#all whumpees must feel little and stupid

[whumpshaped]

make!! ur whumpee!! feel little and stupid!!! patronise them!!! be sarcastic and condescending to them!!! coo at them and praise them for the simplest things!!! in fact only ever give them stupidly simple tasks and force them to do said tasks and act like it must be super hard for them!!! never ever give them proper enrichment or stimuli so that they cant keep up their original level of smarts and wit!!! chip away at their brain until they rly do get a little dumb!!! knock on their stupid empty head often and remark how hollow it sounds!!! not a thought in there!!!

[chaotic-orphan]

Delirious Villain x Hero Caretaker (5)

Read part one here // Continued from here

Heed the TW (and mind yourselves please <3):

TW: emotional abuse, physical abuse, mental abuse, vomiting, forced vomiting, violence, elements of psychosis, psychosis episode-like symptoms, vulnerable whumpee, intimate whumper, older brother whumper, young sibling whumpee, gaslighting, manipulation, sick whump, sickness whump, illness whump, reuniting with whumper, PTSD, facing whumper who gave PTSD, bad family relationships,

~*~*~*~*~*~

Villain eyed Superhero wearily. Despite all their training, all their progress, Superhero had a height and weight advantage over Villain. His broad shoulders stood proud, supporting his stupid head, with his smirk that made Villain’s stomach crawl. They needed to get out of here, to get help.

They wouldn’t make it to the door in the condition they were in, so that was out of the question. His eyes flicked to the couch where he was asleep not a few minutes ago, which felt like a lifetime now. He couldn’t see his phone. He needed to call Hero, but maybe it was tangled in the blankets?

“I can see the cogs turning, Vil,” Superhero said with a happy sigh. “If you’re hoping that your precious Hero comes to save you in time, don’t. They’re too busy saving someone worth saving.”

“Shut up!” Villain growled, pushing at Superhero’s chest with their free hand. “Get off of me!”

Superhero chuckled, tsking and shaking his head at Villain’s outburst. Villain’s heart didn’t forget to beat after that, the guilt at his Brother’s disappointment didn’t still affect him. It didn’t.

“Where are your manners, Vil? Jeez, does Hero just let you run wild? That must be so annoying for them.”

“Hero loves me.”

Superhero leaned in, dark eyes glittering with malice. “Oh yeah? Then why aren’t they here looking after you?”

Villain’s face scrunched up. “Because you sent them away!”

“Or are they just so tired with you that they had to get out of the house for a while. It seems like the latter to me. God, I remember how annoying you were. Nobody, not even Hero has enough patience to handle you.”

“Hero loves me,” Villain said again, this time a little quieter.

“No. They don’t. They probably just feel sorry for you and how pathetic you are. Like a wounded baby bird whose wings are too weak to make it fly.”

“My life doesn’t concern you anymore! You don’t have to interact with me on a daily basis! Please let me go. Please, Brother, please.”

Superhero pressed a finger to his lips. “Shush. No begging yet, Vil. It’s unbecoming.”

Without warning, Superhero yanked Villain off the wall and was about to throw him to the floor when the pair froze. Villain’s ringtone played mutely from the bedroom. Villain’s eyes widened.

Hero.

Superhero recovered quicker than Villain, a cruel grin on his face as he started dragging Villain towards the bedroom. He got a hand on the back of Villain’s neck and shoved him down so Villain had to walk awkwardly bent over. Superhero opened the door to the bedroom and saw the phone lighting up on the bed.

He threw Villain to the ground beside the bed, laughing as Villain stumbled before he hit the floor with a groan, grabbing Villain’s phone off the bed.

“Aww, Vil. It’s Hero. Probably calling you to tell you that they’re leaving you.”

“Shut up,” Villain hissed, rubbing their hip that took the brunt of the impact.

Superhero turned Villain’s phone to Villain so they could see the picture of Hero laughing, ice-cream in hand, a dollop of mint chocolate chip on the tip of their nose.

“Cute,” Superhero said with a scoff, then put his finger in his mouth and mimed vomiting. Superhero waited for Hero to hang up before scrolling through Villain’s phone. Superhero raised their brows, glancing at Villain over the phone. “You seriously don’t have a passcode or something?”

“Don’t need it.”

Superhero scoffed, turning his attention back to the phone. Villain moved to get to their feet when Superhero’s stare snapped to them. “Don’t move or I’ll kill Hero.”

That froze Villain in their movements, their heart hitching at Superhero’s easy threat. Superhero didn’t seem too bothered by it and soon his face split into a wide smile.

“Aww, look Vil. Hero text: Superhero,” Superhero paused, grinning down at Villain pointing to himself. “That’s me.” Then went back to reading. “Superhero said that he was short staffed, and sent me to West-point so I will be home later than usual. Sorry for leaving you again, there’s soup in the freezer if you feel up to it. I love you. xx.”

Villain tightened their hands into fists by their sides, clenching their jaw against every word that Superhero read. Hero was going to be home later than normal? West-point, that was at least an hour by metro from here and who knows when they’d get home… especially because—

Villain raised their gaze to Superhero who was grinning above them. “You weren’t short-staffed, were you?”

“Of course not,” Superhero said with a smirk. “I just had to get Hero away from you for a while. Hell, even Other Hero and Sidekick should’ve gone to central hospital but I asked for them to be transferred to West-point so we could have some long overdue family time.”

Superhero tapped on Villain’s phone a little longer and grinned after locking the screen, pocketing the phone in his back-pocket. “Just in case you get any ideas.”

