-year-old. The two went together like a stoic soldier and an easy target. 

In the fifteen years that would pass in the blink of an eye, Ravi became ruler of the streets and Fachtna was stuck in the castle, learning the evil deeds of his father, King Amalgaid. On the eve of Ravi’s twenty-seventh birthday, an uprising began. To Fachtna’s relief, Amalgaid retreated to his higher kingdom, leaving Fachtna alone in the castle of his childhood. But to Fachtna’s doom, the next three years were spent fighting over who should be king. Fate gave the thrown to Fachtna. All was calm after the last bloody sword was laid down, but all was not well because everything Fatchna stood for, everything he was taught to be went against what Ravi believed. Ravi planned to uprise and then…Ravi disappeared.

…

Fachtna was a bastard. The unwanted child of King Amalgaid. Hence the rotting box before his throne.

“Your father–” Murienn began.

“Do not call him that!” Fachtna hissed.

Murienn rolled her eyes. “Perhaps Amalgaid is upset. You were to have no power. Now he has lost half his kingdom to you.”

Fachtna sneered. “And more will be lost to him soon.” He reluctantly placed his eyes back on the box. Musty, wet, rotting, and nestled between the feet of two messengers from that twisted, horrid Amalgaid. Whatever it was was sure to be an insult. “Rid me of it,” he commanded.

The two messengers glanced at each other. “We were commanded to open it in your presence,” one stuttered. 

“Is this a threat?” Murienn growled.

“No, no!” a messenger gasped, stepping back. “Only a…” Another glance to the other messenger. “An ask for peace.”

“I’ll bet,” Fachtna chuckled. “Amalgaid was never a peaceful beast.” He sat back on his throne, tapping a finger to his chin. “Open it. And if it be some weapon or some lug who jumps at me, both of you will lose your heads.”

Neither messenger hesitated. A hammer creaked against the wood, each moaning and demanding the other bend until wood splintered and a large crack popped through the lid. 

Fachtna’s knuckles turned white against the armrests of his throne. Whatever Amalgaid had in mind for peace could only be two things. Either a joke or the most wanted criminal on Fachtna’s list. And Fachtna wanted neither.

Only half the lid had been pried off but organic matter was already visible. A thigh? Thin, grey, oozing. Fachtna held a hand to his nose. A wanted criminal then, he thought bitterly. “If this be some dead criminal, toss him into the sea. I want nothing to do with Amalgaid’s torture.” Nor would he want to be known as a tyrant just as bloodthirsty as that hellish nightmare. 

The messengers finished prying off the lid without a response. The moment the lid was removed, the messengers stepped back, their faces turned downward. 

Fachtna could not see it all and curiosity had him lifting himself off the throne and craning his neck to see what Amalgaid had done. It was only then that Fachnta realized the box could not be more than four feet in length and maybe two feet in width. Inside was indeed a human. Naked, lying on their back and eyes opened only slightly due to black swelling. Rope kept their neck pressed to the wood beneath. Their arms appeared to be tied behind their back, a gruesome form of torture if the human had been alive. Their knees were bent, their ankles forced upward, under their body, most likely tied to their wrists. Their shoulders were grotesquely touching their cheeks to accommodate the lack of space. No movement in the chest. But, how could there be?

Fachtna’s soul had hardened. “What is the meaning of this? Why bind a dead man?”

“He is not dead, King Fachtna,” a messenger whispered. “Probably in shock.”

“In shock?” Fachtna challenged. He glanced again at the body. Burns ran from hip to hip, throat to groin. Bleeding whip marks cascaded down their chest to their knees. Bones jutted out, revealing starvation. “I want,” Fatchna’s voice was low and dangerous, “you two out of my kingdom. Take whatever food you’ll need for your journey. Fresh horses if needed. But I want you gone before the hour is done.”

The messengers did not argue. “One more thing,” one said. They pushed a letter into Fachtna’s hands and left the throne room.

“King?” Murienn questioned.

Fachtna snapped his head up from the cruel handwriting of Amalgaid. “Have a guard make sure they leave for good,” he snapped. “Return immediately.”

Murienn saluted, all but running from the throne room, leaving Fachtna alone. Out of view, with no need to uphold his facade in public, Fachtna’s knees gave way. His hand grazed the molding box as he pushed himself up to view the dying human.

“Can you hear me?”

No movement.

“They say you are alive but I do not believe them. Surely, no one survives Amalgaid.” Except me. 

A slight wince at the edge of the dying’s nose came at the mention of Amalgaid’s name. 

“I hate him, too,” Fachtna admitted. “I want to get you out of the box. Will you let me touch you?”

Unconcealed fear flashed through the dying’s unseeing eyes although no part of him moved.

“I will not hurt you,” Fachtna added.

The dying’s lips curled, their chest stuttering with soundless sobs. The rope against their neck unleashed droplets of blood. Fachtna grimaced.

