#aftermath of character death

[snakebites-and-ink]

Whumptober 4: “you’re still alive in my head” + 21: spirit possession

CW: Captivity, ghost caretaker

“We need to get out. This is going to kill you.”

Like it killed me went unsaid. They both knew it was true, but there was no point in reliving that right now.

“But…” Whumpee hesitated. However afraid they were of staying here, they held a greater fear for how Whumper would respond to an escape attempt.

“I’ve been watching for an opportunity, remember? This is our best one yet.”

“Okay,” Whumpee said decisively, steeling their nerves. “You’ll come with me right?”

“Of course. I’m always with you,” Caretaker promised.

“Good. I…really don’t want to lose you.”

“I’m already dead, Whumpee.”

Whumpee flinched at the blunt reminder. “You’re still alive in my head,” they whispered, quickly checking for any signs of Whumper before moving into the hallway. “Or something close enough, at least. Still here. Still conscious.”

“I guess that’s true,” Caretaker answered.

For a few moments, neither spoke. The only sound was Whumpee’s heartbeat pulsing in their ears, loud and fast with fear.

“What are we going to do after this, Whumpee? I can’t go back to my life without a body, and you’ll look insane if you keep talking to a voice in your head.”

“Let’s worry about actually getting out first.”

“Fair enough.”

They rounded the last corner. No Whumper.

Freedom was within reach.

[tenowls]

teacher getou au...... wauh

[megamagimugi]

I Was-a Too Late

CW: blood, implied character death(s)

[insert your favorite Mario game over jingle here]

I have nothing to say for myself.

I'm so sorry.

@wahooitsamee @peaches2217 You guys seemed interested, so... enjoy?

EDIT: I have a Luigi version (well, sort of) now too, called He's-a Gone if anyone's interested!

[abhainnwhump]

Caretaker refuses to clean out Whumpee's room. They haven't even gone in there to clean out dust since they were kidnapped. The blankets were as messy as ever, the photos were all in place, and not a single collectible was out of place. Caretaker knew one day, Whumpee would come through the front door, maybe a little beat up, and they could all move on from this. It was going to happen soon.

Even though Whumpee's funeral was two days ago.

[cpt-winters]

Battle Aftermath - *Team Leader Edition* ofc

Leader let out a shaky sigh as he cranked the shower knob, shuddering as the lukewarm spray hit him, water stinging the broken skin littered across his torso.

He closed his eyes, letting the pink-tainted water trickle down his grime-coated form. His shaky fingers ran across the dirt clinging to his forearm before his gaze fell to the tiled floor, watching the red spill down the drain. 

He should've tried harder.

Youngest needed him, and he couldn't- couldn't save them.

Leader turned his front to face the water, promising himself that was the reason for the moisture slinking down his cheeks as he stiffened his jaw.

His teammate's once pleading eyes still bore a hole through his brain, the gruesome imagery bled into his head, spilling across his thoughts.

Leader's temple ached as he let it fall against the tile in front of him, leaning his head against the wall while his throat tightened.

"Boss? Leader, you alright in there?"

Leader straightened to the unmistakable voice at the other side of the door, hissing at the jolt in his side from the sudden movement.

"Y-" He cleared his throat, the hoarseness of his voice intolerable to be heard over the running water. "Yeah. Yeah, all good," Leader called back, calm and unreadable as ever.

Or maybe not.

He could practically hear Teammate's frown from the next room with the resounding hesitance.

"..You sure?"

"Yes- Dammit!" Leader sucked in a shallow breath, refusing to let a sound escape him before regathering himself. "Just go."

A coppery taste pricked his tongue as he bit the inside of his cheek, stomach knotting as he waited for the footsteps outside to finally recede.

He was fine. He wasn't the one who- He was fine. And if everyone would stop asking about it, that would be just fucking great.

He was quick to stifle the first sob threatening the break through, quicker still to muffle the next he failed to. His vision blurred, shoulders shaking as he pushed the back of his bruised wrist to his mouth, refusing to let a single sound escape him.

1/3 (Part Two , Part Three)

[borgialucrezia]

"There is that final embrace that I think helps with letting his brother go in a way. Juan has been the one who drove Cesare to become what he is now, and I think Cesare is building walls around his heart. You do get colder and less sentimental when you take that path. He has to go on and he can't mourn him forever, especially since he's responsible for his death. He's not making excuses for what he is anymore, and what he wants to be. He ultimately feels that it's the right thing for himself. It's something that he focused on and I think he can control his mind into having no second thoughts. And that's the only way you can rule in that era, really." — FRANÇOIS ARNAUD

[serickswrites]

Deflect

Warnings: implied captivity, implied torture, implied restraints, rescue, hospital, referenced temporary character death, hurt/aftermath, hurt/comfort, hurt/recovery

"Whumpee, can we talk?" Caretaker said as they stood in Whumpee's hospital room door.

"What's there to talk about? I'm fine," Whumpee said quickly. The truth was they were very much not fine. Everything hurt. They couldn't move very much without being exhausted. And they still had a hard time breathing.

The doctors had reassured them that would fade. That they would feel more themself soon. But still, Whumpee wasn't sure how long that would take. And what the lasting impact would be from what Whumper did besides the scars from various acts and from being tied up with coarse rope for so long.

"Whumpee, you were dead when I found you. Actually dead," Caretaker shouted. "I did CPR for I don't even know how long. I thought...." Caretaker's voice caught.

"That I was really dead," Whumpee supplied for Caretaker. "But I wasn't. You kept my blood pumping long enough for help to arrive. And they get my heart going again. And now I'm ok."

"Whumpee, you died again in surgery. And then you were in a coma for so long. Whumpee, I....I nearly lost you. And you're acting like it is nothing!" Caretaker's eyes flashed with anger. Though they had been crying, Whumpee could see the anger boiling beneath the surface. Caretaker was angry. Not at Whumpee, but for Whumpee.

