#I miss the whump community

[whumpprompts]

to all the bad bitches, baes, and beautiful baquettes who still hang around here, I have risen from the grave to give you this PSA:

*~whump~*

[whump-in-the-closet]

weak in the knees for situations where a stoic whumpee allows someone to help them. they don't say a word of acceptance but they don't protest either. Too injured to say no and too tired to deny they need it. Just grudgingly letting a gentle hand guide them to a bed or to wrap a wound. Then a quiet, "thank you." in between sharp breathing as they try not to break down in front of someone else. Love love love shielded vulnerability

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

unpopular opinion but whump should and deserves to be messy

"Yeah duh there's plenty of scenarios with blood and tears--" no. I want more.

I want pink tinted spit dribbling out of Whumpee's mouth. I want strings of saliva connecting between their busted lip to Whumper's tongue. I want drool running down the corners of their mouths because of a gag that makes it difficult to swallow.

I want sweat making Whumpee feel sticky and clammy to the touch. I want their skin to be slick and soaking into their soiled clothes. I want them to squirm in discomfort of a dirty shirt clinging to their back from precious fluids that are going to risk further dehydration. I want their hair to be continuously damp and hanging in thick strands in their face.

I want the scabs to turn white with pus and black with infection. I want old wounds to tear open and bleed a thick red. I want the pink flesh underneath to pulse and quiver, the sight of yellow fat and cartilage. I want blood vessels and capillaries to burst and spread over an area, I want burns to start brown and peel away to a tender pink.

I want Whumpee to vomit out of their nose because their mouth is gagged. I want bile to reek on their clothing and on their tongue. I want them to grow use to the taste of bitter blood and burning chyme forever in the back of their throat. I want them to have to snort and hack to be able to spit out whatever was still caught on their tongue or risk swallowing it down.

I want their tears to remain unwiped and crusting over their eyes. I want snot to smear over their cheeks and leave their lips uncomfortably tacky. I want their face to remain blotchy and red because they just can't get it clean. I want dirt and blood and skin to build up under their fingernails to the point they risk infecting their own wounds if they try and mess with it. I want Whumpee to only be sprayed down with cold water and an old towel, never any soap and never in all the creases of their body.

I want their bodies caked in grime and viscera and bodily fluids. I want Whumper to never give them the luxury of feeling clean and in fact actively making them more filthy each time. I want Whumpee's clothes yellowed and their hair matted and their skin sickly. I want injuries to never properly heal so that the only option is to amputate the necrosis. I want Whumper to force Whumpee to clean up whatever kind of mess they made by licking it off the floor.

I want arteries to spew like a garden sprinkler. I want the exposed roots of pulled teeth to dangle freely in their mouth. I want Whumpee's hair, including all of their body hair, to grow to unruly lengths that are constantly tangled and ingrown. I want them to find comfort in starving because it means there's nothing to risk throwing up. I want them to scrub their skin raw and bleeding, uncaring how much it aggravates their injuries or how the soap stings, the first chance they're given for a real bath.

I want it to be nasty!!!!!!

[writereleaserepeat]

Rescue and Reprieve

Kirin awakes to find himself in the hands of the only person more terrifying than his former captor. With his spirit all but defeated, and his body broken, he prepares to fight for his survival in the only way he knows how. But admist his terror, and despite his life hanging in the balance, Kirin finds small mercies in the most unexpected place.

One shot. Named characters.

WC: ~10,000

CW: carewhumper(ish), mentions of past noncon, foul language, noncon touching, noncon nudity, noncon medical care, head trauma, broken bones

Pain dug its claws into Kirin’s soul and began to drag him out of unconsciousness. First came the familiar ache in his leg, like a railroad spike had speared his shin and been left to ossify. This pain was his oldest companion, and it was always the first to greet him when he woke.

The sharp fury of broken fingers followed soon after, and then the ribs that groaned with every shallow breath he took, then the dull roar of the never-healed patchwork of bruises that mottled his abdomen. His nerves came to life while his wits were still scattered, and Kirin took a few shaky breaths to soothe himself as he emerged from a sea of dark nothingness. 

Kirin blinked his eyes open, and the low light pierced his skull like daggers. His vision was still blurry from the darkness of not-sleep, and his mind was clouded with a thick fog of confusion. A wave of nausea washed over him, rolling through his body like the tide, only to ebb with a few more carefully paced breaths. His tongue was as dry as sandpaper in his mouth, but he was still haunted by the bitter taste of his own blood. 

Hearing returned along with his vision, and he could make out the pathetic sound of his own ragged gasps, punctuated by the softest hint of a whimper he couldn’t swallow down.

The nausea spiked again. This time Kirin couldn’t run from the inevitable, and he turned his head to the side as his empty stomach contracted and twisted in on itself. A thin stream of acid burned his lips as it dripped to the floor, and his head swam with a wave of vertigo from the sudden movement. Every cough to clear the bile from his throat made his fractured ribs cry out, begging him to stop, threatening to cave in his lungs. Shame burned nearly as hot as his esophagus.

For a moment, all he could feel was disappointment that he wasn’t dead yet.

Tears pricked at his eyes, but no, no, he wasn’t going to cry. Not now. Not out of pain, or anger, or confusion. Not until he figured out what had happened and where the hell he had ended up.

His vision was almost clear now, and although the pounding in his head was fierce, he slowly regained an awareness of his senses and surroundings. This was how it always went after a few serious blows to the head, something he’d more or less grown used to in captivity, and he knew he had to take this slow if he didn’t want to get sick again. 

The familiar weight of the metal collar sat heavy on his neck, a thick chain attached to the ring at the front, its steel cold and heavy where the interlinking metal grazed Kirin’s collarbones. The chain was short, just a few feet long, and secured into the nearby wall with a thick bolt. 

Much to Kirin’s surprise, his legs were no longer shackled as they had been for so long. Where cold metal should have clamped tight, his ankles were instead touched by cool air. Similarly, the familiar metal cuffs that had long bound his wrists together were also missing. Their absence made Kirin feel more naked than his actual nakedness now did. 

As for the rest of his aching, broken body, it laid naked and limp against a polished cement floor. Kirin could feel the cool stone leeching any last bits of warmth from his tired body, throbbing in pain where it pressed against the bones that were palpable through his pale, taut skin.

He was in a cell, he knew that much. He’d spent quite some time in places like this, so much so that it was as familiar as home. He’d suffered, and he’d bled, and he’d almost died in places like this before. But this particular cell was new to him. There were no familiar bloodstains underfoot where copper had long since stained the grey. There were no scratches in the cinderblock walls where he had raked his fingernails down to bloodied nubs, or where his shackles had chipped desperately away at the stone.

Somehow, this place was more comforting than he could have imagined a cell to be. The overhead lights were a soft yellow, not the piercing fluorescent white that made it almost impossible to sleep. The walls were cinderblock, but they were painted with a wash of white paint that nearly hid their abrasive texture. And the floor was not only missing his own bloodstains, but any at all – the slab of grey stone was continuous, smooth, as though it had been poured and polished new. 

And then there was the door. It was a proper door, almost certainly made of thick steel, rather than the rusted bars he’d stared at for so long. For better or for worse, there was also no glimpse at a hallway to freedom that would never come. This new door was also painted white, in perfect harmony with the walls, and it was almost certainly barred and bolted from the outside. The side of the door that faced him was smooth, save for its hinges and the translucent window at eye level.

Wherever Kirin was now – be it a new prison, purgatory, or hell – it didn’t really matter.  It might not have been Fen’s lair, but the chain that tethered him close to the wall told him all he needed to know.

He couldn’t remember how he ended up here. He’d been laying in his cell, stuck in the unpleasant fugue between sleep and waking, the pain not allowing him to slip fully under. Then he’d heard violent crashing and shouting from the complex above him, a cacophony of voices, a thunder of footsteps. The building itself had begun to shake around him, the walls had groaned, and then-

Then nothing. Emptiness occupied the place where memories should have been, just as it did whenever he’d had his head kicked in. Hunting for those memories now would be futile. Whatever he’d done to earn the beating was likewise forgotten. Given the sounds that had come from the compound above, there was a fair chance that Kirin himself hadn’t done anything wrong, but had instead been a convenient punching bag for Fen to find catharsis.

Now, it was time to survey his wounds. While his memory still failed him, and certain details escaped his comprehension, all he could do was determine whether these latest agonies had caused any permanent damage. Were there any new bruises painting his abdomen, new hues to add to the shifting canvas of yellow, blue, and purple beneath his skin? Had any more of his ribs cracked beneath a steel-toed boot, or had another finger been spent and snapped like kindling? Did he have another tooth missing, a new ache in his jaw? 

The groaning of a lock coming undone snapped Kirin’s attention back to the door. 

Kirin grit his remaining teeth and tried to gatherer both his wits and his limbs. It was never good to be caught how he was now, laying prone and with his limbs splayed, naked body exposed to whoever walked through that door. This position left him vulnerable to any spare kicks that Fen and their compatriots felt like delivering, and it opened his soft abdomen to any number of blows. 

Whatever his new keepers had in store, Kirin had learned enough lessons at Fen’s hand to last a lifetime. And until he knew who his body belonged to now, he wouldn’t let himself be seen so vulnerable, so unprepared. 

He pulled his left hand beneath him and pushed down hard on his palm, trying to haul himself into a sitting position. His broken fingers and leg cried out as he did so, but through the pain and the shaking of his atrophied muscles, Kirin pulled his torso off the floor. The chain attached to his collar rattled as he moved, each link clinking against the next, and the sound grew louder as Kirin settled his back against the wall. He could feel blood and pus from his open wounds slick against the painted cinderblocks that now held him upright. It was all he could do to breathe steadily through his nose, try and still his racing heart, anything measure to disguise his utter weakness.

Kirin knew it didn’t truly matter. He looked more like a corpse than a human at this point, and even if he used the last of his energy to display an illusion of strength, it was just as likely his keeper would see right through him. 

Despite his efforts to keep a cool, steely exterior, Kirin felt his eyes widen as the door swung open and a broad silhouette filled the doorframe. Kirin’s gaze swept over muscular arms that strained against a tight grey shirt, then wandered up to a sharp jawline that was dusted in stubble. Rich brown eyes glowed even in the low light of the cell, and black curls caught the golden glow above with the radiance and omnipresence of a god. 

With a knowing half-smile on his lips, Alekos stepped through the threshold of the cell and closed the door behind him. 

Alekos walked forward with steady strides, each footfall sending a new shock through Kirin’s body. His heart began to race at a staggering staccato as his stomach twisted in knots. Kirin recoiled in spite of himself, and he pushed his ragged back even further into the wall behind him, ignoring the sting that came from the added pressure. It was the animal instinct in his mind that told him to flee, and it was this same instinct that told him to put as much space between himself and Alekos as possible, even at the cost of reopening his wounds. 

Alekos came to a stop just inches before where Kirin sat, his broken leg splayed out awkwardly, the chain still against his naked chest. Cold eyes glanced Kirin over once before Alekos sneered and scoffed. 

“Well, they told me you looked like shit, but I didn’t think they really meant it. You’re a wreck, little thing, nothing but scars and bone. What a waste of a life.” 

Kirin bit down on his tongue until it bled, and he could feel his eyes begin to burn of their own volition. No. He couldn’t be here with Alekos. Not like this, not now, not as a prisoner at the man’s utter mercy. Even on his best days - those strong days before Fen turned on him - Kirin had never stood a chance against Alekos. And now, helpless and imprisoned at Alekos’s feet, he was certain that Alekos would make Fen’s torment pale in comparison. 

In a brief flash of lucidity, Kirin realized that the history between them was both a blessing and a curse. That same history would bring Alekos’s wrath down firmly on Kirin’s shoulders, a biting retribution that he arguably deserved. But it also meant that Kirin knew just what he had to do to appease Alekos, should Alekos entertain the idea of letting Kirin live another day. And as much as Kirin was certain that this would be a death sentence, he knew that he wanted to live. He’d always wanted to live, survive, escape all of this. 

Now, he had to survive Alekos. 

Kirin drew in a deep breath, deep enough that his ribs gave him an angry reminder of their damage, and he looked Alekos in the eyes. The tightrope of strength, defiance, and obedience wavered beneath him. Alekos loathed weakness, so Kirin wouldn’t show it. Alekos hated disobedience, so Kirin would obey. Alekos liked to feel powerful, so Kirin would subjugate himself. 

There was no anger in Alekos’s face as Kirin had expected there to be. Instead, those terrifyingly familiar eyes held something that Kirin would have dared call curiosity. 

“So,” Alekos began, voice level but commanding, “do you know where you are?” 