“I will release your neck,” he forewarned before unsheathing his knife and cutting through the thick rope across the human’s throat. 

Ugly sobs were now audible as the dying sucked in breath after breath. 

“Just breathe. I’m not going to hurt you,” he added for good measure. He sat back on his heels, regarding the rotting box. If he could tear down the side, he could roll the victim over to unbind him without having to lift him. If Fachtna knew one thing, he knew it was never worth it to touch whip wounds. “Some noise,” he warned. Barely any body weight was needed to push down the sides of the box. Once down, the entire box collapsed and the dying lay gasping at his world suddenly expanding.

“Catch your breath,” Fachtna smiled. “Then I’m going to unbind you.” Fachtna sat himself down and gathered the letter into his hands. It was addressed My Beloved Fachtna. He wrinkled his nose in contempt. 

I knew always of your future. You were destined to uprise and threaten my reign. I am not threatened by you. Ruling is meant for the strong. It is lonely. I expect you to be overthrown before long. 

Seeing as you are my son, I have sent you a sign of peace. In your possession is the greatest threat to your reign, and mine. Our greatest mutual enemy lies in that box. I took care of the threatening part of him but, I wanted you to have a whore to keep you company. He will do anything you ask – I made sure of it. 

You may remember him. He goes by one name – Terror. 

Though you may remember him by Ravi.

Fachtna chose not to believe it at first. How many times had Amalgaid lied just to threaten Fachtna to the point of submission? Once he glanced back at the dying, their head was turned toward him. Although their eyes were too swollen to see, Fachtna swore the dying knew who he was. Their face and head were shorn, unlike the grizzliness Ravi enjoyed. The swollen black eyes were unrecognizable along with the rest of the face hidden by layers of blood. Swollen lips. And if Amalgaid were trying to play with him, going for Ravi would be the way to do it.

“It can’t be,” he gasped, nearly fainting. “Ravi?”

The dying let out a whimper, squeezing their eyes shut despite the swelling and turning their face to the side as their only defense.

It was answer enough. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Fachtna couldn’t repress the lump in his throat nor the tears running down his eyes. He could not wait any longer to free the man. He rolled him onto his side, biting his lip when Ravi stuttered out a cry of pain. Ravi’s back had no skin left, nor did his buttocks and the soles of his feet. Fachtna sliced through the rope tying all four limbs together. There was no way to catch them all when they were released and Ravi screamed when an arm fell forward and a leg fell, forcing the knee to straighten.

“I’m sorry!” Fatchna kept the two limbs he had managed to hold bent. “I’ll go slowly. I did not mean to hurt you.” It was a slow process, unbending shoulder and knee, pausing at any noise Ravi let out, until Ravi lay on his stomach, his legs lying in their natural position. Fachtna assumed both shoulders were dislocated but he had only ever fixed his own dislocated shoulders.

“That scunner,” he muttered. “Ravi?”

The dead stiffened. A shoulder joint attempted to move, maybe to protect himself. Ravi cried in agony as the shoulder cramped and could do nothing but suffer through it. Even his fingers were too swollen and paralyzed to offer protection.

Fachtna’s stomach ached with pity. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Ravi let out a sob.

“Do you remember me? It’s been years. It’s Fachtna.”

Ravi’s mouth opened. “I-I kno…” Their voice died in their throat, their words barely able to leave their tongue. Either way, it was obvious that Ravi had not been surprised to learn it was him.

“You knew they were sending you to me?”

“You…had…me…tortured,” Ravi rasped.

Fachtna’s lungs nearly snapped. Of course, Amalgaid would make up a story like this. “It isn’t true,” he attempted to explain, as gently as possible. “I’ll explain more once you are not actively dying. Can you…stand?” He instantly regretted asking.

But Ravi nodded, using his forehead instead of his arms to push himself onto his knees but he never had the strength and Fachtna should have known better than to push Ravi too far. Ravi writhed on the floor in agony.

“It’s okay!” Fachtna stepped in, hovering over Ravi. “Please don’t hurt yourself further. You don’t have to move anymore. I’m here. Let me take it from here.” He gathered what was left of Ravi in his arms, lifting him to his chest. Ravi cried, his eyes too swollen to see the safety, his fingers too swollen to grip the safety, and his body too in pain to feel the warmth.

It was not lost on Fachtna, as Ravi fought weakly in his arms, that Ravi assumed more torture was in store.

“Shh. I said I will not hurt you and I promise that.”

Ravi nearly collapsed, breathing heavily, resigned to endure what his captive had in store.

“Let’s get you somewhere warm,” Fachtna soothed, picking up his pace toward his own chambers. “And cleaned up. I’ll have a broth made and you can sleep in my bed as long as you need.”

Ravi only sobbed, his cheek pressed against Fachtna’s chest. “M-mercy,” he pleaded.

“Shh, none of that,” Fachtna chided. “You should know better than anyone. I am a person of my word.” He stepped inside his chambers, already ready for himself to settle down for the night. A servant stood near the steaming bath. The bed already made, the pillow fluffed, and a warm fire that had engulfed the room in pure, blissful comfort.