"What do you want me to say, Caretaker? That I thought I was going to die? That I didn't hold out long enough? That you were going to find what was left of my corpse and I was going to be the reason why you break? No? Or how about how every time I close my eyes I see what Whumper did. I see Whumper every time I close my eyes and I can't escape. I can't escape anything."

Whumpee's chest was heaving and they were sobbing. They had tried to keep this all in. Tried to not feel. Without a word, Caretaker came forward and threw their arms around Whumpee. The two of them held each other as they cried.

Whumpee was alive. Whumpee was safe. They hadn't died. And Caretaker had them now.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@artisticdemon

[3-2-whump]

The Morgue

<prev

Dear Readers,

Yep. This is it. Eternal's last chapter (at least for now). Thank you for sticking around for so long, I appreciated each and every one of you for reading this story and interacting with it! And thank you beta readers @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz for reading draft after freaking draft of this story for months now; I look forward to collaborating with you in the future.

The ending is kind of open ended, and I acknowledge this may frustrate some people, but I promise I'm not gonna pull a Netflix and drop this series on a cliffhanger (looks passive-aggressively at Netflix). Whatever happens next is for tomorrow; today, without further ado, here is the conclusion to Eternal!

TW/CW: death of a major character, aftermath of death of a major character, gore /graphic descriptions of a corpse, blood, emotional angst (I think?), nonconsensual nudity, slave whump /transfer of ownership, defiant whumpee, creepy whumper

Khaled was more than a little concerned when he woke up the next morning and his master’s bedroom was still empty. He was downright worried that he had not heard even a word from him by midday. This is so unlike him, Khaled thought as he checked the spare phone for any text messages he might’ve missed in the night. No new messages. Where is he?

He went to his room and retrieved his hidden cellphone from the place he had hidden it. There was one new message from Julio, but Khaled quickly swiped past it to text the one other contact he had on this illicit device.

To: Nic-Nac Have you seen the Boss today? He didn’t come home last night.

The subtle click of the door unlocking made his heart jump into his throat. Khaled quickly hid the phone away, bolted into the living room, chucked off the blanket, and assumed a perfect kneeling positon by the entrance, back straight, chest out, palms down on thighs, just as he’d been trained. His heart sank as the door opened and a man who was definitely not his master entered the apartment.

“Throw a coat on and-” Underboss Luca dropped his gaze down at Khaled once he realized he was not at eye-level. “Oh, right,” he groaned, punctuating his comment with a dismissive eye roll. “Should’ve known you’d be on your knees.” Khaled’s cheeks flushed bright red. “Get up and put some clothes on, we need to go to the morgue and identify a body!”

The last part of that command jolted Khaled out of his conditioning as abruptly as a kick in the teeth. “Wait, what?!” he asked, straightening up from his kneeling position.

“Just get dressed and come with me!” Luca said. He fumbled around his pockets until he found a small key. “You know where the safe is; get your clothes, and let’s go,” he instructed, tossing it to Khaled.

The young man caught it and dashed to the safe in the master bedroom, unlocking it and sprinting with the pile of clothes in his arms to change in his own bedroom. As he quickly dressed, he had an unshakeable feeling of dread. Thomas not coming home at all last night, no communication this morning, Luca coming over, and now this trip to the morgue –it was all adding up. If his master was truly dead, then he had no idea if or when he would be back at the apartment.

Khaled saw the designated hiding space for his cash jar out of the corner of his eye. He yanked it out and emptied it onto the bed, quickly folding and stuffing the dollar bills into every pocket, fold, and crevice of his outfit he could manage. Lastly, he grabbed his forbidden cellphone from its hiding place and jammed it into his pants pocket as he sprinted out to meet his foreboding feeling head-on.

Luca filled him in on the details as they drove to the morgue. A little after six in the morning, a bloodied and mangled body had been found hanging upside down from a crane at the dockyard. The ID in the dead man’s coat pocket had identified him as Thomas J Costa, but his face was barely recognizable beneath the blood and gore. The forensic pathologist would need a positive ID on the dead man’s corpse before they could tell the coroner to issue the death certificate for Don Costa, hence the need for Luca and Khaled to come down to the morgue.

“You know, if it is Tommy-boy on that slab, all of his assets will immediately be transferred to my control,” Luca reminded him, snaking an arm around the young man in a feigned gesture of comfort as they walked to the entrance of the morgue. “All of them,” he whispered. Khaled bristled under the other man’s touch as Luca moved his hand downwards. He did not miss the hidden meaning of those words. He jumped a little as Luca experimentally groped his ass on the way through the entrance.

The forensic pathologist met the men, their androgynous face set into a grim expression. “Next of kin for Mr. Thomas J Costa?” they asked. Both men nodded. The pathologist waved at them to follow them. “I gotta warn you though, he’s not a pretty picture. I cleaned him up as best I could, but just be prepared.”

No forewarning could’ve prepared Khaled for what he saw when the sheet was lifted from the corpse on that autopsy table. He recognized the cold gray eyes that now stared unseeingly up at him, the telltale scar at the man’s left temple, and what remained of the skull and snake tattoo on the man’s left pec, but that was about it. The rest of his master’s body looked as if wild animals had gotten to it. His usual dirty-blond hair was stained a coppery red, matted in places with clotted blood. There were cuts, bruises, and even burns scattered around his face, disfiguring it into something near unrecognizable. A long, jagged cut ran from his jugular down to his sternum, deep crimson with coagulated blood that had long since stopped bubbling from its schism. Deep gashes of a knife punctured his upper body and torso. His privates were…gone… and his legs from upper thighs to ankles were littered in cuts and bruises. The soles of his feet looked as if they had been burned away. Merely looking at his feet made Khaled feel faint, so he let his eyes travel back to Thomas’ face. The man’s dull gray eyes stared up at him.