Kirin could make a few educated guesses, but he didn’t want to get ahead of himself. Only a few seconds had passed since Alekos had come in, mere moments since he’d decided his course of action, and he didn’t want to ruin his odds too early. Instead of speaking he gave a measured, cautious shake of his head. The chain rattled in response. 

Alekos crossed his arms and puffed out his chest with a deep breath, as though Kirin wasn’t already intimidated by his sheer size and presence. The man’s gravelly voice threatened to tear away what remained of Kirin’s courage. 

“You’re back at our base of operations, and that’s where you’ll be for the indefinite future. Perhaps the entirety of your future, depending on how generous I’m feeling. I’m sure you don’t need me to give you the subtext, but in case the head trauma means you can’t read between the lines, that means you’re in our custody. I’ve never been fond of the word ‘prisoner,’ but it’s fitting, and it should help you remember your place. Do you remember how you got here?” 

Again, Kirin shook his head. That was an easy, honest answer. It didn’t seem that Alekos expected him to know the answer in the first place, and there was nothing in Kirin’s mind but a blank space. 

A short sigh escaped Alekos’s lips, the sound laden with disappointment. 

“Consider your forgetfulness a blessing. Rest assured, despite your own forgetfulness, my team will remember this day for a long time. They’ve told me in great detail how much trouble you gave them, and just how hard you fought. Apparently, they’d never have expected such resistance from a malnourished pile of bones. It’s almost like you knew what waited for you once you got here.”

Kirin felt his mouth tighten as he swallowed a wince. As if he hadn’t done enough to make Alekos hate him before, and as if he hadn’t already condemned himself to a lifetime of torment, he’d certainly secured it through whatever he’d done prior leading up to his concussion. 

A final step was all it took to close the gap between the two men, and Alekos smoothly knelt a hair’s breadth away from where Kirin sat in an awkward pile of bruises and broken limbs. 

His heart in his throat, Kirin forced himself to swallow. He’d vomit again if he didn’t get his nerves under control. There was nowhere to run now, of course. Even if Kirin had been strong enough to push Alekos away he hadn’t been able to stand since Fen had broken his leg, and the limb was still crooked from how it had healed. The ache of his broken fingers would have made it impossible to manipulate even the most simple door handle, much less grapple with a series of locks and bolts. 

Still, he knew he had to be strong, and that he had to show Alekos he had enough spirit left to be worth saving. So now, with Alekos mere inches from his face, Kirin let out the only sign of defiance he could muster. A low growl rose in his throat, mimicking a cornered feline, his lip twitching up ever so slightly as he did so. 

The rumble hadn’t so much as left his mouth before Alekos reached forward and grabbed Kirin’s chin. Alekos moved so fast that Kirin didn’t even have the chance to jerk backwards, his jaw swiftly secured in Alekos’s massive, calloused palm. The grip was firm, almost painfully so, and Kirin knew he wouldn’t be able to pull away. 

“Hey,” Alekos growled back, throat full of stones. “I don’t want to hear that kind of attitude coming from you. You’re certainly in no position to bargain. Whatever’s left of your life is in my hands, understand? You’re going to sit there, you’re going to shut the fuck up, and you’re going to let me look you over. I’d rather not be forced to subdue you again.” 

And in that moment, Kirin felt something inside of him break. The fear bubbled to a head, a torrent of adrenaline rushing from his veins and into his eyes. Oh, his eyes burned, and his pledge to bravery wavered as the lump in his throat grew bigger. 

Much to Kirin’s horror, a hot tear rolled down his cheek and landed between Alekos’s unwavering fingers. 

Alekos barely blinked, and he made a disapproving click of his tongue as his already tight grip on Kirin’s face tightened further. 

“Crying already, poor thing. Are you in pain? Or are you just afraid?” The words hung in the air as sarcastic taunts, their acerbic edge biting almost as sharply as Alekos’s touch. 

Kirin didn’t move. As much as every nerve in his body was screaming at him to run, he knew that resistance would be a futile exercise, and one that would likely lead to his untimely demise. He felt like a mouse between the paws of a lion, nothing more than a plaything for Alekos. His own fear meant nothing to his captor. 

Fear had never stopped Fen before - in fact, Kirin figured they probably got off on it. From what Kirin knew of Alekos, his own pain or discomfort wouldn’t stop the man either. Hunger, pain, and head trauma had already shattered most of who Kirin had once been. It wouldn’t take much more for him to be completely broken, not a whisper left of Kirin’s soul left in a useless bodyl. Maybe that’s what Alekos wanted. 

“Can you speak, Kirin?” 

The way Alekos said his name made a sob rise in Kirin’s chest, even tighter and more pressing than the tears he was swallowing back. Fen hadn’t granted him the luxury of hearing his name in so long, and to hear it now, even on Alekos’s lips, was a blessing so welcome that he almost broke down. It was embarrassing just how badly Kirin wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear his name, to be seen, more than he wanted to be brave. Perhaps even more than he wanted to survive. He hadn’t known until that very moment how desperate he was for it. 

But still, Alekos had asked a question, and the rational part of Kirin’s brain was fighting to stay afloat above the fear and confusion. As such, Kirin knew that he would be prudent to answer 

With his face still gripped in Alekos’s unmoving grasp, he was unable to nod. Rapid blinks of confirmation followed instead. 

“Then speak.” Alekos’s voice cut through Kirin like thunder. The grip on his chin loosened just enough that he could part his lips.

What was Kirin to say? He didn’t want to show even more vulnerability by pleading for his life, and he didn’t want to throw meaningless platitudes at Alekos for his mercy thus far. The undercurrent of fear quieted just long enough for Kirin to think back to one of Fen’s first demands, the demand that Kirin subject himself to their power. It was one simple word, and perhaps it would succeed here to show Alekos that Kirin was aware of his position here without giving up his weakness. 

“Sir, you-”

“That’s enough of that,” Alekos cut him off almost immediately, and fully released Kirin’s chin in the same breath. Kirin was tempted to curl in on himself, the abruptness of Alekos’s denial as sharp as though he’d been kicked, but he held firm against the wall. 

“You can use my name,” Alekos continued, settling back onto his heels. “Grovelling doesn’t become you.” 

“Unless-” Alekos paused then, tilted his head to the side ever so slightly “-unless that’s what Fen wanted you to call them?”

Kirin nodded, the response automatic. He felt like he was going to pass out again. Only two words had made it out of his mouth and Alekos had already shut him out. For all of the effort it was taking to pretend to be strong, composed, and brave, his progress was abysmal. It increasingly felt like it would take a miracle for Kirin to see another dawn.

A small cough broke the silence, and Alekos gave a brief shake of his head, curls bouncing. 

“Well, that egotistical bastard has always had a knack for sadism, I’ll give them that. It’s not surprising they want to think themselves a both god and master over their prisoners. I’ll say that you have no need to use such honorifics with me. You already know the power I hold here, so there’s no need to make a charade of it, and I’m not particularly fond of titles. So, with that out of the way, let’s try this again. Speak.” 

Again, Kirin was frozen in place. What could he say? What would buy him another day, another meal, another week breathing? Would the wrong word drive Alekos to a rage that would end Kirin’s life on the spot? Fen had never liked it when Kirin begged, and if Alekos was so determined to set himself apart from Fen, Kirin figured that something close to begging would be worth a shot. The trouble came in walking the line between weakness and determination. All he had to show now was that he truly, deeply desired to be seen as someone who was still fighting to survive. 

“Alekos, thank you for sparing my life,” he started, trying to whet his tongue on nothingness. “I swear, sir-” 

“Okay, you know what? Enough of that.” Alekos was more aggressive this time, cutting Kirin off with noticeably less patience. “That fucker did a real number on you, didn’t they? Is this what Fen does with all of their unwanted playthings? Turn them into little dolls that can’t do anything but beg and cry? Or was it you, Kirin? Were you just not good enough for them?” 

Kirin didn’t respond. It was clear that whatever he had to say, whether it was begging or outright defiance, Alekos didn’t want to hear it. This only confirmed Kirin’s growing suspicion that nothing he did now would alter Alekos’s preconceived notions. Alekos had come into this cell with a plan, and he was going to follow through with that plan regardless of how carefully Kirin responded. 

Even if this was true, Kirin knew he had to still try, still fight. Silence was something that Kirin could sit with for now. He was parched enough as it was, every word more difficult than the last, and it seemed that Alekos was more than content to do the talking. 

Hands freed from clutching Kirin’s face, Alekos let his palms rest idly on his thighs, and his eyes gave Kirin’s naked body another once-over. When he spoke again his voice was commanding, sharper than it had been yet. The tone was enough to make Kirin sit up a bit straighter, spine a bit more taught, pain more muted as he paid attention for a command. 

“Here’s the deal, Kirin: we’re going to fix you up. You’re not much use to us dead, and if we left you as you are, there’s little question you’d be dead in a matter of days. Not that I particularly care if you die, of course: it comes down to the simple fact that you’re only useful to us alive. What I want is you, both alive and lucid, able to answer my questions. As for why I’m here in this cell, personally, it’s because I don’t trust you. I don’t want anyone else from my team down here with you, especially not alone. So before the good doctor gets her hands on you and tries to piece Humpty Dumpty back together again, it’s my turn. I’m going to ask you some questions and I’m going to do an examination of my own. I want to see and feel for myself what’s wrong with you before I let anyone else get anywhere near you.” 

Ah, there it was. Kirin had known from the moment he’d awoken here, but the confirmation was as comforting as it was soul crushing. His body was not his own here, and perhaps it never would be again. He was a plaything meant to scream, bleed, and heal at its keeper’s command. At least Alekos was being honest about it upfront, whereas Fen had once pretended to care about him. 

“Will you behave for me?” Alekos asked. 

“Yes,” Kirin rasped, trying to steel his nerves. “Yes, sir, Alekos. I’ll behave for you.” 

A glint of fire flashed in Alekos’s eyes. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, what did I just say about that? Just ‘yes’ is fine. That’s all I need from you, if you need to speak at all. Fuck. Just - dammit - sit still and shut the fuck up.” 

And with that, Kirin still desperately swallowing his sobs, Alekos put his bare hands on Kirin’s broken skin. 

No matter how much he prepared himself Kirin always flinched at the first touch. It was an instinct he hadn’t quite managed to train out of himself, and it was apparent now, as he winced ever so slightly. Alekos certainly noticed, a thoughtful blink accompanying a knowing hum, but he didn’t stop or question his prisoner any further. 

Alekos began by running his hands in rough strokes over Kirin’s matted hair, then took his thumbs more gently across Kirin’s temple and cheekbones, before coming to rest over the long-healed bump from a severely broken nose. Alekos paused there, lingering for just a moment. Kirin fought to remain impassive and statuesque. 

“Did this happen recently?” Alekos asked. Kirin shook his head, the only answer he could think to give. His memory was poor, but his nose hadn’t bled in quite some time, and that break had happened shortly after Fen had taken him as their prisoner. However long ago that had been, it wasn’t dishonest to say that some considerable time had passed. 

Alekos took the answer at face value. Those hunting fingers continued their journey, and this time a thumb slid between Kirin’s lips. Kirin let his jaw drop open without comment. If Alekos wanted to see his mouth, determine if it would be of any use, Kirin certainly wouldn’t stop him. There were a few teeth missing, after all: Fen had yanked them clean out, once with their fingers, twice with pliers. Kirin could still remember what it felt like to nearly drown in his own blood, the liquid hot and coppery on his tongue, the glinting roots of his molars scattered haphazardly across the prison floor. 

Another breath passed and Alekos’s thumb retreated. Kirin closed his mouth, tongue running over the gaps where his teeth once had been, and he swallowed a sigh of relief. It was always painful when Fen took out anger on his mouth, and Alekos’s brief visit there was enough to startle him. 

Where Alekos ventured next was natural. It was natural, yet no matter how long he’d been collared, Kirin had to focus on the pain elsewhere in his body to distract him. Alekos slowly moved his hands from Kirin’s mouth to his throat, fingers probing the tender and bruised flesh above the soldered metal collar. Kirin put his energy into breathing deep, smooth breaths, not just to maintain an illusion of composure, but to prepare himself in case Alekos decided to cut off his supply of air. 

To Kirin’s great relief, Alekos didn’t do anything of the sort. Alekos instead ran his fingers softly over the collar’s edge, and then over the scars where the hot metal had seared Kirin’s flesh when the collar was permanently bonded around his neck. Another hum came from Alekos’s mouth, more thoughtful than it was accusatory. 