Ravi sucked in breath, sensing the warmth.

“Can I set you down in the tub? The water should be cooled off some.”

There was no way for Ravi to respond except a tiny whimpering “yes” that left his lips.

“This will be sudden. You’re colder than ice so it might feel hot. I’ve got you. Just tell me if we need to pull you out.” He lowered Ravi’s body into the water in intervals, letting his lower half become accustomed to the temperature, before lowering him all the way. Ravi’s back arched and he sucked in breath through clenched teeth.

“Should I-”

“No,” Ravi groaned. “Just…my b-back.”

Oh, of course. Shredded to bits. It would sting worse than any beehive Fachtna knew about. Ravi’s face slowly returned to mildly pained and Fachtna decided it was time to clean. “Let’s get you cleaned up then you can lie in bed for fifty years,” he attempted to joke. “Or…long enough to feel better.” He dragged the rag across Ravi’s skin, wincing when Ravi winced, and having to wipe a tear or two. The servant assisted him in pulling Ravi’s slippery body out of the water and to the bed. The servant held him upward while Fachtna applied some salves and bandages across Ravi’s back. He wrapped his ankles and wrists then nodded his approval. The servant lowered Ravi onto his stomach, shooting an alarming look at Fachtna when Ravi cried out.

“S-sorry…jus-st…” He clenched his jaw shut as if Fachtna would slap him for complaining.

“It’s okay, just tell me.”

“Ribs,” Ravi said simply.

“May I?” the servant ventured. 

He only moved once Fachtna nodded his approval. He rolled Ravi onto his back, flinching when Ravi moaned and writhed from his whip wounds. 

“I know,” the servant soothed. “I won’t leave you on your back for long. But lying on broken ribs is worse. Breathe.”

He placed a hand on Ravi’s ribcage, keeping it there until Ravi stopped flinching and finally relaxed. 

“Some pressure,” he warned. 

He pushed his fingers into the misshapen ribcage and Ravi wriggled in agony. 

“Take as big of breath as you can.” 

Ravi attempted to obey, giving up and crying loudly toward the end of his breath. 

“Good, good.” The servant turned to Fachtna. “If we put him on his stomach again, we must pad his chest with pillows. His ribs have taken too much of a beating.”

Fachtna nodded, grabbing several more pillows while the servant rolled Ravi over and lifted him up. Fachtna shoved the pillows under his chest, watching Ravi relax into them and…panic?

“What is wrong now?” Fachtna asked.

The servant shrugged. “He should be in less pain.” Then, the servant paled. “Sir…” His voice broke.

The servant only pointed just as Ravi said, “I just n-need a f-few days…then–”.

Fachtna followed the servant's gaze, gasping once he saw it too. “Oh gods.” To his relief, it was the servant who moved with precision, as if he knew what to do. He knelt behind Ravi, placing a hand low on his thigh.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the servant warned. “I need to get this out.” The servant’s fingers pinched the plug buried deep inside Ravi and Ravi yelped, burying his face in the pillow. The servant pulled, grimacing at the resistance. Ravi screamed and finally, finally, it budged, pulling with it five inches of rough material. The servant pulled it out and threw it in the fire. “Barbarians,” he cursed.

Ravi gasped for breath, keeping his face hidden.

“I’ll go fetch the supper,” the servant said, wasting no time to flee. But blood was gushing freely and only Fachtna was there to apply some pressure.

“Ravi, I’m so sorry. I have to stop the bleeding.” He pulled out some more bandages, rolling them into a ball. “I’m sorry,” he said again, maybe to warn Ravi before he pushed against the opening, being the cause of Ravi’s screams.

Who knows how much time went by before Ravi was once again relaxed and Fachtna ventured to check the bleeding. When he moved, this time Ravi didn’t flinch. The bleeding had stopped for now and, Fachtna figured as long as Ravi didn’t move, the bleeding would be at a minimum. 

“Are you hungry?”

With Ravi’s swollen eyes, it was impossible to tell if Ravi was even conscious. He kept his face turned toward the fire, obviously aware of where the heat was.

“Ravi?”

“Y-yes.”

“A meal is on its way. What do you need? What else can I alleviate for you?”

Ravi drew in breath. “I–”

“Go on,” Fachtna insisted.

“Whatev-ver you’re planning…I beg yo-ou only a f-few days to r-rec-cover.”

Fachtna pushed himself in front of Ravi’s face, forgetting Ravi couldn’t even see. He grabbed Ravi’s face in his palms and pushed his forehead to his. “Oh Ravi…you think me capable of such things? I do not blame you but…cease thinking like that at once. I cannot handle it. You will get nothing from me but care and warmth.” He paused to watch Ravi sob. “Do you believe me?”

“I-I’m a-t-t you’re m-merc-cy,” Ravi cried.