“Well, is this him?”

“Yes,” Luca answered solemnly. He quickly swiped a hand over his eyes and took a breath to compose himself before turning to Khaled.

No matter how much he wanted to, he could not tear his gaze from the man’s dead eyes. He gave a small nod, at a complete loss for words otherwise. The pathologist merely answered a quiet “okay” before draping the sheet back onto Don Costa’s mutilated body, shielding Khaled from those steel gray eyes forever.

It’s finally happened, he thought. Master is dead… Instead of hope, or sorrow, or anger, or even a sick sense of satisfaction from witnessing this karmic justice, Khaled searched within himself and found nothing. He felt nothing, and then he questioned what kind of person he was, to feel nothing.

“Khaled, hey, Khaled…” a faint voice called out to him through the fog of his mind. Khaled stayed rooted to the spot, unable to move as he stared down at the veiled corpse.

“Khaled, sweetie, it’s time to go.”

He’s dead now, which means…which means what? The feeling of Luca roughly pulling him away from the autopsy table and dragging him back the way they came answered his own question for him. All the while, Khaled took shelter in his thoughts, not even fighting back as he tried to process what he just saw and what it meant for him. The man who had fed me, clothed me, given me everything is dead, and now, what am I?

“Well, it looks like you’re mine now,” Luca announced, pulling on his leather gloves as they exited the morgue and stepped into the parking lot.

That snapped Khaled out of his mind quick. The man who had once openly said he would’ve taken him while he was still a minor flashed him a small, sad smile. “Of all the ways I could’ve gotten you, this is the last one I wanted,” he admitted. He raised a gloved hand to Khaled’s face, gently caressing his cheek with leather-clad fingers. “But maybe, together, we can help each other process our loss.”

No. Khaled shook his head. Luca’s soft caresses quickly hardened into a crushing grip on his face. He drew him in closer until their faces were mere inches apart. “You’re mine now, Khaled,” he growled, glaring into the young man’s eyes. “I never approved of the erratic, unpredictable way Tommy treated you, and I promised myself that when it was my turn, I would be better.” Khaled’s hands scratched at Luca’s arm, which only served to tighten the hand around his jaw. “But not if you’re going to fight me the entire time!” He drew Khaled in closer, too close for comfort, as he maintained that crushing grip on his face. “So, what’s it gonna be? You gonna be a good boy for Master, or are you gonna make me hurt you?”

Letting go of Khaled’s face to allow him to answer was the greatest mistake Luca would make. With a fierce desperation to die rather than be owned by someone far worse than Thomas, Khaled drew his head back and collided their skulls with a crushing force. Both men withdrew from each other, each groaning in pain as they held their heads, but Khaled recovered from the head-butt first, and used the ten-second head start to make a run for it out the parking lot.

“You bitch! Get back here, you stupid little slut!” and various threats of bodily harm were shouted at him as he ran. He kept running, even when he rounded the corner and an exposed piece of chain-link fence grazed his thigh, nipping the skin enough to draw blood. He kept running, even when he wasn’t sure which streets he was running down as he single-mindedly sprinted ahead, most definitely lost. He kept running, even as the tears blurred his vision and the cold air stung his throat and lungs, and every time he tried to blink back his tears all he saw were those cold, dead eyes staring up lifelessly back at him. He kept running.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire

[princessranboo]

after everything

[demadogs]

oh my god guys why the fuck would they kill karen lmao

[writing-to-survive]

#198

"They'll be time to grieve later," Character A sniffs, turning away to wipe their tears.

"You can take five minutes to. Everyone knows how important they were to you," Character C says. C walks out, hearing muffled sobs behind them.

[mechazushi]

After the Fall {AN ACTUAL SHORT STORY THIS TIME} [Kaiju No. 8] (Could be considered as possible Ep11 spoilers; interpreted artistically)

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

"Kafka Hibino." Captain Mina Ashiro started, "No. Kaiju Number Eight. I am taking you into custody." She leveled her gun to him. Her voice as steady as her hands, taking care not to let an ounce of sadness that had filled her soul melt her outward resolve. The companies were distraught and heavily wounded. Most of the infrastructure in the training area had been reduced to ash. An arched border line had been etched into the pavement around them. One side was mostly intact with spider cracks in various locations. The other side was a pale, dusty mess. No surface from the border and beyond was traversable with all of it being splintered, jutting, and uneven.

At the peak of the arch stood a half dissolved monster, melting back into a man. When the flecks peeled off and drifted into the remnants of the wind, a face began to emerge. Kafka Hibino, the former member of the Third Division had ousted himself as the elusive Kaiju Number Eight. He stood stone still, letting fragments of his alter form slough off as he never took his eyes off his captor. He wanted to think he knew what she was thinking, that this is just protocol, that there was no place in her heart that harbored ill will or intent. Mina wouldn't use her gun against him, right? They could still be friends, that he could still fight for his spot at her side.

He couldn't tell. Mina was unreadable as ever and Kafka couldn't blame her. He had been reprimanded enough times to know that this was just how she had to be in front of others in the Division. Her place wasn't a position where she was afforded the leeway to be physically emotional. Emotion was considered weakness, and she had to be strong for the others. To the officers, she was being seen as a strong captain, standing against a Daikaiju threat. It didn't matter that this was Kafka, that everyone had seen that it was Kafka who made a harrowing choice to save the lives of thousands. All they saw now was a monster, no matter how human and familiar its face was.