The next few minutes passed without incident. Had Kirin more dignity, he would have been proud of how still he had sat, how much he had suppressed to let Alekos explore him so freely. He was perfectly still as Alekos stroked his fingertips against new and old fractured ribs. Alekos had coached him to breathe, when to draw in and, and when to gesture as he experienced pain. This process had taken some time, Alekos lingering on each rib with care, and Kirin slowly came to the conclusion that more of his ribs were damaged than he initially thought. 

Alekos then counted the broken fingers on Kirin’s hands, both the breaks above and below the middle knuckles, and probed as though he were taking note of how old the breaks were. The disapproving hums came thick and heavy, but Kirin neither had the courage nor the death wish to ask Alekos what he could possibly be thinking. Even a glimpse would have told any sane person that Kirin was broken goods, but here Alekos was, taking the opportunity to inspect for himself. 

As uncomfortable as it was, Kirin made sure to follow Alekos’s commands. He followed them silently and swiftly, moving his aching limbs as instructed, breathing or nodding only as necessary. It would fulfill the promise he had made to himself, make himself more than trash meant to be discarded. 

Things changed in almost a heartbeat. Alekos had spent a fair amount of time on Kirin’s abdomen, pressing on Kirin’s stomach and bruises with a soft tutting. After a moment, Alekos moved his hands lower. 

An animalistic scream tore itself from Kirin’s throat before he could stop himself. 

He hadn’t meant to scream. He hadn’t meant to gasp, hadn’t even meant to blink. He’d channeled his energy into being placid, behaved, a model prisoner that was brave enough to look Alekos in the eyes. Yet that single touch, a few fingers over his hips and snaking towards his nakedness, had shattered him entirely. The fear he’d so dutifully meant to swallow had struck like a wounded snake, and it had wrest the cry from his lungs. 

It had taken so long before Fen had hurt him so intimately. Fen had waited until Kirin was a shell of his former self, entirely incapable of fighting back, and so mentally exhausted that he couldn’t even bring a refusal to his lips. When Fen had taken him the first time, Kirin had been nothing more than a husk of a living being. What Fen had done ensured that Kirin would never fully be human again. 

Now, with Alekos, it was different. Kirin had been pretending to be brave, pretending to be a model prisoner. It was a gambit on his life, and the animal that commanded his fear had ruined it. That one soft touch, nothing so nearly as terrible as Fen, had rattled him to his core and made him cry out like a beast that had been struck. 

Alekos withdrew his hands as though he’d touched fire, as though he were genuinely startled by Kirin’s cry. It didn’t take more than a moment for the man to issue a stern correction. 

“Hey now,” Alekos muttered from the back of his throat, “none of that here. You said you’d behave for me, didn’t you? That means I shouldn’t have to fight you, isn’t that right, Kirin?” There was no avoiding the fact that Alekos’s tone was scolding, condescending. He was disappointed. 

What he’d said was also true. Kirin had, even if not in those same words, agreed to sit still for Alekos’s inspection. His body was all he could offer up, however much it terrified him. If he broke apart now, and if he showed that neither his body nor mind were salvageable, it would mean certain death. 

Still, he realized in that moment that death would be more favorable than returning to Fen. 

His breaths grew shallow once more, and as much as he fought to pull in a full breath, he failed. It was as though he was drowning on nothing but clear air. Blackness crowded in at the edges of his vision, his view of Alekos already blurry and dark through tears that refused to fall, a pitiful display. 

A hand grabbed the chain connected to Kirin’s collar and pulled hard. Kirin’s body jerked in response, and when he gasped, his lungs finally filled with air. 

“Stop the histrionics,” Alekos growled. “If you keep up this little act, you’re going to pass out, and that’s going to piss me off more than I’m already pissed off. So take a breath and answer this: have I hurt you so far?” 

“No, sir,” Kirin managed to choke out. His voice broke as he spoke, but it was the truth. In those few minutes that had passed since Kirin had awoken, Alekos hadn’t hurt him. The fact that Kirin felt such terror was entirely a product of his own mind. 

“That’s right. I could hurt you, but I haven’t, and I’ve no intention to if you keep behaving. And what about Fen? Did Fen hurt you?” 

Kirin screwed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to answer, he didn’t want to think about Fen any longer, he didn’t want to remember what had happened to him before he woke up in this cell.

Perhaps even more than that, he didn’t want Alekos to know what had happened. Enough indignities were written across his skin and broken bones that he had no need to put those experiences into words. As for the scars Alekos couldn’t see, Kirin wasn’t sure he could ever voice those quite so clearly, not even at Alekos’s command.

Still, his new keeper had demanded an answer, and he had sworn to himself that he would prioritize strength and obedience. To break down like this was a failure, and it clearly tested Alekos’s patience. 

“Yes, sir. They hurt me.” 

“I don’t think you’re answering the question I actually asked. I can see they hurt you, little thing. You’re bleeding all over my wall, so of course they hurt you. But what I’m asking is if they fucked you. Did they like to have their way with you? Did they break your leg so you couldn’t run and then take you for themselves? Did they turn you into a plaything for their own pleasure?”  

Ah. So Alekos had figured it out on his own. It couldn’t have been hard, Kirin knew, given how much he’d recoiled and screamed the moment Aleko’s hands had dipped below his waist. But it was a knife in his heart to hear the truth of it spoken aloud, each of Alekos’s accusations hitting harder than a whip ever could. 

For the first time since Alekos arrived, Kirin found himself stuttering. 

“Ye- I’m- y-yes, sir.” 

A huff of breath from Aleko’s nose sent another tremor through Kirin’s body. And when Alekos’s voice returned, it was softer than before. 

“As I’ve already told you, and as your concussed mind might have already forgotten, I am not Fen. But much like Fen, I do expect you to behave for me. You’d been doing well, just as you should, before all of this crying and hysteria started. You belong to me, now, Kirin. I expect you to listen to me, and sit still for me. Can you understand that?” 

“Yes, sir.” Of course. Of course. No matter what Fen had done in the past, it was up to Alekos to determine what happened to Kirin now. 

“Good. I’m glad you understand. And since you’re lucid enough to understand, I expect you to listen. So I’m going to hold onto this collar of yours just to make sure you don’t try and wriggle away from me again, and I’m going to continue my inspection. Since this is obviously difficult for you, I’m going to give you some more instructions. Close your eyes, count to one hundred out loud, and then I’ll be done. Can you do that?” 

It was a mercy Kirin hadn’t been afforded before. At the same time, he wasn’t sure he could force the words from his lips, past the lump in his throat. Undoubtedly this was Alekos’s way of offering kindness, as much as it was a reminder where Kirin stood. 

It would be easier if he couldn’t see Alekos. It would be easier if the man that knew what had happened to him, saw through his shame, was hidden from his sight. So, Kirin closed his eyes. He felt Alekos’s steady grip on the front ring of his collar, commanding, ever-present. He took a breath, aware it whistled with a nascent sob, and he started to count aloud. 

“One… t-two… three… four…” 

The numbers were punctuated with small gasps that failed to disguise growing terror. After a few moments, Alekos’s hand returned to Kirin’s skin. 

Kirin continued to count as Alekos snaked his touch between his legs, gentle and probing, before moving to Kirin’s thighs, buttocks, and hips. The counting went on, the numbers creeping higher, as Alekos ghosted his touch over Kirin’s broken leg. 

The counting had indeed distracted Kirin from the hands roaming his skin, each number drawing his focus. And when he reached one hundred, he opened his eyes. The exploration of his scars and his still-open wounds had come to an unceremonious end. 

Alekos let the collar go, and Kirin slumped back against the wall, uncaring how it dug into his open wounds. 

“You’re pretty fucked up.” 

Kirin didn’t know if he was supposed to answer. 

Alekos let out the most dramatic sigh he’d made since first setting foot in Kirin’s cell. 

“If we want you to live much longer, we’ve got some serious work to do. Both physically and with whatever the hell Fen did to that head of yours. You’re not much use to anyone in this state. Well, unless they’re looking for a quivering wreck of a punching bag.” 

The sobbing had since stopped, and Kirin’s breathing had evened out, but he could still feel that his cheeks were wet with tear stains. Was it over? Would Alekos not just let him live, but actually heal some of his wounds? 

“Actually,” Alekos said, seeming to muse, “I’m curious. You’ve been mostly well-behaved so far, quite impressive for the precious spitfire I always thought you were.  I suppose that’s a testament to Fen’s handiwork, no? I’ve only given you some simple commands so far, but I’d like to see if you’ll listen to all of the commands your master gives you. Your cooperation will be needed if you want to make it much further than the four walls of this cell. So, will you listen to me like you listened to Fen? 

Nerves made Kirin’s throat tighten. Had he not obeyed enough commands so far to prove that he was not just alert and intent on surviving, but that he wasn’t interested in fighting back? That he’d listen, that he’d obey, that he didn’t have the strength to harm Alekos in return? 

Maybe his faltering had been enough to undermine Alekos’s confidence. Maybe that fear, that brief moment of weakness, would cost Kirin his life. If this was a chance to fight for Alekos’s mercy, a chance to show Alekos that he was as obedient as he was determined to survive, he’d gladly take it. 

Kirin nodded, and a small smile crossed Alekos’s lips. 

“Delightful. Lie down.” 

Kirin obeyed. He took a deep breath to brace himself for the pain that would wrack his body and he lowered himself to the cement floor. He let the wall guide him down, chain rattling, but he made it without much movement of his leg. Meanwhile he still looked up at Alekos, trying to gauge the man’s expression, to see if he’d done something wrong. His captor’s visage remained stony. 

As soon as he was prone on the cement, smears of blood on the wall where he’d used it to slow his descent, Alekos spoke again. 

“Sit up.” 

Just as when Alekos has first entered the cell, sitting up was an extraordinarily difficult task. It required Kirin to once again jostle all of the broken bones in his body, including his crooked fingers and aching ribs, but he did it nonetheless. As quickly as he could Kirin leaned back against the wall, pushed his palm against the floor, and hauled himself upwards. His head spun, but he sat still and looked expectantly up at his keeper. 

Alekos hummed. 

“Bark for me. Like a dog.” 

This command was easy enough that Kirin didn’t have to hesitate. No indignity was below him anymore, and certainly not this. 

“Arf! Arf!” It came out dry, a product of his parched throat, but it was undeniably a facsimile of an animal’s cry. 

A pregnant pause hung thick in the air. It could have spanned seconds or an eternity, but when Alekos broke it, Kirin’s veins filled with ice. 

“Stand up, dog.” 

Vertigo seized Kirin as the world tilted on its axis. Alekos had to know that Kirin couldn’t stand, right? He’d probed the broken mere minutes ago, verbally noted the way that Kirin’s bone was crooked and protruding beneath his skin. 

This was a test of obedience, then. It was a test of whether Kirin was truly ready to fight for his life, fight to show Alekos his obedience and loyalty. 

Maybe he could stand now. Kirin hadn’t tried in quite some time, but he’d almost certainly be able to bear weight on his unbroken right leg, and he could likely stay upright so long as he wasn’t asked to walk. As for making it to a standing position, he figured he might be able to use the bolt on the wall to heave himself upwards. That would have to be enough - after all, he thought to himself, what’s a leg for a life? 

With a deep breath that sounded uncomfortably close to a whimper, Kirin reached beside him and grabbed onto the bolt that secured his chain, gathered his right leg beneath him, and prepared to push himself to standing. It would hurt - and it already hurt - but he’d been hurt before. He knew this would only last a little while. 

Just as he began to push himself onto his knees, Alekos’s voice cut through him like a knife. 

“Stop! Jesus, stop. Sit back down. Fuck.” 

It was the command Kirin had been the happiest to obey yet. A wave of relief washed over him as he slowly shifted his weight back to the ground, limbs splayed where they were most comfortable. There was no mistaking the disgust that now glimmered in Alekos’s eyes, but it wasn’t disappointment. Disappointment was an expression Kirin had come to know well. 

“Your leg is broken, Kirin, seriously broken. You can’t fucking stand on that thing. I’ll give you credit for trying, though. I saw how much it hurt for you to even lay down, bleeding all over my floor in the process, and shaking like a leaf in a gale. You’ll bark like a dog for me, and you’ll even try to stand on a broken leg. Honestly, it’s incredible, if not just what I needed from you. You’re a resilient creature if nothing else.” 

Kiring blinked and didn’t move. Was that praise? Was that Alekos saying that he’d been enough, that he’d live another day?” 

“If this isn’t an act, well, I suppose that will make life easier for all of us, including you,” Alekos carried on. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t fight back, but this is more than I’d ever dreamed. It seems like you’ll listen to anything I ask, and I presume I could do just about anything except have my way with you - which, I’m sure, I could achieve with a little more convincing.” 