“Yes,” Fachtna agreed. “But it is gentle mercy. You will never have to pay for it.”

The servant bustled in with a tray of food.

“See?” Fachtna wanted to talk Ravi into it. “Food. Let me feed you. Don’t move,” he added when Ravi’s arms flexed. To prove everything he had said, he ladled some broth into the spoon and held it to Ravi’s lips. Ravi’s nostrils flared, the steam of the broth hitting his nose. His mouth fell open and he slurped the broth down. Ravi did not stop until the broth was gone and his breathing deepened.

…

Fachtna had sent the servants to bed and sat, watching the only human in the world that had once loved him back, writhe and moan in his sleep. For someone like Ravi to be bedridden and terrified, the torture was sure to have been agony. All in the name of peace.

Fatchna harumphed, forcing his mind elsewhere. He mindlessly dunked a rag into the water, watching the rag gulp up water and placed it at Ravi’s lips. Even in sleep, Ravi was cautious. He flinched at the sogginess on his wounded lips then opened his jaw with a moan. He drank from the rag for minutes, until Fachtna was sure the bucket of water would be emptied. Ravi was fevered, sagging into the pillow after his last gulp of water. Fatchna did not have to touch him to know this. But a servant had fetched the healer before bed and the healer would be here by dawn. Fachtna only had to get Ravi through the night.

Now satiated, Ravi was crying, his lips tightened, his eyes scrunched. It must be anguish for Ravi to rip and pull at the wounds already plastered on his face. Fachtna reached out a hand, dragging it through Ravi’s hair.

“I never forgot you,” he hummed quietly, hoping Ravi could only pick up on the tone of his voice, rather than the words. “I wondered what you were up to…during the war.”

Ravi relaxed, taking in gulps of air, listening, maybe, to Fachtna’s voice. He groaned as he moved his arm to reach Fachtna’s hand, placing it on top.

With Ravi’s weight on top of his hand, there was no hiding the excruciating heat coming from his temple. “You’re sick, my friend. How could I not know you were dying? I could have come to save you.”

Ravi moaned.

“I would have come to save you over and over again. You’re safe now. I’ll take care of you until the day I die. We just…” Fachtna glanced up at the window. Small light had already ascended. “We just have to get you to dawn. Then you’ll feel much better and I can…hold you once again.”

Ravi’s fingers tightened around Fachtna’s. “Mercy,” he exhaled. 

“Yes, mercy,” Fachtna said. “Then once you’re healed, your justice will be deciding if I receive mercy or not. For not coming to your aid. For letting them…defile you.”

A throat cleared behind Fachtna. “Excuse me, sire.”

Fachtna startled, turning, relieved the healer had finally come. “He’s in the throes of fever. Hotter than I’ve ever felt.”

The healer stepped forward, pulling Ravi’s arm down and placing his own hand on Ravi’s forehead. “Mmm. This is bad but what I expected. I will prepare the herbs. You undress him.”

Ravi was already unclothed so he pulled back the blanket and cradled Ravi close to his chest.

“Ah,” Ravi gasped, jerking from the pressure on his lacerations.

“Time to get your fever down, my love.”

“Yes,” the healer jumped, rushing toward the door. “Bring it here.”

Fatchna strained his neck to see the buckets of snow and ice being hauled to his feet.

“This might ruin the bed,” the healer muttered.

“I do not care,” Fatchna barked.

“As you wish. Lie him down.”

Once lying on the mattress, the healer took away any pillow and blanket. He laid a sheet over Ravi before placing snow and ice around him.

Ravi whimpered as snow pressed against his back.

The healer stepped back. “There is tea on the fire for infection. Leave him like this for the rest of the hour.”

Although Ravi was shivering, Fatchna watched as he sank into sleep.

…

Ravi had never seen Amalgaid up close but Amalgaid was intimidating. Ravi smirked because he knew he was more intimidating than the king, at least a foot taller and muscular from a summer spent digging tunnels and running from the law. He had been turned in…it was the only way he was standing in front of Fatchna’s father. Although he had not seen Fatchna for some time, it wouldn’t have been Fatchna that turned him in. Unless Amalgaid had brainwashed him.

“I am pleased to see you are the Terror I always imagined,” Amalgaid smiled. “Very sure of yourself. Intimidating.” The king chuckled. “I like this a lot.”

“What do you want of me?” Ravi smirked back.

“Nothing,” the king shrugged. “I will do nothing to you. In the dungeon, you will rarely be touched. It is you that will torture yourself.”

Ravi’s nose twitched.

“Your pride and dignity will tear you apart.”

Isolation? Ravi could survive that.

“After a few days, I will visit you again. Then we’ll chat.”