"Hoshina. I need you to cuff him." Captain Ashiro commanded. Hoshina heard, but was refusing to act. He couldn't bring himself to look at the situation in front of him. A man he trusted, a man he had considered as a friend and compatriot, was confirmed to be a threat to the world. Hoshina wasn't sure at the beginning what Kafka's circumstances were. He knew that things were off, but he chose to ignore them. The whole reason for letting Kafka join as a cadet was so Hoshina could investigate him, and he failed to do even that. All because he couldn't look past his smile. How could a man with a smile so bright and genuine ever be a threat to others. He didn't believe it, refused to believe it. He wasn't going to slap cuffs on a man that didn't have a threatening bone in his body.

But was he a man? Everyone saw Kafka gain impossible speed. They all saw Kafka, as a kaiju, blast into the sky and launched the bomb to a safer distance. Was Kafka a kaiju now because he was strong and dangerous? Or was he still a man because he understood sacrifice? Kaijus didn't need to deal with pesky feelings. They didn't have to worry about what others thought of them. All there was in kaiju minds was to eat and destroy. Kafka could express emotion, and has expressed desire outside of destruction. If Kafka knew that others would turn and run in fear if they knew what he was and what he could do, why did he do it anyway?

"Hoshina." Captain Ashiro commanded again, dislodging her Vice Captain from his thoughts. He still didn't want to do this, still choosing to believe in the man behind the monster's mask, but it wasn't a good idea to make the Captain repeat herself. Reaching into his side pouch, he dug up one of the plastic handcuffs that most officers are issued with. They were issued with the intent that defense members might encounter people taking the opportunity for ransacking during invasions and could preform arrests until the offender could be picked up by proper authorities. Hoshina walked up to Kafka and held the industrial zip-tie in his hands. Every neuron in his skull felt like it was screaming in retaliation, making his hands hesitate in the action of placing Kafka under physical arrest. He almost wanted to laugh. Did anyone here actually think that these meager restraints could hold back a person with a registered fortitude rating? Kafka slowly held out his wrists in front of him, looking like a toddler that was expecting a ruler to come down on them in punishment.

"It's okay. I know." Kafka whispered imperceptibly to him. His head was bowed solemnly, but he looked at Hoshina as his face remained ever reassuring. He almost felt like slapping the look off of him. How dare he act like this. How dare he try to be apologetic and caring for others in this situation. Why couldn't he be an asshole and run, fight, do anything to save himself. For god's sake, why can't he be selfish. Having to deal with a daikaiju on the loose would have been less gut wrenching than having to send a fellow soldier to an uncertain fate.

"Captain Ashiro, I can explain-" Reno Ichikawa was shouting as he came barreling over the fallen debris as nimbly as possible. Following behind at a much slower pace was Kikoru Shinomiya.

"Save it Officer Ichikawa!" Ashiro barked at him, "Telling by your outburst at this time of all places, tells me you have some knowledge on this as well." she holstered her side arm now that Kafka had been successfully restrained.

"You too, Shinomiya. Hoshina told me about his suspicions about how you managed to neutralize the honju at the acceptance trials earlier this year and with you showing up behind Ichikawa here, I can assume that you're in on this too." She began to wordlessly direct those around her and made moves to stand behind Kafka and Hoshina.

"Okonogi, send several vehicles over to the training area. We have multiple wounded and a lot of tired soldiers that I think would rather drive than walk back to barracks. Leader Ebina, gather some of your people and start marking a path through the rubble so we can transport the wounded."

"Roger that, Captain. Do you want me to send an armored vehicle for Kaiju Number Eight?" replied Okonogi. Captain Ashiro looked hard at Kafka, now back to appearing completely human and in the plastic cuffs. Hoshina was looking right at the captain. Blood had stopped dripping down his face minutes ago, but it was still clear that he wasn't in any shape to fight anything more powerful than a mouse right now. She took in the fact that his hands were placed gently on top of Kafka's limply curled fists, a sight that Kafka couldn't pull his eyes away from.

"No. Leave the armored vehicle for now. We might need it to be fueled and stocked for whatever happens tomorrow." Ashiro replied back after serious consideration. With most of the Division looking the way it did, and the person most capable of going head to head with a daikaiju of small size looking like death warmed over, she acknowledged the fact that Kafka; or Kaiju Number Eight, she hadn't stopped her brain from fluctuating between the two, hadn't taken the opportunity to bolt for the hills. She figured if he was going to try anything, he would have as soon as she leveled her sidearm at him. In the bright moonlight over head, she could see the person she once considered a friend chuckle noticeably.

"Thanks for that, Captain Ashiro. Those trucks don't have the best air condi-"

"Save it. I don't want to hear another word from you tonight." Captain Ashiro commanded. She could clearly see the word's effect on him as he visibly flinched at her sharp tone. As the officers around her got into position and steadied their hands on their rifles, she pointed her finger off over Hoshina's shoulder, indicating that they should start moving. Kafka's feet regretfully began to shuffle around to face the direction he was supposed to go in, but when he tried to take an actual step he hissed loudly and nearly collapsed to his knees onto the pavement. Hoshina didn't think for a second as he rushed forward to catch him before he landed, propping himself under Kafka's broad chest and grabbing his shoulder to keep him balanced. The chorus of six safety switches all clicking off in unison could be heard behind the two of them.

"Shit- Sorry, sorry! Knees were locked." Kafka said, glancing over his and Hoshina's connected bodies.

"Sorry." He added, seemingly addressed to no one in particular.

'Maybe that was addressed to all of us.' Hoshina thought as he helped Kafka readjust to his feet. Once he felt okay enough to walk, he began to move forward at a sluggish pace. It was clear to Hoshina that he wasn't walking slow on purpose, and that it really must have taken a lot out of him to propel himself into the air and sucker punch a twenty kiloton yoju bomb into the lower stratosphere. Hoshina kept a hand on Kafka's upper back as he gently guided him through the path Ebina's team had marked earlier. With the moment they were in being as quiet as possible, save for the occasional echoing crash of broken rubble hitting the ground all around them, Hoshina took a second to think.