Fear rolled through Kirin’s empty stomach. So, Alekos would- he was still going to- Kirin would have to, again, he’d- 

“Hey,” Alekos snapped, and Kirin looked back up at him. He hadn’t even realized his gaze had dropped to the floor. 

“That really scares you, doesn’t it? Of all the things I could do to you, a little pleasure is what makes you cry? It would be sad if it wasn’t just so… pathetic.” 

“I’m sorry,” Kirin managed to breathe, the words tumbling out of his mouth despite no command to speak. “I’m sorry, sir, I swear- I swear I’ll do what you want. Even… even… even if it’s me. You can have me. You can take me for yourself, and I’ll be good.” 

If that’s what it took for Kirin to survive, he’d do it. I’ll do it, he swore to himself, I’ll be brave.

“Is that so?” Alekos said as he tilted his head slightly to the side. “I’m glad to hear it. But there’s no need for that now. You’re filthy and can’t even sit up on your own, much less give me what I’d want. We can worry about that another day. But in the meantime, I have a question for you.” 

“Yes, sir.” Kirin was relieved to know that he’d be spared for now, and there was further relief that he’d remain untouched just a little longer. His lingering confusion was enough he knew he might be missing nuance, but it was clear that Alekos wasn’t preparing to put him out of his misery. Now he had to fixate on the question. He didn’t like questions - with Fen they were usually tricks - but he could do his best to answer now. 

“If you could have one thing right now, anything in the world, what would it be?” 

This was most certainly a trick. There was no other reason the question would be crafted to be so open-ended, so easy for Kirin to incriminate himself, so easy for Alekos to take what Kirin wanted and turn it against him. 

But at the same time, there was so much Kirin wanted. He hadn’t dared to want in so long. He stopped wishing for comfort, for safety, for freedom, but his body still had its demands. He could tell he was dangerously dehydrated, his stomach ached with a hunger that never dissipated, and his body throbbed with never-ending currents of pain. Anything to alleviate some of that agony, however slight, would be welcome. And if Alekos was as merciful as he’d claimed to be, and in fact had been so far, maybe he would truly grant Kirin a small mercy. 

“Water, please,” Kirin begged. “Please, if it’s not too much trouble, just some water to drink.” 

“Ah,” Alekos sighed, “I can’t do that. Doctor’s orders. You’re headed up for surgery soon, so no food, no water. I’m sure you’ll be given fluids, but nothing to drink by mouth at the moment.” 

That answered a nagging question in Kirin’s addled mind. It seemed that they were planning on actually giving him medical treatment, not tossing a roll of gauze into the cell and expecting him to bandage himself. He supposed it would be more effective to interrogate him if he was a blank slate, rather than an already broken one. Any torture inflicted would certainly be more entertaining if Kirin could move, and his answers would only be useful had his wits about him. Right now he wasn’t capable of putting on much of a show for his tormentors, and Fen at least had always liked some theatrics. 

He wasn’t going to push his luck in asking for more. 

“There’s nothing,” Kirin said. “I don’t want- I don’t need anything. You’ve already been kind to me, sir Alekos, and you say you’re going to help me. I need nothing else.” 

“Pretty bold coming from a half-dead pile of bones in my holding cell, but hey, that’s less work for me. If you’re not going to ask for anything, let’s get you out and up for surgery. And, hey, maybe you’ll finally stop with the ‘sir’ bullshit once you’re unconscious.” 

Alekos reached into his pocket and fished out a small vial, as well as a syringe still wrapped in sterile plastic. Again, Kirin’s heart sped up. He could hardly manage a swallow as his imagination ran wild, visualizing what pain was going to come out of the bottle and into his veins, how it would torture him before he was granted reprieve. 

“You get so worked up over every little thing,” Alekos mused as he opened the syringe and uncapped it. He slid the needle into the vial and began to draw liquid back into the syringe. “Though given the state of you, I’m not surprised. As entertaining as it is to see you go all wide-eyed and shake like a chihuahua every time I move, I’ll spare you the wondering. This is ketamine here, that’s it. It’s a fast-acting sedative that will keep you quiet until our anesthetist gets you under proper sedation. Our doctor is going to run some tests, take some imaging, and the surgical team is going to work on your leg and any other bits that need to be fixed. When you wake up you’ll be a new man.” 

Promises aside, Kirin couldn’t stop eyeing the syringe. Alekos hadn’t lied to him so far, and he’d shown plenty of mercy, but the uncertainty still gnawed at him. It had been long since he’d had command over his own destiny, and as much as he was resigned to that, there were some fears he couldn’t escape. 

“Give me your arm, Kirin. You’ve done well so far, now do this one last thing for me. A pinch and we’ll be on our way.” Alekos knelt down again. 

Kirin offered his arm wordlessly, palm up, hovering just above Alekos’s lap. He tried to stop it from shaking, but the trembling of the atrophied limb was unavoidable. Whatever happened next, Kirin knew he wouldn’t even have the privilege of being awake to experience it, for better or for worse. 

Much to Kirin’s surprise, Alekos reached out the hand without the syringe and placed it atop Kirin’s head. The touch was gentle, and the man’s palm rested soft on hair that was matted with blood and dirt. Despite this touch coming from his captor, from the man that would likely be his final undoing, Kirin felt something like relief flood his veins. The terror of Alekos’s earlier threats dissipated.

God, he couldn't remember the last time someone had simply tried to comfort him, if that was indeed what Alekos was doing. He melted, his body still shaking, but he bowed his head into the touch with a whine of pleasure he couldn’t contain. 

“Woah. Okay, fuck, alright,” Alekos muttered. It was the gentlest he’d sounded yet, a surprised softness that wasn’t lost on Kirin. “Do you like this? Is this good?” 

With those words Alekos moved his hand slightly, running the tips of his fingers light across Kirin’s tired scalp, thumb stroking gently as he went. 

Sheer bliss washed over Kirin in a thousand colors, drowning the fear, easing his tremors. It was a respite he hadn’t known he needed, something as simple as a gentle touch, a gesture designed to neither wound him nor terrorize him. Admittedly, shamefully, it was euphoric. And it gave Kirin the slightest glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, Alekos wouldn’t be so bad. If this is what awaited him at Alekos’s hands, he swore he would sit quietly, gratefully, obediently. 

And so Alekos continued, petting Kirin’s head with cautious and gentle motions, and with Kirin’s small sighs filling the space between them. He all but fell forward into Alekos’s lap, head at his chest, the syringe almost forgotten. Somehow that light touch was enough to distract him from all the pain in his body. 

“Kirin, it’s time for you to rest,” Alekos whispered without stopping his movements. “I’ll continue like this until you sleep. Here. Just a pinch-” the needle went into Kirin’s forearm “-and you’ll start to feel tired. It’s alright. Close your eyes.” 

Sleep came fast. The woozy sensation took hold in seconds, and the next thing Kirin knew, he was slumping headfirst into Alekos’s chest. The last thing he felt before slipping out of awareness and into a more blissful, painless place, was Alekos’s sturdy arms wrapped around his body. He tried to hold onto the memory, but he wasn’t sure if he’d truly seen a sad smile on Alekos’s lips. 

Kirin embraced the darkness. 

---

“That was cruel, Alekos,” Verona spit with crossed arms as the nurses moved Kirin’s body to a gurney. 

Alekos, meanwhile, was busy wiping off his fingers on the sides of his pants, trying to rid them of the grease and blood Kirin’s hair had left on them. 

“You of all people should know what Kirin is capable of,” he said as he gave a final wipe. “I wanted to get a sense of what we’re dealing with. If that was an act he was putting on in there, it was a damn good one. I’d be inclined to say it was genuine, given the state of him. Some of his responses looked like they were conditioned, involuntary even.” 

“You terrified him.” Verona’s tone was laced with venom. “More than he was already terrified, anyway, which is impressive given his condition. He had no reason to fake any of that, especially given how Fen and their cohort have already reduced him to this state. More importantly, you had no reason to play that sick little game. He was no danger to you, to me, or to anyone else in this facility. I thought you were better than that.” 

“I needed to confirm he wasn’t a threat. That’s a part of my duties here, and it’s my obligation to all of you. If he’s obedient, and if he sees me as the authority with his life in my hands, that makes this much easier on everyone,” Alekos defended himself. “If he respects me, and if he listens to my commands without hesitation, then we’ll have no trouble getting him to tell us what we want. Fen’s already done the hard work of reducing him to a quivering pile of putty, ready to mould as we please. That means we don’t have to push too hard to get the answers we want.”

“You’re a fucking sadist.” Verona turned her back on Alekos and returned her attention to the patient, nearly unconscious, laid out beside her. “And I hate that I’m complicit in this abuse. No matter what Kirin has done in the past, no one deserves this. And since you’re at least going to give him the bare minimum he needs to survive, what are we going to do with him when the surgery is over? Is he going to the recovery suite like anyone else would, or are you going to send him back to that cell?” 

“Whatever the doctor orders.” Since it seemed like he’d struck a nerve with Verona, Alekos knew it was best to yield to her. He outranked her - only just - but he’d learned long ago to let her have her way when he could. There was no harm in having Kirin chained to a hospital bed as opposed to a cell, especially not if Alekos could still keep an eye on him. 

Verona let out a breath and Alekos knew she was glowering. 

“Then I’ll call you when he’s out of surgery. You can expect to find him in the recovery suite with one-to-one nursing care to make sure he lasts the night. He’s going to need plates and screws in his leg, at least, and we’ll need to break the leg again to realign it. That’s to say nothing of the broken ribs, broken fingers, and what I suspect is a broken wrist. I can’t imagine the extent of the rest of his injuries, the malnutrition, all of it. He’s in bad shape.” 

“Do what you need to do, doc,” Alekos said.  “I will. I’ll do what’s in my patient’s best interests, like I always do. And what about the collar, Alekos? Do we have someone here with the equipment to cut it off without hurting him? Maybe someone in heavy equipment, or transit operations?” 

“No.” Alekos had thought about the collar, and he’d already decided what he wanted to do about it. “I don’t want you to take it off just yet. It’s a useful tool that will help us keep him where we want him.” 

“Why? So you can continue to play your little games? Do you want him to bark like a dog again? Roll over for you? Keep him as your own little pet, your own little toy to fuck, the final gesture that you’ve won?” 

“I haven’t decided yet.” 

With that, Alekos turned and walked away, pretending to ignore the grumbling and certain glares from Verona. Regardless of her indignation, Alekos knew he had to appear confident in his actions, certain in every decision he made as a leader. What happened to Kirin now would simply be a product of Alekos’s desires, a careful calculation of how the husk of a man could be useful to him, a way to leverage this new resource against Fen.

Still, the way that Kirin’s round eyes had stared up at Alekos with fear and hope, it made something in his stomach churn. He’d ensured that his words were abrasive, his attitude was unyielding, and that his threats were somewhat convincing. Even if he’d never follow through on them, even if they were cruelties he hadn’t dreamed of, Alekos knew it was important to subdue Kirin from the start. It had certainly worked. 

Still, he thought back to the small mercy he’d afforded. How much his simple touch had made the trembling stop, how the wordless reassurance had brought  so much tension out of that battered body. Even now, when Alekos closed his eyes, he could see the pain and terror in every inch of Kirin’s body, and he saw it melt away the second he offered comfort instead of pain. 

He could similarly imagine Fen breaking those thin fingers with anger and glee, flipping Kirin onto his stomach and ravishing him, drawing as much pleasure from the act as Kirin’s cries. Alekos could just as easily imagine Kirin doing the same for him, offering himself up for beating or worse if it was what his keeper commanded. He’d stand on a broken, useless leg if it meant appeasing Alekos for a few moments longer, and there was no question he’d give up a lot more at Alekos's command. If it meant sparing his life, Kirin would even offer his flesh, give himself wholly to Alekos in the face of his greatest terror. 

With just a few words, Alekos already had Kirin tucked under his thumb, a two-in-one punching bag and fucktoy. It would be so, so easy to ruin him. 

Alekos did his best to pretend the thought didn’t make him a little queasy.

[whumpbug]

this little fic is heavily heavily inspired by this post from @whump-kia because i just couldnt get the idea out of my silly brain so i brain vomited onto my notes app

context →

kinda sorta wilderness/sci-fi/apocolypse setting.. it honestly could go all ways but the important factors are 1) they are in a team 2) there are enemies they are on the run from and 3) there isnt really magic healing or anything available

i wrote it as medic kinda being the most competent one in general while leader and teammate are frazzled as hell at the situation and could be read as newer to the team but that isn't necessarily my intention!

whumpee: Medic

caretaker(s): Leader and Teammate

[all characters gender neutral]

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The room fell silent. All eyes were suddenly trained on Medic who threw open the door and staggered in.