Ravi was jerked away from the king and wrestled down into the dungeon. But instead of being led to a cell, he was stretched onto a table, too tall for his limbs to reach and he screamed as his joints protested. A brick, or something of the sort, was jammed underneath his back just between his shoulder blades, forcing his chest to be higher than the rest of his body. He was blindfolded and his mouth was pried open, a tube being roughly shoved halfway down his throat. It filled with water, flooding into his throat. Whoever or whatever pushed on his chest where the water pooled against his sternum lit his world in pain so intense he struggled and fought with all the strength he could muster.

Once an hour for three days.

By the time he was untied, his body slipped off the table as if he were a gutted pig. He was weak with hunger but mostly weak from no sleep and constant pain. He was picked up from the floor and taken to another room. They only had to chain his wrists to the floor to keep him still enough to brand him. He was barely strong enough to scream. His face and head were shaved and he was bathed. Then someone fitted a loose robe over his body and he was pushed into a dim room full of men.

It was unusual for Ravi to feel shorter than most people. But his body was in shock and he could barely lift his shoulders to his normal height.

A chuckle rang from the side and Ravi turned his head to see Amalgaid.

“You look exhausted.” The king stepped forward, taking Ravi’s elbow, and leading him to the center of the room. “Survive tonight then you’ll have a break.” 

The king continued to smile as he took Ravi’s arms. His wrists and elbows were bound in a way that once Amalgaid pulled him upwards, the rope pulled his elbows and his forehead touched his forearms. He gasped as his shoulder blades stretched apart. The robe he had been dressed in was ripped from him and he stood, exposed, in front of men who stared at him with hungry eyes.

“Twenty lashes?” Amalgaid asked the group. He tsked as some cheered. “No? Thirty, then.”

Ravi was already spent, as much as it humiliated him to admit. Three days without food or sleep had taken the fire from him. One lash was enough to pump out the adrenaline he was used to feeling almost constantly. But it did not last long. By the seventh lash, he was sagging against the rope, his shoulder blades tearing against his weight. By the tenth, his mouth hung open in shock and the men that surrounded him blurred into the walls. Blood dripped down his back that pulsed like one giant wound. The whip paused. But a new pain entered his world. A cane, against his lower half. Amalgaid started with his calves and, at the feel of something so sharp, Ravi yelped, his sight and adrenaline returning.

Humiliation washed over Ravi but there was nothing he could do about his pathetic screams. It was like taking a punishment at school in front of his classmates. Only, this time, he was naked and bound and these were not his schoolmates. His screams broke into a higher pitch as the sensitive flesh of his buttocks was struck. 

Amalgaid panted, declaring twenty and paused. Ravi became aware of himself trembling, his hands fisted tightly and shaking against his will. He sputtered in breath, peeling his eyes open.

“The whip, one last round?”

Ravi’s vision flickered in and out but it was clear the men were excited.

The whip once again hit him, this time hitting the sensitive places not touched. Like his neck, his ribs, his ankles, and one even landed on his ear.

There was no way to tell it was over. He was lowered slightly then bent over something wooden. His shaking arms were released then pulled to the sides. He forced his neck upward and opened his eyes. A set of blue eyes stared back at him but he must have been too out of it to be lucid because the eyes looked kind. His legs were pried apart and tied and a hollow gag was shoved into his mouth.

The energy of the room heightened and Ravi realized what this meant. Survive tonight. There were at least a dozen men. There was a chance he would not survive. 

Pain exploded behind him as Amalgaid grunted and pushed into Ravi. Ravi could not hide the scream with his mouth open. Amalgaid’s fingers scratched at Ravi’s wounded back and the more Ravi bucked against the pain, the more Amalgaid moaned.

There was no relief once Amalgaid came and pulled out. It was permission to the rest of the group that it was their turn. Men filled him at both sides and all Ravi could do was endure.

Even though he was conscious for all of it, he flinched when the last man stood in front of him. All others had left and a gentle hand on his cheek brought him out of whatever trance he had been in. 

“Easy. I’m not here for that.”

His mouth was released first but his jaw refused to close. He could not cough or swallow against the incredible pain in his throat.

The man wandered behind him, releasing his legs. Ravi slid down, held up only by his wrists until the man unwound the rope against his wrists and caught him before he hit the ground.

Ravi had been sick before but he always had had enough strength to at least raise his head. Tears fell from his eyes at the shame that swallowed him, knowing he could not move or talk. Whatever this man had stayed behind for, Ravi could do nothing about.

The man held him in his lap. “You can barely breathe. This will hurt.”

Ravi was pushed to the side. The man’s finger entered his mouth then pressed against the back of his throat. Ravi squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. His throat was hot and swollen. He could not get himself to swallow. Now the man was forcing him to vomit. Against his will, his throat constricted and his mouth filled with saliva. He choked on the vomit as it left his mouth and throat. Once the man’s hand moved, Ravi’s throat was clear and he gasped in breath. With how swollen his throat was, he could barely suck in enough but it was better than before when his throat was full of semen.

He lay gasping to the side, hanging from the man’s grasp.

“That’s better. Try to drink.”