'I mean, when you think about it, that should be enough to knock the wind out of anyone capable of doing that in that sort of situation.' He stunned himself with the words in his head. How could he even try and logic out what a man with the power of turning into a Kaiju was even qualified to accomplish? This whole situation was absurd and he hated it. He hated everything in that moment. He hated Kafka for putting himself in danger, he hated Captain Ashiro knowing she was only doing her job, he hated himself because he was the one who told Kafka not to get attached to others on the job because God only knows what could happen and here he was, feeling attached knowing damn well that he was going to feel like shit because he was basically loosing the best damn thing this Division had going for it!

Hoshina couldn't writhe in his personal hell for much longer as the group had made it to the busted doors of the training grounds. The remnants of his fight with Kaiju Number Ten as well as debris from the explosion had all been pushed to the sides as best as possible. A few tents had been erected to preform triage and separate the barely scratched from the mortally wounded and treat them appropriately. A rotating convoy of open air trucks and military jeeps were set up at the far end of the street carrying the tired and lightly wounded to somewhere else on base for rest, if it was available for most. All activity seemed to slow, almost stopping in some areas as Kafka led his paltry parade showcasing his imprisonment through the masses. It almost felt like a display of a man being condemned. Okonogi pulled ahead of the line in her own commandeered jeep and pulled it to a stop in front of Kafka and Ashiro. The captain told the six behind her to grab a vehicle for themselves and follow close behind, before wordlessly hopping into the passenger seat of the car. As Hoshina hopped in the exposed backseat, he could hear Kafka groan and hiss as he settled into the spot on the bench next to him.

"Hssssss, haaaa, hoooo. Wow, sitting down. A novel idea. Who knew?" Kafka talked exhaustedly as he fumbled with the lap belt using his restrained hands.

"Miss Okonogi, not to presumptuously assume your driving skills, but you mind being careful and avoiding potholes and barricades on the way to my cell. I'm gonna take a nap." Kafka's head slumped unceremoniously against the metal bar framing the back of the jeep and immediately started to breath heavily, almost as if he was asleep already. His closed eyes meant he didn't get to see Mina's irritated glare she sent his way before she took the clipboard that Okonogi brought with her. Hoshina rested his elbow against the car's sidewall and placed his face in his hand, staring at an unaware Kafka.

'He's asleep. This no good, dirty, rotten, lying, mutant Kaiju bastard is asleep?' Hoshina thought angrily. As he felt the car move forward and tuned out Captain Ashiro and Okonogi's conversation, he realized all he could think about in that moment was him.

'A man saves an entire base and this is how we thank him.' Hoshina's inner monologue continued. He knew he wasn't the only one here who felt like this, and when the news got out in the morning he was sure lots of others were going to have mixed feelings on this as well. Arresting him was for the best, he knew that as well. Good intentions or no, human or no, it didn't change the fact that Kafka can become a kaiju. The whole purpose of the Divisions was to eliminate kaijus. The fact that Kafka was allowed to breathe, let alone sitting in the back of a car with the two most powerful people on base at rock bottom of their best, spoke volumes about how crazy and fucked up these circumstances were. Protocol was kill on sight, and Kafka knows this. Yet here he was, sleeping the rest of his freedom away.

'It wouldn't be hard, either.' Hoshina thoughts continued, 'I may not be able to put up a good fight at the moment, but we can assume he's mostly human right now. He's asleep and tired, which means he's vulnerable' He played with the tip of the handle connected to his sword. 'I could end it all for him right now and he wouldn't be wiser.'

But he wouldn't. Hoshina couldn't lay any hand on him with deadly and harmful intent behind it, now and forever. Monster or Human, it didn't matter anymore. Nothing could ever change the fact that Hoshina had one percent of trust in this man right now. And he wondered if Kafka could feel that too, because why else could he be so blissfully asleep right now.

'He's not going to be like that for long.' Hoshina thought bitterly. The protocol was kill on sight for honju and yoju, yes, but that stopped at daikaiju. they were killed like any other threat, but whatever that was left of the body after the fight was sent off for research. Research and experimentation. Hoshina knew that it was a snowball's chance in hell that the leaders of the Defense Force were just going to let them keep Kafka on base, but were they going to let Kafka stay alive and intact? Hoshina could feel his heart be poisoned and start to cramp up at the thought. He had to look away for a moment , lest tears started to mix with the blood and stain his cheeks even more. It took several sharp breaths and a solid minute of mental filing to help his chest feels normal again.

Hoshina tried to take another look at the mystery that was his fellow soldier. A face as still as a forest pond, covered in already healed scratches. Light from the moon created soft shadows on his eyelids and neck. flickering and shifting in tandem with the shakes and jolts coming from the moving jeep. His worker's tan looking more pronounced than it usually did. Kafka looked stoic and peaceful, which created a stark contrast to the unearthly and demonic visage Hoshina has associated with Kaiju Number Eight. It was an awful situation Hoshina found himself in.

On one hand, he wanted to come across the bench and hold him. Whisper calmly in his ear that everything was going to be okay. That he won't have to worry about whatever that's going to come for him in the morning. On the other hand, he wanted to be the one that was being held. To have all those sweet and empty promises whispered back at him, to be told that things would be fine for him too. Kafka won't have to leave the base, that this whole kaiju transformation business was just the concussion talking, and the base will be back to operational in no time at all.

None of those things were going to happen. The base reconstruction was going to take forever, Kafka was going to have to leave, and nothing was going to be fine. Hoshina turned away again, feeling the chest tightening again and wanted to keep his tears to himself for the time being. He couldn't cry now because there was a superior officer present and didn't also want to wake Kafka. He couldn't cry in the morning because he needed to be strong in the face of whatever decision that was to come down on his officer's head. As the first shifts of color indicative of the approaching dawn began to brighten the night sky, Hoshina tamped down every bit of emotion he had to let out later into the first few minutes of however much sleep he was going to get in those twilight hours.