With a dagger wedged in their side.

The team had been on the run from enemies for the better part of a week now. Even though they weren't completely in the clear, the team was completely worn out. They all needed a good rest.

They were setting up camp at one of their many bases, and Medic offered to scout the area alone. Leader honestly didn’t think it was a good idea, but they were too preoccupied to think to argue it further.

Now, they sincerely wished they had.

“Medic.. oh god, oh god” whispered Teammate.

“Ambush,” They explained. “It’s.. it’s okay, I took care of it..” Medic replied cooly, but the color was quickly draining from their face. Teammate frowned and continued questioning them, but Leader heard none of it.

Leader took a shaky breath, but their feet were planted. They couldn’t move. They were frozen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No, Medic was untouchable. Medic was steadfast and reliable, always there when the team needed them.

Medic wasn’t supposed to go out like this. Medic wasn’t supposed to get hurt.

Leader’s breathing hitched again. Their head was reeling. What were they going to do?! No one on the team was qualified to fix this other than the person dripping blood all over the floor, yet it was still Leader’s job to do something. It was too much, it was too—

“Leader.”

Medic’s voice cut through the room like a knife through butter.

“I need you to listen to me. Carefully. Can you do that?”

Leader swallowed the lump in their throat. They nodded.

Medic took another step forward, only for their foot to catch on the ground, sending them stumbling forward. Teammate caught them by the upper arm and unceremoniously lowered them to the ground.

“Alright,” Medic began. Their face was scrunched up in pain. “Leader. I’m going to walk you through how to fix this, okay? I'm going to be fine.”

“Right. Right, I can help you.. just- just tell me what to do.” Leader said, forcing their voice to remain steady.

“Do you see that fire poker over there? I’m going to need you to grab it and stick the end of it into the fire. We want it to get really hot, okay?” Medic explained methodically.

If it weren’t for the blade sticking out of Medic’s middle, you’d think there was nothing even wrong with them. They seemed like everything was under control. They really seemed fine.

But not to their team.

No, their team didn’t miss Medic’s pallor, the way their eyebrows were pinched together, the way the sweat was beading on their brow. Their team didn’t miss the way their hands were trembling, the way their gaze was glassy, and the way they were slumped against the wall, seemingly sapped of their strength.

Medic was fighting to hold on, but it was a losing battle. They really didn’t have much time before they passed out from blood loss, or worse.

Leader’s resolve came back to them all at once. They nodded sharply and did as they were told, sticking the poker into the fire and leaving it on the hearth. While the team waited anxiously for the poker to heat up, Leader took the opportunity to adjust Medic into a more comfortable position against the wall. This earned a strangled grunt from Medic.

“Okay, Leader.. this.. this is important. Once that poker gets red-hot, you’re.. you’re going to have to pull out the blade from my wound and cauterize it.. immediately.” They choked out, shifting to give Leader a better view of their abdomen.

Leader’s face blanched.

“Cauterize?? Why not sutures? Surely that’s less painful,” Leader protested, only to be shushed by Medic raising their hand.

“I don’t have.. I can’t stay awake to walk you through that.. cau.. cauterization is.. quicker..”

Leader could tell Medic was reaching their limit. The wound, despite being partially plugged by the dagger, had been steadily dripping blood for a while now. Leader could tell by the way Medic’s voice was faltering and the way their shoulders were drooping that they were utterly spent. They had to hurry up.

Leader glanced at the fire poker, and upon seeing it burning hot, they grabbed a towel and picked it up.

“Alright. What’s next.”

Medic steeled their nerves and spoke.

“You and Teamate will have to work together. Leader, you’ll.. you’ll need to pull out the dagger and immediately press the poker along th.. the wound.. As soon as you pull it out, it’s going to start bleeding even faster.. you need to seal it immediately, just until the bleeding stops..”

Leader nods, though they hate this with every fiber of their being. They’ve never had to have had a wound cauterized before, thanks to Medic’s dilligency. Still, they know the procedure is agonizing and not one they are thrilled to perform on Medic.

Medic gaze flits to Teammate.

“You.. you have a very important job.. I need.. I’m gonna need you to hold me down. As soon as that metal hits my skin, I’m going to scream. I mean really scream. I’m also going to jerk away. I need you to hold me down, no.. no matter what happens, even if I pass out, so Leader doesn’t end up making the wound worse. Can you do that?”

Teammate frowns, but gives a quick nod. Teammate was always more timid, but now, in this moment, their jaw was set and there was a determined glint in their eyes. By God, they were going to help Medic.

Leader got up and sat on Medic’s legs to restrain them, and held the fire poker at their side. Using their free hand they gently grasped the handle of the blade sticking out of Medic, careful not to jostle it in the wound. Still, Medic inhaled sharply.

Teammate got behind Medic looping their arms behind theirs and holding them tight.

“Alright.. just.. just give me a count down..” Medic said, their voice low.

Leader nodded.

“3.”

Medic sucked in a breath.

“2.”

Teammate tightened their grip.

“1.”

Everything that happened after that countdown couldn’t have been more than 10 seconds, but to Medic, it felt like 10 years.

As soon as the dagger was removed, Leader pressed the hot metal into the wound. The guttural scream that tore from Medic’s throat was nausea-inducing.

Immediately, every muscle in their body seized up as they violently thrashed against the white-hot pain. Medic’s sobs rang out through the entire facility. Everyone in the vicinity flinched at the sound.

Their Medic, their savior, was now reduced to gut-wrenching cries.

Leader adjusted themself to sit on Medic’s thighs, effectively immobilizing them.

Teammate had to yank Medic’s arms down, using all their strength to keep them still.

“I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry..” Teammate whispered softly, tears blurring their vision.

Right as Leader was about to finish sealing the wound, Medic let out a gurgling gasp as their eyes rolled back into their head and they went limp.

“Medic? Hey, Medic?” Teammate mewled, lightly tapping their cheek.

Both Leader and Teammate finally loosened their grip on them and lowered Medic to the ground with as much care as they could muster.

“Hey, c’mon Medic.. wake up for us, yeah?” Leader coaxed, brushing a strand of hair from Medic’s eyes.

Medic’s eyelids finally fluttered open, but they looked utterly exhausted. Their face was streaked with sweat and there were tears tracks lining their pale cheeks. Still, they gave a weak smile.

“You.. you guys did great..” They managed, but not before their eyes slipped close yet again.

Both Leader and Teammate exchanged a laugh at how absurd it was that Medic was praising them for doing well. Still, the worst of it was over and everyone could breathe again. They knew they should get Medic up and into medbay, but they silently agreed to let Medic rest for a few moments longer.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[whump-my-dear-watson]

first death is always the hardest

WHUMPTOBER 2024 NO. 19 "BLOOD TRAIL"

[whump-mania]

Writing some Dark Leader because I missed it!!! TW here for flashbacks, implied noncon (not explicit and ignorable, misgendering of nb person)

previous / next

In the beginning, Quinn quite liked having a room to themselves.

Back with the old team, they had to share a room with about four other people, cramming into one space. And sharing a room came with sharing space, sharing looks, sharing insults…Quinn shivered. God, they were glad to be out of there.

They’d taken some time to decorate as much as they could. Kari had smuggled some magazines one day, and Quinn printed out some pictures of plants and animals to decorate it. It wasn’t much, but it made the small room their own.

As time went on, though, the cons of having their own room started to outweigh the pros. Well…more like just one ‘con’.

They were all alone with their thoughts.

In the dark, alone, Quinn’s little room was an echo chamber.

You pathetic little waste of space.

The words bounced off the walls. Back into their ears.

No no, I’m not done with you. Back on your knees.

No matter how far Quinn went under the covers, they couldn’t hide.

Don’t make me bring Hunter in here.

“No,” Quinn barely whispered, starting to shake. “Please.”

The voices started to change.

So fucking tiny. I could crush you.

“Hunter, p-please, no…”

God, the way you tense up when I even look at you…so cute.

“I can’t, I can’t…” Quinn sobbed.

Open that mouth, pretty boy.

“SHUT UP!”

Quinn finally snapped, throwing a pillow across the room. It hit the wall and thumped to the ground unceremoniously. Hitting no one.

They were truly alone.

Until the door creaked open.

“Quinn? You okay in here?” Vincent’s head popped through. “I heard you yell.” His eyes went to the pillow discarded on the floor.

“Yeah…yeah, fine,” Quinn breathed, standing up to get the pillow. They sat back on top of their bed, staring at the floor and waiting silently for Vincent to inevitably leave.

He didn’t.

“You wanna talk about it?”

With those words, Quinn broke. They sobbed into their hands, leaning into Vincent when he sat next to them.

“I-I don’t wanna have my own room anymore,” Quinn said, muffled in Vincent’s sleep shirt.

Vincent smiled slightly, rubbing Quinn’s back comfortingly and holding them tighter. “Done.”

tag list: @tears-and-lilies @whumpasaurus101 @whmp @freefallingup13 @sadistgalore @firewheeesky @authorofemotion @whatwhumpcomments @wingedwhump @mammonsemptycreditcard @eilarchswhump @whumblrwork @ficklefuddle @mylifeisonthebookshelf @lizzydizzyyo @whump-cravings @whumpcreations

[sideblogforweirdshit]

Whump Reference Post for First, Second, and Third Degree Burns

Hi whump writers of Tumblr! Sorry it's been a hot minute; turns out grad school is hard. Anyways, I'm back with another reference post!

There is one image in this post, but there are no graphic images. It's a screenshot of text.

However, I do get a little bit graphic with my descriptions, as I'm trying to provide material that will help with writing, so read with care.

There are six categorizations of burns. They range from first degree (sunburn level) to sixth degree (exposed and/or charred bone).

In the interest of brevity (and also my limited knowledge), I'm going to only address the first, second, and third degree categories of burns. I have various information about each type of burn in each of their sections, and then I go more in depth on the pain associated with each type at the end of the post.

First Degree

Definition:

First degree burns are superficial, and affect only the outer layer of skin (epidermis).

Possible causes:

Mild sunburn, hot water.

Appearance:

First degree burns will be red, dry, and have no blisters.

Pain:

First degree burns are minimally painful in the moment, and negligibly painful afterwards. The skin becomes itchy as it heals, which may come any time from hours to a day or so after the initial burn.

Ideal treatment:

Run the burn under cold water, or apply cold compresses. (You’ll see some people writing about putting cold mud or dirt on these. That not decrease the pain. The tiny particles of dirt will rub all against the sensitive burned skin like sandpaper.)

Apply normal antibiotic ointment and bandage if desired, but honestly it’s not really necessary as long as the skin isn’t broken.

This can be treated at home.

Healing time:

Generally takes less than a week to heal.

Second Degree

Definition:

Second degree burns involve the epidermis and part of the dermis (the thicker layer of skin under the epidermis).

Possible causes:

Brief contact with boiling water, 1-2 seconds contact with hot metal (hot like a pan on a mid-heat stove, not hot like white-hot), some mid-level sunburn, etc. They're the most common type of burn.

Appearance:

Second degree burns will have shiny skin and the skin will be visibly discolored.

There may also be blisters that form within the first 24 hours. The blisters will be a very thin layer of skin that will fill up with fluid like a bubble. If you gently push on a part of this bubble, you can see the fluid move to the other side. Depending on the area of the body in which this burn occurs, the skin of this blister can be very delicate, and a lot of care needs to be taken in order to keep it unbroken (recommended for healing to protect against infection). If the blister breaks or comes off, the skin beneath will be red, wet, and slimy to the touch.

Pain:

These burns are very painful.

Immediately after the initial burn, it will be a strong and consistent pain. Ice can be applied or the burn can be submerged in cold water. If this is not done for long enough however, removal of the ice / cold water will bring back the pain in one or two minutes.

If the blister breaks, there is a significant increase in pain. Ideally, you shouldn't touch the exposed gooey skin because of the risk of contaminating it with the bacteria on your fingers. However, if you want to cause a lot of low-cost mid-to-high-level pain for a brief moment, your whumper can jam their finger right on that exposed wound. Salt and other granular substances are also extremely effective here; the nerves are primed for more pain. After a while however, this will have lesser and lesser of an effect, as the place becomes almost numb.

The blisterless open wound is a highway for bacteria. If you want to reduce infection risk, you need to clean it out thoroughly after the salt situation (which is also painful!) and then bandage it.

Keeping the burn bandaged will reduce the pain. Some doctors recommend temporarily covering a new burn with cling wrap until the burned person can get to a medical professional or treat the wound themselves. Oddly, regular cling-wrap does actually reduce the pain significantly.