Ravi wanted to protest. The pain he knew would come with trying to swallow did not feel worth a measly sip of water. The cup was at his lips despite his attempt at protesting. 

“Just a sip to clean out your mouth.”

Water filled his mouth but Ravi could not get his throat to work. The tube had already rubbed it dry and now skin had been worn off from the men. He gritted his teeth and forced his throat to swallow. His back arched and he would have screamed if his voice could work.

“Just breathe, just breathe.”

When Ravi opened his eyes again, the stranger still held him, kneeling over him and staring into his eyes. Ravi’s eyes fluttered shut.

“You won’t be able to talk for some time. Until the swelling goes down. This is only the beginning, you should know.”

Ravi jerked his head, nodding. He suspected as much.

“There’s something you should know.”

Ravi forced his eyes open, frowning at the stranger.

“The more you fight, the longer he will keep you. I do not know where he will send you but he plans to send you as a gift of peace to another kingdom. It might be better there. Maybe it won’t be. You will have to decide.”

…

Thankfully the healer had sense enough to cleanse Ravi while Ravi was unconscious. Still, Ravi squirmed as the alcohol dripped into his wounds. He was washed again and bandaged while Fatchna cleaned up the bedding and returned the pillows and blankets. Once Ravi was returned to him, Ravi’s breath was light and his hand felt around the bed. Fatchna offered his hand, smiling slightly as Ravi gripped his hand tightly. 

“May I lay with you?” he whispered in Ravi’s ear.

Ravi gripped him harder.

“Take some clothing off,” the healer said and Fatchna blushed that the healer had heard. “It will help him regulate his temperature.”

Fatchna waited for the healer to leave then took off his cloak, his tunic, and trousers. He crawled over Ravi and piled the blankets over them.

“Where can I touch you?”

Ravi lay so still on his side, facing Fatchna, maybe he had fallen back asleep. But he pulled Fatchna’s hand closer to his.

“A…anyw-where,” he whispered. “I…”

Fatchna caressed his hair, fighting the pull of a smile as he soaked in the fact that Ravi was with him. “You what?”

“Trust…you.”

Fatchna frowned as Ravi’s brow tightened.

“What?”

“I-I’m going…to…” Ravi’s hand went limp.

“Sleep then. I will be here when you wake.”

…

The heat was gone by the time Ravi’s mind surfaced again. Although blurry, the swelling around his eyes had reduced enough for him to make out his surroundings. The fire that had warmed his cheeks after frigid temperatures in the dungeon was still burning bright and warming the room. The window was frosted. An enormous blanket, stuffed with some sort of wool, lay over him, cocooning him in luscious warmth. But it was too warm to just be his own body heat. He rolled over, groaning at the aches in his body. But it was tolerable this time.

Fatchna moaned beside him.

A smile tickled at Ravi’s wounded lips as calmness washed over him. It truly was Fatchna he was sent to! It had not been his fever playing tricks. He pushed himself onto his side, his nose an inch from Fatchna’s naked shoulder. Fatchna’s neck was bared and Ravi watched the artery that pulsed in a steady beat. Ravi longed to kiss him again.

Fatchna had aged some. Stress lines left their print at the corners of his eyes. Ravi wondered what Fatchna had been thinking about all these years. If maybe Ravi had taken up any space in that beautiful skull.

Ravi had waited too long for this moment. And when he had been tied down for a time every week, there was not much to think about against the pain besides lying next to Fatchna. He grunted as he pushed himself up enough to lay on Fatchna’s shoulder. But he shouldn’t have because he could not prevent himself from breaking down. He sobbed against Fatchna’s chest, surprised then relieved when warm arms wrapped around him and a hand brushed through his hair.

“I missed you.” Fatchna’s voice was deep and scratchy.

Ravi sobbed all the harder. A pool of tears had gathered between Fatchna’s pecs. “S-sorry,” Ravi croaked. The arms that held him squeezed him gently.

“I have longed for you for so long. Please don’t move. Let me protect you. And once you are healthy again I am going to kill Amalgaid.”

Ravi’s breath caught in his throat. Amalgaid was untouchable. Whatever Amalgaid wanted, Amalgaid got.

“It’s what I spent my whole life learning. It’s what Amalgaid trained me to do. He thought I was weak but I couldn’t let him see who I really was. He will never suspect it. Then you will be safe and I will have my vengeance.”

[whump-tr0pes]

Lux in Tenebris - Mors Part 2

Azazel is half-human, half angel. However, their angel mother is losing her power and perhaps even her very grip on reality. She is convinced that Azazel is Abaddon, a demon that she must punish and exorcise in order to redeem herself and set things right. Her mostly-human child can only hope to survive their mother’s increasingly brutal torture and convince her that they are, in fact, still her child - before it’s too late.