This was going to be a rough few months, wasn't it?

[whumblr]

A terrible price

Hello, I had a very awful thought and I'll let you all suffer with me :) Pls don't hate me.

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

TW: Character death :)

-

So, what if Zayne had won. What if he’d managed to 'convince' Jay to give up his research. Maybe after a particular nasty evening, with Jay covered in blood just sobbing and shouting "Fine! Okay! You win!” And he actually does as Zayne says. No more trying to nail Emery. Just letting things play out to let Zayne clear his debt and walk away.

Zayne is satisfied.

And over the next couple of weeks, his mood improves with every passing day.

Even Jay can’t resist to go along with Zayne’s bright mood. Everything feels lighter, even Zayne’s visits. Sure, Zayne still torments him, but not as much as when he wanted to break him, and Jay finds himself, just like Zayne, looking forward to when Zayne can finally say he is debt-free and breaks free from Emery.

He’s practically counting down the days, sure that after Zayne’s life improves, so will his.

But one day, Zayne suddenly stops visiting.

Jay is relieved at first. Pretty sure that, well, this was it. But something is gnawing at him. Surely Zayne would drop by to ‘celebrate’ his freedom and maybe tell Jay that he was packing up and leaving. Or drop hints that his last job was going to be soon. This is strange. And something’s not right. But his new-found freedom makes it somewhat impossible to focus on anything but the fact that he can finally try to take the first few steps to closure.

Then a couple days later when he arrives at work in the morning, Dennis is waiting for him in the lobby. Wearing a grave and somewhat unreadable expression on his face. Jay remembers he received a phone call the day before, shot Jay a sharp glance, but just grabbed his things to rush out of the building.

He now leads Jay into a meeting room, fiddling with a paper file in his hands.

“I’m not sure how you’re going to take this,” he starts, a meek gesture to them alone in the room.

Jay doesn’t respond, doesn’t know how to respond and Dennis continues after a deep breath:

“They found Zayne's body in the river.”

Jay just gives him a blank stare. Merely blinks. Everything, from his thoughts to his expression, just stops moving. Until the gravity of those words fully hits him and he realises what’s going on.

Zayne is…

His lips slowly part as his jaw drops. His thoughts go from zero to full speed in a matter of seconds. His mouth moves, stuttering out fragments of words, unable to fully form even a single word.

“You need prove,” Dennis’ voice breaks through his thoughts. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” His mouth feels dry and he eyes the file in Dennis’ hands.

“It’s not pretty.”

“I need to see it.”

Dennis hands him the file. A police report. Autopsy report.

And on the first page he is immediately greeted by a headshot of… something that resembles Zayne.

His face is all bloated. His eyes are closed, skin discoloured, hair flat on his head. Everything that made Zayne ‘Zayne’ is just… gone; his expression, his smile, his swiped back hair. Now it’s just… a body. With his eyes closed he could almost look peaceful and while the water erased most signs of violence, there’s still something eerie about certain spots on his face that don’t a complete picture, as if parts have been erased. Black and blue parts.

With every page he turns, he quickly swipes his hand over the pictures, not wanting to see. Just reading the cold, medical terms on what happened is hard enough. The words blur together and he only sees things like stabbed several times, lacerations, bruises, breaks, collarbone, ribs, wrists—

“I thought I’d be relieved…” he finally says, over the hand covering his mouth.

“Me too.”

He’s just too late covering a picture on the next page of Zayne’s torso, covered in stab wounds. The lines are clean, but something about them still makes his stomach churn. Something about the placement of the wounds that betrays a precision to avoid any fatal harm. He notices the old scar on his abdomen and for some reason that really hammers home that this puffed up body on a slab really is - was - Zayne.

“What was the fatal one?” He hears his own voice, brittle.

Dennis turns a few pages back and points at the picture. That’s when Jay notices the line over Zayne's throat. There’s a sharp intake of breath.

A little voice in the back of his head manages to make things even worse: did they use Zayne’s own knife?

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Every bit of relief is squashed by something heavy. His heart is racing. His hand is shaking and just doesn’t want to leave his mouth, as if he’s gonna throw up immediately once he removes it.

And he feels something wet against his fingertips.

“No I... why...?!” He takes his glasses off and furiously swipes his sleeve over his cheekbones. “Why am I upset about… about Zayne?!” he cries out, brushing tears away as soon as they appear, as if he can erase any evidence of the bitterness swirling inside.

“You don’t have to cry for the man who did those awful things to you…” Dennis says, voice soft. “It’s okay to cry for the man they dragged out of the water.”

Something doesn’t quite break but Jay feels something crack. Tears seep through it and he finally just slumps down on a chair, catching his head in his hands.

“This is too cruel. He… he didn’t deserve this. Not like this.”

Nor do I! This isn’t the happy ending he wanted! Everything, going back to his old life, his freedom, his recovery, is going to be overshadowed by this. How could he ever be relieved that he was going to be left alone now, happy that Zayne would never visit again, when he knows��

And Zayne… he was so happy these last few days. So sure that his freedom was near. And everything was ripped away. Cruelly punished for doing just as he was asked to do, for making it to the end, for merely existing. For meeting the wrong man.

“I was going to say… call in sick and go home but—”

“But home is no longer safe,” Jay finishes. It wouldn’t take long before Emery would tie up the last loose end. “When was he killed?”

“About five days ago.”

“You’d think Emery would be on my doorstep four days ago then…”

“I’m not going to take any risks. I’m going to finish up, talk to Luke to see if we can arrange some protection and you’re staying with me.”

Finally free. It cost a terrible price. And even now he still isn't free at all. A bigger threat still looms over them all. And it wouldn’t be satisfied with just its first victim.

Things might actually take a turn for the worse.