Ideal treatment:

If the object that caused the burn wasn't clean, the burned area should be gently cleaned with soap and water.

One should then run the burned area under cold water for at least five and up to thirty minutes.

If the skin is broken, an antibiotic ointment and bandage should be applied. If the skin is unbroken, bandage anyways, but antibiotic ointment isn’t as necessary.

The burn should be kept covered for at least the first few days. If skin was broken, the area should be covered until new skin grows over.

This can be treated at home.

Healing time:

Depending on the size, depth, and complications, this can take anywhere from a week (for small burns) to several months to heal.

Third Degree

Definition:

Third degree burns go all the way through both the epidermis and the dermis and may go into the hypodermis (the subcutaneous layer of skin that has the fat).

Possible causes:

Prolonged contact with stovetop-level-hot metal, prolonged exposure to flames from a fire, prolonged contact with or submersion in boiling water, acidic or basic chemicals, dry ice.

Appearance:

The burned part itself may be white or black. This is because the skin level that contains the blood vessels (the dermis) has been burned through.

The outer edges of the burned area may only be second degree, depending on how the burn was administered, and blisters may form here.

After a day or two, the very outer edge of the burned area will form a surrounding line of red. This is granulated tissue, and is a sign of the body trying to heal itself.

The area within an inch or two of the burn may become slightly red, swollen, and hot to the touch. As long as this is slight, this is normal, and not infection. The area of the body is just traumatized and working overtime.

Scarring will definitely occur. If the burned area is large, skin grafts may minimize the scarring.

Pain:

These types of burns aren’t really painful. There is of course the initial piercing pain shock when the hot object comes into contact with the skin, but after the skin layers that contain the nerves have been burned through, the pain is negligible (if there at all). This burn looks terrifying, and like it should be absolutely agonizing, but it’s not even close to that. There may be some slight pain around the outsides of the burn, where the skin is minimally affected, but most of the area will be nearly numb.

Ideal Treatment:

The area should be cleaned thoroughly, and I mean thoroughly. The outside layer of dead skin should be scraped off when cleaning with soap and water. Leaving the dead skin there may impede healing, and as long as the wound is covered with something, risk of infection isn’t too significant.

Antibiotic ointment and a bandage and gauze should be applied to absorb everything that leaks out (if the skin is broken, pus will leak out).

If the burn encompasses more than a small area (or a narrow area) skin grafts are recommended.

This can technically be treated at home, as long as there’s no infection.

Healing time:

Smaller burns generally take at least three weeks to heal. Larger burns can take years.

More In Depth On The Pain

First degree burns tend to feel "just the wrong side of warm" when they first occur, and shortly afterwards tend to feel kind of prickly. A longer time afterwards, it will be overly sensitive and warm to the touch, and will be uncomfortable to put clothing over. As the burn heals, the sensitivity will turn into mild itchiness.

Second degree burns are a sharp pain. If it's a quick cause (boiling water that quickly falls off, hot metal quickly removed), it's likely that the brain won't initially register the heat, just the sharp sting. Within a minute or so, that sting will increase significantly. As said before: running the area under cold water, or covering it with ice will reduce the pain, but it'll come back quite quickly once you remove the cold source. If you can suffer through the initial 5-10 minutes of the increased stinging, it'll fade enough that you can think rationally again. Longer term: the blister itself is not necessarily painful, but if the skin covering it breaks, the stinging pain from before will resurface (at a lower level, but longer-lasting).

Third degree burns start out with the same sharp pain as second degree, but that pain fades as the nerves in the skin are burnt out and killed. Depending on the vector of heat, this can be extremely quick (very hot metal will cause the sharp second degree pain to fade within the minute) or much slower (slowly heating water in which someone's body part lies will have a much longer period of the sharp second degree pain, and will be much more agonizing than the metal). Once the nerves are burned through, there comes a kind of numbness. The nerves at the very edge of the burn are still alive and somewhat functioning, and there will likely be a bit of sharpness there, but the majority of the affected area will be free from any sensation. The worst part of this type of burn isn't the pain, but the intrinsic horror that it's such a significant deformity that there is no pain. The numbness will continue after the initial burn and into the healing stage, to the point where the affected person might not even remember they're injured until they feel the liquid from the burn trickle down over their skin. As the healing progresses, the itchiness will be absolutely maddening. The area must be covered by something because the affected person will likely unconsciously scratch at it to try to get some relief. Any scratching will set back the healing process a significant amount.

Taglist: @blood-and-regrets

[jordanstrophe]

Caretaker awoke one morning to whumpee’s bed empty. They tried not to worry, but their endless check-up calls go unanswered and their usually spots are clear.

Hours turn into a whole day and they start really worrying. That night caretaker can't sleep, their mind is wandering from stress thinking of all the horrible things that could have happened.

The next day, they get a text from Whumper letting them know not to worry, whumpees just fine :)

[whump-in-the-closet]

Pirate Whump

the brig!! thrown in there and forgotten while saltwater seeps through and drenches whumpee constantly leaving them coughing and miserable

lack of sleep, forced to be on duty for hours at a time

smacking whumpee to the deck with a blow that leaves their eyes watering.

scrubbing the deck until their hands are scraped and bleeding. their arms and back ache so badly that when they stand up, they immediately double over.

flogging for minor mistakes. the humiliation of having their shirt ripped away and the stabbing, sharp pain of the cat o'nine tails on their skin is enough to break down the most stoic of the crew

collapsing on deck. in general. fainting. nausea. suddenly light headed and woozy from blood loss

falling to the deck on hands and knees and scraping them on the rough, worm-eaten wood

hostage situations on “friendly” terms. whumpee can wander around on deck and maybe they even joke around with some of the pirates. but the minute they try to escape, there’s a sweeping blade at their throat and someone roughly manhandling them to the captains quarters to be “dealt with”

being made an example of for misconduct is often extreme and cruel. there are no laws on the high seas

the damage left by the opposing side’s cannon fire? timber embedded in limbs, gaping wounds, and formerly brave sailors curling up in fetal positions to try and protect themselves

a captain whumper who calls their prisoner whumpee “darling” in the most derogatory way possible.

emergency first aid being applied hurriedly and with unskilled hands.bandages made from old shirts, amputations done unabashedly and crew mates being carried back fireman style to their ship.

“bite down on this” and “don’t look” as they cut away a damaged limb, multiple crew members holding whumpee down

mer whumpees— caught and put on a leash so they’re dragged along the side of the boat. sometimes they pull whumpee up and “have a bit of fun” as whumpee thrashes and gasps for air.

captain whumpee found stranded on an island by an opposing captain. they’re “taken care of” by being humiliated and beaten, laughed at, and forced to be the cabin boy

[whumpasaurus101]

Chapter Nine

TEAMWHUMP TIME BABBEEEYYY

---

The team surrounded the building, awaiting Cass’ next command. Cass nodded at Andrew who didn't waste any time in shooting the security camera which hung from the right corner of the house’s front. As much as Andrew and Cass didn't get along, Cass had to admit, he had a damn good aim. 

He waited two seconds before holding two fingers up where they hid in the bushes. The team lifted their black bandanas up over the bottom half of their faces, just above their noses. Cass then quickly took out his phone, sending a thumbs up to Amanda. The team was all males, but they had some girls who came in handy on undercover missions.

The team watched as Amanda walked through the wide gates of the house, heels clacking against the stone driveway. She wore a miniskirt along with a pink crop top which she looked perfect in. Cass shook his head. Focus.

Amanda rang the doorbell, fixing her blonde hair which perfectly fell on her shoulders. She took a deep breath as she got into character.

A man in a suit opened the door, “How can I help you, ma’am?” 

“Oh yes! I had a necklace on when I was at a party here. You see, my mother had given it to me and-”

Cass hated as he watched the man’s eyes rake down and slowly back up, taking Amanda in. Cass’ grip on his gun tightened but he tried to calm himself.

The man smiled, “Why don't you come in?” Amanda beamed and made her way inside, sliding a small wedge between the edge of the door, ensuring the door didn't fully close without the man seeing.

Cass nodded, “Wedge in place, we wait until they clear the door.”

---

The creak of the door made Niko raise his head, only to let out a weak groan when he saw the doctor. God, just what he needed. The doctor simply huffed, “I want to do this just as much as you do,” He grumbled.” Niko just rolled his eyes, resting his head against the roon’s floor.

The doctor knelt beside Niko, taking out his equipment before slowly lifting the back of Niko’s shirt. Niko, who lay on his front, let out a whimper, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't know how he felt. Overwhelmed was an understatement. He thought Marcus was a good guy, but no, he was terribly wrong. He thought back on what he had said. What a creep. 

“Why do you hate me?”

Miko rasped, a tear rolling down his face. Okay, he’ll admit, he was feeling sorry for himself. But from the lack of sleep, food and all the pain he was in, how couldn't he?”

The doctor simply dug the antiseptic wave deeper against one of Niko’s wounds, making him whimper, squeezing his eyes shut. He missed just having simple conversations. Just then, a huge crash sounded from upstairs, followed by yells and shouts and lastly gunshots. Both Niko and the doctor’s head snapped up as the door flew open.

Martyn rushed inside, gun held up, pointing straight at Niko as he glared, “Don't make a noise, don't even open your bloody mouth.” Niko’s eyes widened, gulping as he felt his chest tighten. “Doctor, get upstairs and get your gear on, get the bloody team, make them believe that they can save Niko down here, then get all the men to pounce on them, am I understood?”

The doctor nodded and sprinted up the stairs of the basement. As the door shut, Martyn’s cold, dangerous eyes fell back to Niko, making the other shrink back slightly. “Get up.” Niko winced from the pain as he slowly got to his feet, his vision spinning around him. Martyn grabbed a tight fistful of his hair and dragged him over to the pillar in the middle of the room. He tied Niko’s hand behind his back before tying the rope all along his torso and around the pillar before finally tying his ankles.

As the footsteps grew louder, Martyn smirked, “Let's see how good your acting skills are, buttercup.” He didn't even give Niko enough time before shoving and tying a piece of cloth around his mouth. Niko let out a muffled shout of protest but Martyn simply shoved the muzzle of the gun against Niko’s temple.

Niko’s eyes blew wide, a whimper ripping from the back of his throat. “It's cute how your friends came back for you. Cute but dumb.”

Niko roared at that, trying to throw himself forward at Martyn to attack him but the ropes kept him in place and Martyn disappeared in the shadowed corner of the room.

Cass was the first to barge in through the door, his eyes widening when he saw the cowered frame tied up against the pillar. “Niko!!!” He sprinted over to him, beginning to untie the ropes. Niko let out a muffled cry, desperately shaking his head as he tried to warn the team.

“Niko, man, we can't understand what you're saying with that thing in your mouth,” Adrian laughed, reaching forward to grab the gag but the sound of a gun clicking made them freeze.

“Well well well, isn't this just cute.”

Martyn’s voice echoed through the room, making Niko shiver, a cold tingle sent down his spine. He squeezed his eyes shut as he whimpered. His arms were free now thanks to Cass but he didn't dare reach for the gag as he saw Martyn’s gun emerge from the shadows.

“A little reunion, hm?”

Cass growled, taking out his own gun, “Don't you dare, we just want him back, we don't want to cause any harm.” 

Martyn simply chuckled, his finger tapping gently at the trigger, “Marcus, untie him.” Marcus, who had suddenly appeared at the door way came over, knife in hand and cut the ropes. Just as hope filled Niko, he was grabbed by a fistful of his hair as Martyn roughly pulled him over. The gun was carelessly slammed up against his head, “Everyone take out your weapons- slowly.”

Cass clenched his jaw, looking at his team before nodding once, ensuring to slowly place his gun down on the ground, “Listen- just give us Niko and we will leave in peace.” Martyn huffed out a laugh, slowly dragging the muzzle of the gun down the side of Niko’s face as he watched the rest of the team lay down their weapons, Marcus going around and collecting them all, chucking them in a bin before he returned to the door frame. Niko bit the inside of his cheek as he tried to hold in a whimper as the gun then moved to his throat.

“I don't think so, big shot, you guys don't get to come to my party and ruin things for me.” Fury overtook Martyn and he roughly shoved Niko to the ground. Niko fell with a cry, whimpering as he curled in on himself. He heard his team yell, rushing forwards to get to Niko but Martyn was quick to point the gun back towards Niko.

“Nobody fucking move, everyone put their hand up on your head and stay still while my boys pat you down.” He watched as the four men hesitantly raised their hands, resting them on their heads as Marcus and three other guards approached them. Andrew snapped out, growling as he glared at Marcus, “Don't fucking touch me.”

“Ah,” Martyn smirked, slowly making his way towards Andrew, “A foul mouth and an aggressive attitude, you must be Andrew.” Andrew froze at his name.