‘Stop’ | Punishment | Mors Part 1

Lux in Tenebris Masterlist

AO3

Contents: whumper POV, abusive parent POV, victim blaming, parental abuse, religious abuse, mis-naming, aftermath of [torture, physical abuse, strangulation], blood, rescue

~

Azazel’s mother paced back and forth, feet barely lighting on the worn wooden floor of her home. Beneath her, a floor below, her child – but it wasn’t her child, that’s why she had done all those things – lay dead, motionless, wrists still bound in the chains that had fettered it in life. Abaddon – infernal fucking monster, that creature, that thing – lay dead, and it wasn’t her fault.

But her hands shook. Tears fell down her cheeks like raindrops and soaked into her shirt, chilling the fabric like snowy runoff. She hiccoughed and wrung her hands as she turned and stared at the door to the basement. She had been shackled to this house because of the thing that lay beyond that door. She had been chained by her duty to rid the earth of the thing that had taken residence in her child, and she had done her duty. Her guilt was only part of the burden of the mission. A stumbling block, nothing more.

But Azazel…

She whimpered and pressed her face into her hands. It wasn’t her fault. She had done her duty. She had exorcised the evil from this earth.

And she had only been a little angry while she did it. Only a little resentful at the creature she strangled as she tightened the wire, only a little hateful, because it was the cause of all her suffering. What did it matter, her rage at the fragile body that she had battered and bruised, made to bleed, as long as she did her duty in the end? What did her own feelings matter, as long as her actions were sound?

What doth it profit, my brethren, though a man say he hath faith, and have not works? can faith save him?

Now that Abaddon lay dead, she was free. Perhaps now that the serpent was gone, God would smile down on her and welcome her back into His fold. Perhaps now that the demon had been cleansed from her child, she could go home.

She fell to her knees and wailed softly. But Azazel is also dead. Was that always the cost of my salvation? Was that always the answer? To kill Abaddon, I had to sacrifice Azazel? My child? My only baby? She sobbed and whimpered, pressing her forehead into the floor.

Perhaps that was the price. Perhaps she should leave her child below, leave their body to fester and rot as their soul had, with such proximity to the demon.

She raised her head and looked once more at the door to the basement, standing ajar like the mouth of a cave. She sniffled and slowly pushed herself to her feet. Then, she went to the ancient landline on the wall and took it down from its cradle. She dialed the number; even after years, she remembered it perfectly. It rang and rang. Her chest ached as she stared into the dark doorway of the basement.

The next ring cut off, and a familiar voice spoke over the line. She clutched the phone.

“This is Ezekiel.”

“E-Ezekiel,” she gasped, and the tears started anew. “This is—”

“I know who this is,” Ezekiel snapped. “You were never to call this number. You were never to communicate with any of us ever again.”

“I know,” she whined softly. “But… please. You have to help me. I—”

“You are Fallen,” Ezekiel said harshly. “Don’t contact me again.”

“Wait!” she cried. When Ezekiel stayed on the line, she wet her lips and continued: “I… I have a child. Something terrible has happened to them.”

Ezekiel was silent for a long moment. Then, “A… child? What do you mean?”

“My baby,” she sobbed. “I had a child with a human, and… Ezekiel, please. I… I think they’re dead.”

∴

Azazel’s mother chewed her lip as she looked out at Ezekiel, who stood on her front stoop. Frustration blazed out of his every pore. Not even his thundercloud expression could darken the light.

“What happened?” he said flatly.

She took a stumbling step back, and he stalked into her house. She suddenly became painfully aware of the dust smeared on every window, the grime on the floors, the cobwebs gathering along every corner of the house. Even the smell was stale. She swallowed tightly and met Ezekiel’s eyes.

He was glowering at her.

“What happened?” he said again, his mouth hard.

She burst into tears. “They… they died,” she sobbed, wringing her hands.

“How?” Ezekiel ground out.

She glanced at the floor. “Um… I… I was—”

“Where are they?” he said, turning his back on her and pacing around the living room. He glanced down the hall that led to her bedroom. She whimpered and stared at the open basement door.

He turned back to her and caught where she was staring. Without a word, he descended the steps.

She rushed after him. “Wait,” she gasped. He didn’t wait. “Wait, I, well, they were possessed,” she said weakly. “I was… I w-was… exorcising them…”

Ezekiel reached the bottom of the steps and felt along the wall. He flicked on the light. When his eyes fell on Abaddon, he froze in place.

They hadn’t moved from where she had left them. They lay splayed out on their side, wrists locked in manacles that chained them to the wall. Bruises and blood marred their face and arms. Their face was red and splotchy, eyes still half-open, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream. And there was that thin, deadly line of red encircling their throat, with the flesh around it already beginning to mottle purple and blue.

Their mother fell to her knees and began to keen softly.

“Azazel,” she wept. “Azazel. Why did you have to be corrupted? Why couldn’t you—”

To her utter shock, Ezekiel slapped her across the mouth. She fell silent. Her tears stopped. When she raised her gaze to him, his eyes were wide in horror.

“This child was not possessed,” he rasped.