-

Suffer List Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror @susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime @freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion @afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8 @itsmyworld98 @whumpifi @painless-and-colourful

[all-pacas]

Would love to know if you have any theories about why House didn't talk to Chase about trying again with the patient in The Itch? He says they need him and when Cameron says he won't do it and suggests House talk to him, House doesn't and it's a bit of a mystery to me as to why not?

According to House, it's because he can't understand Chase's accent, lol.

Sadly, I don't think there's a deep answer here. House is entertaining himself with two mysteries this episode: what's going on with Cameron and Chase (which is an interesting side topic in itself, because they were coasting along in complacency until House rolled a bomb in and strengthened their relationship), and why Taub suddenly has so much time to help out. Asking Taub to do the surgery gives House the chance to confirm his theory, as he says later on:

TAUB: And why do you think I’ll be doing [what you ask]? HOUSE: Same reason you did the surgery. TAUB: That was because it was an emergency. HOUSE: No. It was because your marriage is falling apart.

If I were to read more into it, I'd also say that Chase makes it pretty clear that he isn't super into this plan or helping House, and while House does like poking at Chase he… actually seems to respect his space, lol. Chase has boundaries now, and House doesn't push them much! If Taub hadn't been available, House probably would have reached out to Chase, but it isn't necessary.

Later on, Cameron does approach Chase for another surgery, although it isn't clear if House suggested it or not. I think it was probably on her initiative, though, as Chase points out the surgery she's asking for is impossible and she's really just there to pick a fight. House would also know the surgery is pointless, and unlike Cameron, isn't trying to make Chase mad so he can feel good about storming off in a huff, lol.

[serickswrites]

It Takes Two VIII

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Warnings: referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced restraints, referenced hanging, referenced noose, referenced strangulation, referenced asphyxiation, referenced character death, referenced cpr, hospital, hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Smallest Teammate hanging by their neck danced behind Team Leader's eyelids every time they closed their eyes. Smallest Teammate's desperate gasps for air echoed in Team Leader's ears. And the feel of Smallest Teammate's lifeless body beneath their hands as they performed CPR ghosted along Team Leader's fingertips.

It had been that way since Teammate One pulled Smallest Teammate from their arms and placed the on a gurney. Team Leader had essentially stopped functioning as Smallest Teammate was wheeled away.

It was all their fault. Smallest Teammate had been hurt because of them. Whumper had kidnapped Smallest Teammate because of them. Smallest Teammate had stopped breathing because of them. Smallest Teammate had died because of them.

Smallest Teammate had died.

The words still stole all the breath from Team Leader's lungs. And even though they could hear the monitors, could see the lines and numbers on them, that told them Smallest Teammate was still alive now wasn't enough. Smallest Teammate had been dead.

And it was all their fault.

Smallest Teammate hadn't woken yet. The medical team wasn't sure when Smallest Teammate would wake--if Smallest Teammate would wake--no one knew how long they had been without oxygen and what the effects would be. Team Leader hadn't left their side. Hadn't let go of their hand.

The soft whir and hiss of the ventilator should have been a reassurance that Smallest Teammate still breathed. But it wasn't. Team Leader knew that Smallest Teammate could slip away at any moment, that death could steal them once more. And there would be nothing Team Leader could do to stop it.

"I really need you to wake up, Smallest Teammate," Team Leader mumbled softly. "It was supposed to be me. This is should have been me." Team Leader squeezed their eyes shut to stop the tears that were threatening to overwhelm them. "Sweetheart, please. I need you to wake up. I can't go on like this. Not without you.

"I am so sorry it took me so long to find you. I...I should have worked harder. Please," Team Leader sobbed, "sweetheart, please wake up. Stay with me, please."

Smallest Teammate's fingers twitched in theirs. Team Leader's eyes flew open. "Smallest Teammate?"

Smallest Teammate's eyelids fluttered. Once. Twice. And suddenly Team Leader was staring down into Smallest Teammate's eyes. "Sweetheart, you're here. You're here. Please, stay here with me. I need you."

Smallest Teammate's eyes were hazy, but their fingers twitched again.

"You're in the hospital. I'm...I'm sorry it took so long to find you."

Smallest Teammate blinked again, some of the haze clearing from their eyes. Team Leader pushed the call button. "I'm getting them to come help you, sweetheart. But I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to spend the rest of my life making this up to you. I love you. I love you. I love you."

Tags: @whumperfultime@pigeonwhumps@st0rmm@outlawaries@whumppuppeteer@crapimintoeverything@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees@mousepaw@thelazywitchphotographer@podcast-hoe@katwriteswhump@artisticdemon @acer-gaysimpstuff @alluringleopards

[3-2-whump]

Falling Like Snow

<prev next>

The penultimate chapter, can you believe it? Break out the tissues for this one, folks.

Thanks again @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz, you two are the best!

Obligatory Author's Note: This is it, folks, the end of Tom's story. Sorry to those who wished for a miracle, and congratulations to those of you rooting for his demise. You know exactly what to do if you desire a different ending. Fanfiction, canon divergence -the world is your oyster, so just go for it! I encourage it, if anything! Just, you know, tag me or let me know in some way. But anyway, here we go

TW/CW: major character death, blood, gore (?) (tagging it just to cover my bases), aftermath of torture, cigarette whump (brief), emotional angst, slave whump, noncon nudity (in the first half), Stockholm Syndrome (maybe?) (like the beginnings of it), but more so, emotional angst. So much angst. Please let me know if I missed anything though! Enjoy

From: Master Forgot about a meeting I have tonight. Be home late. Wait for me.

Khaled noted the time the message was sent, and compared it to how late at night/early in the morning it now was. He wondered if his master was out drinking, or whoring, or whatever it was he got up to when he’d stay out late on short notice. Not like it was his business anyway.