“How-how did you-”

“No time for chit chat now, restrain him, he’s going to be trouble.”

In Andrew’s state of both confusement and shock, it was easy for Marcus to force him on his knees, restraining his hands behind his back and a gag in his mouth.

Cass’ worried eyes snapped to Niko, Sorry Niko signed. Cass shook his head before signing, You look like shit, you alright? 

Despite the situation they were in, Niko couldn't help but smile. He went to sign a response but Martyn’s attention was back on him. “Oh, something amusing to you Niko?”

Niko’s eyes widened as he cleared his throat, “No-nothing, ‘m sorry…” He shrunk back as Martyn stepped right up into his face, feeling the familiar warm breath against his skin.

“Oh, really?” Martyn’s head tilted in curiosity, eyes narrowing, “Drop to the ground.” 

Niko looked up at him, confused but he suddenly dropped to his front against the floor as Martyn took out his gun. Martyn smirked, “Good. Now, plank position- and I need you to hold it strong. If you fail, I am sooooo going to make you fucking regret it, got it?”

Niko didn't even respond before pushing himself into the plank position, his arms already beginning to ache. Before he could brace himself, two heavy boots planted on his back and a sudden weight almost crashed him down.

Niko squeezed his eyes shut, wheezing out as he clenched his core. His arms shook as he kept in the plank position, Martyn standing on his back as he spoke to the team, “Here’s how this is going to work. You will all stay in a cell. One by one you will be dragged out and be questioned. The cell is bugged and there will be two people listening at all times so don't even think about creating some fake cover story. Marcus, get them out of my sight.”

And with that, Martyn stepped off of Niko’s back, kicking his ribs hard as he watched the other fall to the ground with a cry, “I hope you enjoyed your warmup, buttercup, we’re only getting started.”

---

Taglist: @blood-enthusiast @deckofaces @whumpifi @sleepy-dog-boy @whumpatize-me-captain @a-n-i-a-fan @sparrowsage @theelvishcowgirl @sorry-i-spaced @juniperspring @cherrychupachup @morning-star-whump @thelazywitchphotographer @kixngiggles @auroragehenna @fraugustends @jupiter-lemaris @wishiwaskidnapped @books-are-everything @unforgiven235 @bloodyandfrightened

Lmk if you wanna be added or removed!!!

My patreon

Next

[rosieposey-torturedpoet]

Forget a breakup, does your favorite Whump writer ever abandon you in the middle of Whumptober 😭😭😭😭

@whumpshots please come back 😭

[lickingthywounds]

Any chance we could get a teaser for your story? A dustjacket promo or a lil excerpt? No pressure!

Will the full first chapter suffice? 😌

Wool Over Eyes | Chapter 1

The first thing he remembers is the fire.

Not a stranger to arson, he’s plenty familiar with the idea of flames against poorly guarded skin. This, however, was a different kind of heat. A blazing inferno — and no creation of his own — tearing through his gut, pacing chasing racing like his heart as it burned from entry wound to exit.

A fire of the invisible sort. That is, ruthless and unforgiving agony. Warm tails lapping at the lacerations. A single breath, gargled between beads of crimson, and he finally comprehends the sensation — and the severity of it.

He’s been shot.

The second thing he remembers is wetted concrete against his cheek, the way his temple fell against the cold remnants of a late summer’s rain, copper bangs sticking to his forehead, and the echo of patient footsteps that prefaced a shadow. The way its narrow body stretched beneath the streetlight is forever seared into the back of his eyelids, its owner a mystery.

His current surroundings, too, a great conundrum. The place he wakes next is not home, nor a hospital, but somewhere entirely foreign to memory. A simple room, beige walls under flush mounted lights, a single picture window with the curtains drawn, and a small cot dressed in cotton sheets with which he currently rests beneath… until, upon a quick double-back of the room, he becomes distinctly aware that he isn’t alone.

Then he is sitting upward in a matter of seconds — or making an attempt of it, anyway. His endeavor is interrupted both by a miserable burn in his shoulderblade and the eager gestures of the stranger who’d nearly leapt from their chair upon seeing him up.

“Easy, kid,” says the man now at his side, “your wounds are only beginning to heal, try not to aggravate them already.” 

They are no one he recognizes. A tall and lissome frame, his head crowned in rich black hair that is wrapped in a lazy bun, the sides shaved out, he wears a comfortable turtleneck and a watch of extravagant design. A strange show of wealth when compared to such a plainly decorated room. 

Not allowed the chance to overthink the observation, his thoughts are interrupted as his savior’s hand reaches for his clean shoulder, “That was some mess you got caught up in,” they mutter, “Can you talk?”

“Don’t touch me,” he spits, answering the man’s question either way, “Don’t—” A stilted breath is kept hostage in his lungs until the man’s accusing hand withdrawals, and they lift both palms to show they mean no harm, only then does he release the air. His body sags forward with the effort. “Sorry,” he mutters under breath, as though it’s only an afterthought, “just — just give me a minute.” The heel of his palm lifts with careful measures — minding his wounded shoulder — to rub over his eyes, blinking away the remaining crust of sleep. “Who are you, again?”

An easy shrug is all he initially receives, unbearably casual. “Don’t sweat it,” the stranger replies, “you’re well within your right to be scared. Shouldn’t have reached for you just after wakin’ up, but you would’a torn right through the bandage if I hadn’t.” He turns over his heel and drags the stool he’d been on earlier to stand against the frame of the bed, then hauls himself over it so he’s less towering. “Let’s start over, yeah?” The man extends his hand to shake, “The name’s Esmond. And you are…?”

“Still waiting for you to answer my question,” comes his swift reply. There’s a drumming sensation between his ears, the headache he’d been nursing now making itself a force to be reckoned with. It does nothing but further sour his mood. “Maybe I wasn’t obvious enough. Where am I, and how the hell did I get here? The last thing I remember is a lead nose shaving through my insides, I should be surrounded by doctors right now.” Or dead, if he was being realistic, but that dreary thought didn’t need to be voiced.

“You don’t like the room?” Esmond asks, mock-disappointment dripping from his tongue. The attempt at humor is forgotten quick as it arrived, however, and replaced with a long sigh of defeat. “You’re in my house, that’s all. I found you half-dead on the pavement with uppers and snow spilling out your pockets. Thought I’d be doing you a favor, fixin’ you up myself over speed dialing the nearest cop.” He leans forward, tongue peeking out to wet his lips, “I meant no harm in bringin’ you here, kid. You…really don’t remember me?”

He stares long and hard, hazel eyes burning, trying his damndest to catch a lick of trust in the man before him and finding nothing promising. Cynicism is a bitch and it always got the better of him, anyway, but nothing about their character screams good samaritan to him. Not that he has much of a choice but to place his trust in the man for the time being. As it stands, he’s a whole arm short in terms of functionality and bedridden until the damage to his body and its residual soreness decide to play nice.

Speaking of soreness, that’s about all he feels of it. A sensation, or the lack thereof, that had gone unnoticed until now. He ought to be feeling a whole lot worse after taking a bullet like that, yet the pain in his shoulder is limited to a dull blade pressing hesitantly against his collarbone. Aside from that, it’s just the growing pressure between his temples and a subtle whirling of thoughts, like his mind swims through cotton, and that — if nothing else — is familiar.

“Hey, are you listeni—”

“Did you drug me?” He cuts the man off with a question of his own, aghast and well guarded, his head woozily swings upward to look him in the eyes.

“I…” Esmond pauses, a hand coming to rub against the back of his neck like a guilty dog hiding its tail, “well, yeah,” he answers honestly, “you were just shot, remember? I wasn’t about to let you endure that without some help, ‘specially since I had to dig the shrapnel out by hand. Real nasty work.”

His heartbeat quickens at the mention, and it’s a good deal calmer than it ought to be. Slower than if only under the effect of any over the counter pain relief he knows off the top of his head. A sedative, then?

He still isn’t getting the answers he wants. If anything, he only has more questions. The blanket shifts over his increasingly restless legs as he finally takes the time to better examine his surroundings; the feeling of clean linen itches against his skin, now more obvious than ever. He pulls away the covers with his good arm to see himself in a too-big shirt and gray pants, neither of which are his own. The beloved hoodie he went down in is no where to be found.

“It was like rooting around for a prize at the bottom of a cereal box,” Esmond continues to fill the silence, returning again to his strange choice of humor, if only briefly. “I didn’t give you anything serious, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just somethin’ to kill the pain ‘s all. Scout’s honor. Wasn’t sure how clean you were with shit like that in your pockets, after all, and I didn’t want a dead kid on my conscience.”

“I’m not a kid,” he’s quick to correct, “stop calling me that. I’m not some druggie, either. Only getting a few bucks where I can.”

Again, Esmond’s hands raise in a show of apology, “Alright, alright,” he resigns with a dry laugh, “why not give me something else to call you, then?”

A name. That’s all the man wanted, right? Even a nickname would do if only to keep that damn word out of his mouth. Still, his lips pressed together like a closing door, locked up tight. They weren’t getting anything from him.

“Fine,” hums Esmond, his mouth curving into a cheeky smile, “Ovis it is.”

Suddenly his lips can’t part fast enough. “That’s not my name,” he says.

“Maybe not,” Esmond shrugs, “but you seem determined to keep it from me, so I’ve decided your name is Ovis. You’re free to correct me at any time.”

The action is almost jarring enough to make him reconsider the decision to keep his identity a secret. Almost. This man already has him in the flesh, already has his clothes and any belongings left on his person after the incident. He didn’t want to give up his only remaining sense of privacy.

So again, his mouth clamps shut, visibly resolving to keep it that way this time. He’d rather stew in a pot of ire than give the man what he wanted.

Esmond’s smile grows teeth. “So stubborn,” his sigh is almost romantic, chin hanging casually on the base of his palm, “you’re more clever than you look.”

That’s all it takes for him to decide that it’s time to leave.

“Well, thank you for your help until this point,” he moves as he talks, legs swinging over the edge of the bed, his feet are bare as they land on the cold wood paneling, “but I think I can handle myself from here on out, so I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You’re leaving already?”

He moves to stand and makes it to his feet - barely. The sudden burden of his entire weight nearly threatens to topple him backwards and against the mattress once more. He grits through it, locking his knees in place until he feels stable enough to try again, and doesn’t bother tossing a look behind him until then.

Esmond, himself, does nothing to indicate that he plans to follow or stop him, anyway. The man remains seated at the bed’s side, hands now settling politely in his lap.

“I just really need to get home,” his answer spills out between labored breaths, each step further shocking the gentle analgesic from his system, “so if you could just hand over my shoes and jacket—” he is dizzy and heavy and so, so tired, a bone-deep exhaustion that has thoroughly settled its way through every joint, it makes the stretch between bed and door feel like miles. The left side of his body is beginning to scream. He makes it across the room and stables himself against the wall beside the door for only as long as it takes to catch his breath.

Still, Esmond says nothing, does nothing, up until the very moment his patient finally makes for the doorknob—

“Well, that’s a damn shame.”

—only to find it locked.

Ovis stills where he’s at, back turned to the man as his spine attempts to crawl out from between his teeth. The hairs along his arm prickle and brush against his soiled bandage, aching wildly, now, the wounds hidden beneath feeling all the more damning now that he’s well and truly cornered. 

Breathlessly, he risks a glance over his shoulder.

Esmond’s hands brace against his knees as he stands with a low exhale, as if the next words to come out of his mouth are in any way remorseful. “The way I see it, you owe me a debt.” Casual strides carry him across the room and in no time at all he’s covered the distance between them, that same sly grin making up for the otherwise lazy expression on his face. “See, you’d be dead if I hadn’t dragged your sorry ass to safety. You have me to thank for being alive and well. It’d be selfish to just run off now, don’t you think?”

“What the hell are you talking about,” Ovis barks, shoulders going rigid. His hair stands on end like raised hackles as he turns fully to face the man again while his hand continues its fruitless struggle against the doorknob at his back, relentless. “I can’t stay here, I need to get home,” he finds it easy to keep the tremble out of his voice if he focuses on his growing temper rather than the fear slowly overtaking him, “listen, I can pay you, okay? I’ve got some cash stowed away that’ll make up for all of this.”

Another step forward brings them ever closer, toe-to-toe, until their arm braces idly above Ovis’ head, against the door, and their breath warms his forehead, “I’m not sure you understand, clever boy,” he speaks sweetly, like explaining something simple to a child, nothing but smiles as he bends to be at eye-level, “I wasn’t asking.”

A beat of silence passes between them. Limbs still, paralyzed, his breath quickening.