She blinked, staring up at him for a long moment. She stumbled to her feet. “Not possessed?” she said.

He shook his head, never tearing his eyes from them. “This child has never been touched by demonic power in their life.” His lips barely moved.

Azazel’s mother let out a huff. “They why,” she snapped, “Have they sapped my strength, my holy light, my life ever since they were born?”

Ezekiel knelt without a word, ran his fingers gently along the thin red line along their throat. “Pax huic domui,” he whispered into the heavy air of the basement.

Continuing the rites, their mother murmured, “Et omnib—”

“Don’t,” Ezekiel snarled. Her mouth snapped shut and she fell back a step, even though she stood over him. His eyes blazed with righteous fury. “You murdered your own child in cold blood and in your fucking hubris and resentment. Such a thing is an abomination. You are an abomination.”

She wet her lips. Her translucent hands tightened into fists. “How… dare you say that to me,” she said feebly. “After I have just… suffered this loss—”

“Leave us,” Ezekiel said through his teeth, turning back to look at the broken child. He did not turn back to see if he was obeyed. He was.

Once Azazel’s mother had slinked up the stairs, she began wailing to herself. Ezekiel ignored her and passed his hand over Azazel’s head. His fingers tangled in the sweat and blood drying in their hair. “Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini,” Ezekiel murmured. “Dominus vobiscum. Oremus. Introeat, Domine Jesu Christe, domum…” His hand stopped in its path through their hair. He turned his head, listening. Slowly, he slid his hand over Azazel’s chest and let it rest over their heart. A slow, sluggish beat pulsed against his palm. He let out a breath and withdrew his hand.

His eyes passed over Azazel once more. The chains were made of iron, he realized. He clenched his teeth so hard they sparked. The cuffs would have burned, if the child was a demon or was even possessed. When he checked the skin beneath them, the only marks were from years of wearing the cuffs. He tapped the chains. They fell away and clanked on the cold ground.

“Come, child,” he whispered as he gathered them to his chest and lifted them as easily as if they were made of paper. “I’ll take you away from this place.” Their head hung limp; their limbs dangled from his embrace. Their blood smeared on his shirt.

When he reached the top of the stairs, their mother rushed at him. “No,” she whined. “You can’t take them, what will I do without them? My baby, my poor baby… They’re… they’re gone…”

Ezekiel opened his mouth to tell her that they still lived, that their heart still beat in their chest. They looked into her limpid eyes, listened to her simpering moans. He thought of the red line around their throat. He thought of the blood staining his shirt. He could smell it. It smelled stale.

His jaw tightened around his wrath. “You are unclean,” he said coldly. “How can you perform the funeral rites?” He pushed past her and left her in her empty home. Her howls followed him as he carried them into the street. When he tired of listening to her, he folded space and bore the child to his own empty home.

Latin is from the Last Rites

Continued here

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[whumblr]

That wave of shock that hits Whumpee full in the chest when their Whumper is declared 'not guilty'.

They shrink in their seat while Whumper stands tall, proud, confident because there was never an option of another outcome, right.

The little smile, the brief eye contact when Whumper walks past them, saying either as little as 'well then' or as much as a silent promised 'We'll talk soon'.

When they are told that, sorry, your detailed testimony wasn't enough. Or worse: the jury didn't believe your testimony.

[hurtcomfortguaranteed]

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

[mcuthoraction]

Summary:

Thor can’t even recall what it was that he had been seeking, that day. Of some plot, some scheme, only the Norns know. But he had ended up in front of Loki’s cell in the pits of Asgard, separated by glass as if they were warden and prisoner, not brothers. 

After the events of the Avengers (2012) Loki is tried and sentenced to imprisonment in the dungeons. Thor avoids seeing his brother in there, until he does not.

Fic written by @mayonaisie for the Thor Gotcha for Gaza for @/scribbles_pen's prompt: Hurt/comfort, Thor does something to trigger loki's flashbacks to when he was being tortured by the black order. This turns into a panic attack and it takes multiple attempts for Thor to properly calm him down. It's also eye-opening for Thor, realizing he really doesn't know how much lokis been through.

[25centsoda]

Whumptober 2024 - Day 17, SW

Summary:

After taking Luke from the medical facility he was imprisoned at, Vader brought Luke to the Executor. Luke is still processing the change. Day 17: NOWHERE ELSE TO GO Ruined Map | Shipwrecked | “We had a good run.”

A continuation of my 2021 fic Safety's A Breath Away

Excerpt:

Luke furrowed his brow, daring another glance down the durasteel hallway.

Since when had there been stormtroopers everywhere, and so many officers? Of all the people that had walked by, he didn’t think he’d seen a nurse once. Was there some kind of inspection? Takeover?

...it was an Imperial facility, right? Who else would get a former Inquisitor?

No, no; he’d definitely seen the Imperial cog around.

He shook his head as if to clear it. The new staff didn’t matter. What mattered was getting out, now matter how difficult the building suddenly was to navigate.