Khaled yawned, shaking out the numbness in his legs from his kneeling position next to the couch. He put away the plate of food on the table that had long gone cold by now. His own stomach gurgled with the need to eat something, but he dared not touch any of the food he carefully stowed away.

With the leftovers sorted out, there was nothing to do but put the dishes in the dishwasher and start the cycle. The kitchen, as well as the rest of the apartment, was spotless, since now he had nothing else to do but keep it clean. Khaled returned to his place on the bare living room floor, grabbing a blanket off the couch as an afterthought as he wrapped it around his nude frame. He was forbidden from wearing any clothes now, as the man who owned him was just a little too eager to see his ‘beautiful body,’ as he called it, and did not want anything obstructing its form. He’d watched in abject horror as all but a few changes of clothes were burned before his eyes and the rest had been locked in a safe. It had been a cold February ever since.

“I like you more like this,” his master had told him. “You’re far more cuddly like this, love, far more tactile.”

That’s another thing; Master was saying the word ‘love’ a lot more, averaging at least one “I love you Khaled” per day for the past two weeks. More than a little overwhelming, the frequency at which he’d expressed his affections seemed just this side of insincere. The three little words Khaled had craved for so many years now sounded so flat and fake, given everything else that had happened to him. How could anyone who isolates a man from his friends, from his job, from the world itself claim to love him? How was any of what he went through love?

What was more unbearable was when he was expected to say it back.

And he would say it back, a strained ‘I love you too’ that grated against his throat like swallowing broken glass. Yet, with a defeated resignation, Khaled realized it had gotten much easier to say, with enough repetition. If he said ‘I love you too, Master’ enough times, he may actually begin to believe it. It was only a matter of time until he would say it and mean it, if his enforced isolation continued much longer. Thomas Costa and Luca Bianchi were the only other human beings he had seen for two weeks now; he had no idea how he was strong enough to deal with this for more than a year when he was a child!

He positioned himself on his side, his sore back facing the door and his head facing the wide windows of the living room overlooking the city skyline. Outside it began to snow. The white, fluffy flakes were a vision of beauty flying against the heavy gray sky. Khaled’s eyelids drooped as he watched the snow fall in the greyish-white winter night. It was cold, yes, but beautiful, like him, he guessed.  His last conscious thoughts were wondering when his master would come home to him. Regardless of whether he loved him back or not, he was cold, so cold without him.

-

It was cold, so cold, on the dirty concrete floor. Not even the blood pouring out of his lacerated wounds could keep him warm anymore. Above him, Julio circled him like a vulture, taking a long drag of his cigarette before throwing it lit-end first at Thomas’ face. The beaten man was too far gone to even flinch.

Damn, is this how Khaled felt when I cut him? he deliriously wondered. With all that Julio and the Juicio Divino boys had done to him, he doubted he’d ever get the chance to ask.

Khaled. There are so many things Thomas now wished he did differently. He should’ve been kinder, more patient, should’ve protected him from the world, from his men -even from himself. Especially from himself.

“Khaled…” he moaned.

A blood-speckled Nike connected painfully with his side. “You dare call out to him, even now?!” Julio growled icily. He kicked Thomas again.

“Julio, just kill him already, for fuck’s sakes,” a voice shouted from the corner of the warehouse. The traitor –Nico- stood off to the side, icing his bashed-in face with some snow wrapped in shirt fabric. “You’re worse than a cat that plays with the mouse it caught!” he admonished. As furious and confused and disappointed as Thomas was about the Clemenza boy betraying him like this, the primal animal part of him was grateful that he was asking for mercy on his behalf.

Although he could no longer raise his head to see past Julio’s ankles, Thomas could feel the assassin roll his eyes above him as he cursed in Spanish. The next thing he knew, Julio was crouching down to his level. He tried to mentally prepare for whatever would happen next.

Julio sunk his fingers into his short, blood-soaked hair, wrenching his head back as he held up a now-very-familiar knife to Thomas’ throat. “Any last words, puto?”

So many last words.

So many things to apologize for.

So many words left unsaid. Not just to Khaled, but to Callahan, to Trémeaux, to Robinson, Kreuger, Martinez, Kościelsky, and of course to Tony. Young Tony, dear Tony, high as fuck at a church wedding Tony. His pain in the ass little brother and his only constant in his childhood, who never lived to see twenty-two years old.

Khaled and Tony were a lot alike in some ways. Smarter than they thought they were, yet looked up to him for no explicable reason. It was a shame Thomas never consciously noticed that similarity until now.

All this time, Thomas thought he bought Khaled as a form of penitence, to make up for killing that boy who was suspected of killing his brother. And while, yes, that was partially why he bought him, maybe he also bought Khaled as a way resurrect his brother. It had been so long since he’d seen warm brown eyes look up at him, he didn’t even know he missed it until he saw Khaled’s eyes that day.

“Forgive me…” he rasped.

Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was the certainty that this was the end, making him see things, but for a second, Thomas saw a crack in that frosty glare Julio bore down onto him. For a brief second, a painful mix of shock, anger, sadness, and even sympathy flashed within Julio’s golden eyes, before the glacial cold vengeance covered them in its frosty glare once again.

“See you in hell,” Julio murmured.

A sharp pain sliced its way into his jugular and down. (Who the hell slices down?!) As the pain dulled and his vision started to go, Thomas’ ebbing consciousness latched onto a memory, one of the fondest memories he had of Khaled.

He’d had an intense nightmare within the first month of buying his new slave, and instead of deriding him or prying for more details than he was owed, the boy had heated him a cup of milk, rubbed his back, and stayed up with him until he was ready to go to sleep again, just like how he and Tony used to comfort each other after a nightmare. As the last threads of his vision faded and the boss’ surroundings sunk into darkness, he swore he could still hear younger Khaled’s words that night, murmured shyly as he still had his accent.

“Sleep well, Master.”

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