He ducks beneath Esmond’s arm and heads for the window, ditching the idea of escape through the door, but his captor is fast, faster by a mile, and catches him by the wrist like one might swat casually at a fly. It snaps, the joint locking beneath his iron grip and reverberating up the chain of muscle until thunder claps against his shoulder and the first cry escapes between his clenched teeth.

“Settle,” they order, tone even, “you’re only going to hurt yourself further like this.”

“You’re the one hurting me!” Ovis growls back, struggling still against the firm hold.

“I’m only holding you in place, lamb, to keep you from hurting yourself more,” he counters, “you’re the one squirming, Ovis. If you’d only settle down, like I’ve asked, you wouldn’t be in so much pain. It will stop when you decide you’re ready to listen.”

“Fuck that!” He lurches away, all but tearing his elbow from its joint in the process, and stubbornly bites back the resulting scream until the insides of his cheek tastes like old pennies. “Let. Me. Go—”

He’s released in an instant. The sudden lack of binding has him staggering backwards, and he lands — shoulder first — against the hardwood floor.

There’s few means to stop the shriek that erupts from his chest this time around. It echoes against the walls and yet earns no change in expression from the man standing over him.

“See?” Esmond tuts, abandoning him there on the floor and momentarily stepping in the opposite direction, instead, “I suppose you’re determined to learn things the hard way.”

He isn’t listening, and he doesn’t care to. Rather, his attention is evenly divided between the blinding spasms abusing his newly reopened wounds and the wave of nausea that each brings. He chokes on the taste of bitter acid at the back of his throat and fights it off the best he can, but his vision is swiftly tunneling, and he hasn’t much time to do anything more than take shallow breaths and feel like he’s drowning on land.

It can’t end like this. If he passes out for a second time, there’s no telling where he’ll wake up or what else will happen to him. He has to move. He has to get out of here. He has to get up. Get up. Get up.

Shaking, still, he manages to gather the strength to prop an arm beneath him, bent at the elbow, and with that last remaining burst of energy he raises himself up by an inch, then two—

A boot makes contact with the space between his shoulderblades and drives him back into the floor with a resounding crunch. 

Ovis howls, dry heaving around the agony. With no strength left to shake the shoe off his back he is forced to stay down, fists clenched, angry and panting like a stray on the side of the road. 

Blearily, he realizes he will be forgotten like one, too.

The stars forming in his vision are warm and inviting, the ring in his ears like a blaring alarm. He lacks the strength to refuse them a second time, and so his body slumps, fists uncurling to expose open palms, and everything

falls

silent.

[whumpbug]

whumperless whump event day 16: say goodbye to filters @whumperless-whump-event

half-conscious / delirious / “you would never say that in your right mind…”

see this post for character information!

caretaker: Simon

whumpee: Archie

cw: drug mention in the sense of anesthesia post-op and also mention of vomit but it doesn't happen in the fic (let me know if i should tag anything)

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The woman at the front desk smiled warmly as Simon approached. “Hello dear, how can I help you?”

Simon had his fingers wrapped around the edge of the counter in a white knuckle grip, feeling his breath hitch softly.

“I need to see a patient,” He said quickly.

“Patient’s name?” The woman asked, tapping away at her keyboard.

“Archie-- Archer. Archer Schultz.”

The woman didn’t say anything for a beat, and Simon felt all the breath leave him at once.

“Is he.. he’s fine, right? His work called me. I got here as fast as I could, so he’s okay, right?” He stammered, fingers drumming against the cool tile of the counter.

Simon isn’t even sure why he said it, the words just sort of tumbled out in an anxiety-induced frenzy. He felt like there was a vice around his lungs-- like he couldn’t take in enough air.

He had been in class when Archie’s work called him. Of course, he immediately dropped everything to step out and answer. Simon was Archie’s emergency contact, so the call only really meant one thing. An emergency.

And an emergency it was. 

Apparently, Archie had gone into work that day looking like death, and only lasted about an hour before his co-worker found him on the bathroom floor, covered in vomit, and screaming-- yes, screaming in pain. An ambulance was quickly called, and he was taken to the hospital. That was as far as Simon knew.

And it was killing him.

Usually, whenever Archie was hurt, Simon was right there by his side, doing everything he could to help him. He knew how to take care of Archie like it was breathing. He knew the difference between a “that hurts!” grimace and a “that tickles!” grimace. He knew what flavor of gatorade Archie liked best, and that he was allergic to latex. The fact that such a serious situation happened while Simon wasn’t there to pick up the pieces was sending him into a full-blown panic.

“Ah yes, here he is. He was admitted about an hour ago, yes?”

“Yes.” Simon’s voice came out breathless.

“Well it says here that he was admitted for an emergency appendectomy. But.. hold on a minute.”

Simon quite literally felt like he was going to pass out then and there. He was scrutinizing this poor woman’s face for some kind of information.

“It looks here that the procedure went well! He’s recovering in a post-op room right now, the whole thing only took about half an hour,” She said cheerfully.

The relief that crashed over Simon was dizzying. It almost felt like his knees would buckle then and there, but he steeled himself.

“Can I go see him?” He breathed, drumming his fingers once again.

“Im sorry dear, only immediate family are allowed in post-operative care--”

“I am his family.” Simon’s voice came out harsher than he expected, and he felt a blush creep up on his ears. “I just mean.. I’m his emergency contact. He doesn’t have anyone else nearby.”

The woman adjusted her glasses on her nose and tapped away on her keyboard. “Name?”

“Simon Guevara.”

After a few more clicks, she met Simon with a smile.

“That was my mistake. Your name checks out. He’s in Room 2043 to the left.”

Simon muttered a quick thank you before taking off down the hallway as fast as his legs would take him. His heart was thumping in his chest in time with every step.

Eventually, he stopped in front of the door and took a moment to breathe deeply. He needed to get himself together-- for Archie.

He gently pushed the door open, and his heart clenched at the sigh before him.

Archie was propped up in a hospital bed, tubes sticking out of his arms and he looked adorably out of it, no doubt from all the pain meds they had him on. His hair was an absolute mess-- sticking up in every direction and seemingly defying gravity. 

The most concerning thing, though, were the tear tracks down his face.

“Archie,” Simon breathed, finally closing the distance between them. “I’m here..”

He reached up and cradled Archie’s face, using his other hand to smooth his blond curls.

“S-Simon..” He slurred, before his breath hitched and his face scrunched up and he.. began to bawl. Loudly.

Simon froze. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting from Archie flying high as a kite, but this somehow wasn’t it.

“Hey, hey.. shh.. what’s the matter?” Simon murmured, running his thumb over Archie’s cheek. “It’s alright.. I’m right here..”

A nurse walked in with some folded blankets and greeted Simon politely.

“You must be Simon?” She asked, setting the bundle of fabric on the table beside Archie’s bed.

Simon nodded, absent-mindedly threading a hand through Archie’s locks.

“He’s been asking for you since he woke up. He’s a real mess.” She said, amusement lacing her voice. “Hasn’t stopped crying either. He’s not a big fan of hospitals, is he?”

Simon shook his head and turned back to Archie, who was blinking sleepily and jolting every few seconds with barely-contained sobs. His heart shattered into a million pieces.

Once the nurse left, he stepped closer to the bed and pulled Archie to his chest. He pressed a kiss to the top of his head, feeling protectiveness swirl in his chest.

“S’mon..” He hiccupped. “They took my stomach.. I’m.. n’ver gonna eat again!”

This sent Archie into another round of fitful sobs, and Simon into stifled laughter.

“They didn’t take your stomach, Archie. They took your appendix. You don’t need your appendix. You can still eat whatever you want,” He huffed, a smile playing on his lips.

Archie considered this.

“French fries…?” The words came out as a soft whimper.

“Yes, even french fries. I will treat you to all the french fries you want once you’re feeling better.”

This seemed to placate Archie for the time being. He simply nuzzled closer to Simon, clutching at his shirt and burying his face into his stomach. He let out a stuttering sigh and blinked against the drowsiness coursing through his veins.

“You’re so.. nice..” He whispered.

Simon felt his ears heat up as he continued rubbing wide circles on Archie bare back, courtesy of the scratchy hospital gown.

“M’so lucky..” Archie continued, lifting his groggy eyes up to meet Simon’s. “I was sc’red you weren’t gonna come..”

Simon frowned.

“I’ll always come, Archie. No matter what.”

At this, Archie's face crumpled once again and he pushed it back into the fabric of Simon’s sweater.

“L’ve you, Simon..” He mumbled, words muffled by the position.

Simon went beet-red. “..What?”

Archie lifted his face again and sniffled.

“I love you. You’re.. mmhg.. you’re so nice to me..” He slurred, blinking sleepily.

Simon wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. All at once, he realized how deeply he cared about Archie. All the feelings he felt for him were compacted into just one, small word. Simon suddenly understood that he loved Archie too.

But he could say nothing.

“Archie, you’d never say that in your right mind… it’s the drugs talking.”

Archie hummed in disagreement, shaking his head, but it was clear that he had had quite enough of being awake. He stifled a yawn and leaned heavily into Simon’s arms.

Simon gently lowered him back onto the pillows, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead before settling into the chair next to the bed. He took Archie’s hand in his own.

Now, with only Archie’s soft, even breathing to fill the silence, Simon had a lot of feelings to work through. He sighed.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[syncope-syndrome]

Because @whumpprentice and I keep getting recommended car blogs... car whump!

Seriously, where amongst my #cats, #nature, #pretty people fainting do you think I'm interested in cars, Tumblr?

TW: CAR ACCIDENTS, KIDNAPPING, DROWNING, VOMITING, DRUGGING

being trapped in the trunk of a car left out in the sun. they've slipped out of the restraints a few minutes ago, but the metal's too hot to safely touch, the heat exhaustion is weakening them, and there's not a sound from the outside. sweat makes their hands too slick to grab onto much securely and dripping into their eyes, mingling with the tears forming at the thought of them baking alive in this car, alone, and no one coming until it's too late.

sitting in the front seat next to their captor, the whumper's hand heavy on their knee as a reminder to stay quiet. the whumpee stares helplessly at the officer checking the car's registration, handing it back to the whumper with a smile and bidding them both a good day and a warning to go a little slower next time. there's triumph in the whumper's responding laugh, and the whumpee's heart sinks into their stomach as their potential savior walks away.

trying to slide their way out between two cars nearly crushing them, feeling the metal of the first car's bumper and the second car's license plate scraping and tearing into their skin with every little sidle.

a vital limb pinned down by crunched-up metal, the impact harsh enough to break bone. even if they wanted to move, they couldn't either way, trapped in by the wreckage and the intensity of their pain both.

a car sinking beneath the water, a whumpee's desperate struggle to try and shatter a window to escape. they bang their hand onto the glass until it's bruised, taking in a last-ditch lungful of air before they're completely submerged. finally, they find something sturdy enough to break the glass, but they have to pull themselves through the mangled window. every shard of glass that digs in or slices them brings a gasp of pain, and every gasp threatens the very little oxygen they have left.

a fever-ridden head pressed against the rain-cooled window, the passing streetlights and zooming cars a blur as the whumpee fades in and out.

trying to use anything and everything to keep the blood off the linen seats — the car's an antique, a rental, a friend's. if there was any other option, they wouldn't be in it at all... but there isn't. all they can do is smear more and more blood on their clothes, their blankets, even their bag in an utterly desperate and mispriortizing attempt to keep the car itself clean.

weaving through traffic with eyes on the rearview mirror, looking for the headlights of the car that's been following them for far too long. it's still there, even as they make a risky merge off the highway. it's still there, even as they make too many right turns through an unassuming neighborhood. it's still there, even as they run a red light to try and finally ditch them. relief floods their body as the tailing car stops, then there's a sickening, screeching crunch of metal on metal, and darkness.

rushing home after a bad date and an even worse dinner, struggling to focus on driving while working their throat hopelessly to keep their food from coming up again. their friend's voice drones on and on, blurring in the background as they lose the battle against their illness just as they pull into their residence.

a caretaker trying to hold a whumpee in place as the car swerves and weaves frantically towards the hospital. every sharp turn aggravates their condition, and the caretaker's voice is nearing overwork from the constant, reassuring whispers towards whumpee and the stern warnings towards the driver.

getting into a car after a party, stumbling into the arms of the all-too-eager-to-help driver. at the time, they think nothing of it, letting themselves lounge in the haze of a wild night out... but wait. they don't know this person well enough to get into their car like this. ... they didn't have that many drinks... this isn't their neighborhood... when they try to express this, their words slur to the point that the driver can't — or won't — understand them, and as their consciousness fades, the realization hits. that's not their friend's voice... it's whumper's.