Villain glared at him from the ground, a sudden overwhelming helplessness returning to him that he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. Since he moved out of his family home. Now it came back with a viciousness that threatened to drown him and left him clawing against it just to keep his head above the water and his breathing even.

“Now,” Superhero said, inspecting Villain with his piercing gaze. “What to do with you.”

“Just leave,” Villain tried. “Please. I don’t— I’m not apart of your life anymore. You don’t— you don’t have to do this.”

“Vil, Vil, Vil,” Superhero sighed walking towards Villain. “Family doesn’t quit on each other. They never give up on you. I know I don’t have to try and fix you, the truth is I never did. I just wanted what was best for you.”

“Yeah right! You just wanted what was best for you! Can’t have your little brother embarrass you in public!”

Superhero, to Villain’s surprise, softened at that. Villain didn’t trust it for a second.

“You’re right,” Superhero said with a breath. “I was so worried about what kind of shame or embarrassment you would bring on me. I didn’t want people associating failure with us.”

Superhero crouched in front of Villain, tilting his head to the side. A strange smile on his lips, that Villain couldn’t quite discern. It looked whimsical and yet sad, wait— was that a genuine smile? No. It couldn’t be.

“It’s because I saw our potential, Villain,” Superhero said with a scoff. “Y’know, it’s stupid, but when I worked so hard to be Superhero, to become the best and bring prestige to our family name… well, I pushed you hard too because I always imagined that it would be something that we’d do together. Something we’d achieve together. The best brother Superhero duo in history.”

Villain’s heart cracked a little, a swarm of guilt spilling out like a leak in a dam, constricting his chest. Villain longed to reach out, to close the distance between them to apologise for not being able to live up to Superhero’s expectations.

To tell him that Villain tried. He really fucking tried, but Superhero was always stronger, faster, better than he was and he couldn’t be the same.

He didn’t though. He tightened his hands into fists and stared at Superhero who looked six feet deep in fond memories and regrets.

“I’m sorry, Vil.”

It felt as if time stopped. As if the Earth stopped turning, and the world stood frozen. The moment right before a car crash, or something inevitable happening; the cusp that hides between moments like a trapdoor spider, waiting until you lowered your guard before attacking and killing you.

Villain’s voice was a whisper: “what?”

Superhero swallowed, forcing himself to meet Villain’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Villain.”

There was no joke or humour in Superhero’s face as he said that, again. Apologised? Again! But— but— Villain’s brain was fried from their flu because this must be another trick? Another hallucination. Superhero being sorry for something? Feeling remorse?

“I’m sorry about what happened on the outside, how people perceived us, what you said and did outside the house that I didn’t even think about how it all must’ve effected you. I’m sorry that I wasted all that time trying to correct your behaviour outside the house when really,” Superhero’s hand shot out like a viper to grab Villain by the throat, slamming him back against the wall. “Really I should’ve focused more on your manners and knowing your fucking place.”

Superhero stood, bringing Villain with him and threw him across the room. Villain tried to catch themselves before their face hit the wall by throwing their hands out, but they landed awkwardly on their wrist and the pain ricocheted down their arm. Villain hissed, retracting their arm but they didn’t have time to react before a hand was in their hair and bashing their skull against the wall.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Villain went dumb from the impact, their brain struggling to comprehend what was happening, but the pain. They felt the pain spread like wildfire through their skull.

The hand in their hair tightened and Villain cried out as they were dragged across the bedroom, back towards the kitchen. They tried to gain purchase on the ground with their knees, but Superhero was moving too fast for them to keep up.

Superhero paused two feet from the doorway. Villain didn’t know why, they just slumped to the ground like a dog in shade during a heatwave. They just needed to catch their breath. Or pass out. Either was a good option.

Superhero didn’t seem to think so. He lifted his hand suddenly, dragging Villain’s head up to look Villain in the eye. Villain hissed, hands clawing at the strong grip on his hair. Superhero grabbed Villain by the throat, slamming his head back into the wall.

Villain groaned at the impact, moving his hands to try and dislodge Superhero’s hand from his throat. “God. You really are pathetic, aren’t you? Did I not teach you anything?”

Superhero stepped back, dropping all contact from Villain who struggled not to slump down the wall to the floor.

Superhero took two steps back, running a hand down his face, pinning Villain to the wall with a harsh glare. Villain’s entire body was trembling at them, struggling to keep themselves up in case they needed to bolt. But Superhero’s eyes caught every tremor, every flinch or wince.

“You’re still fucking ruining everything. It’s all you ever do, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off.”

“You really don’t know, do you? You make people weak, Villain.” Villain froze at the emotion colouring Superhero’s voice. “You make people weak, because they feel like they need to look after you, or take care of you. For fuck’s sake, you can barely stand by your-fucking-self! You needed Hero to take days off of work to mind you while you were sick, like some fucking child! Do you know how embarrassing that is!”

“My life doesn’t concern you anymore,” Villain spat, tears pinpricking their eyes.

Superhero scoffed. “Doesn’t concern me?”

Superhero studied Villain’s face, the wince after Superhero spoke. Then recognition flashed on his face, putting two and two together.

“You didn’t tell Hero that we’re related,” Superhero said, tilting his head to the side, a smile gracing his lips at Villain’s silence. “Oh that is… that is hilarious. The person you love the most? You’re keeping secrets from them?”

“We are not related,” Villain said, their voice coming out stronger than they felt in that moment. “You are nothing to me. I left you and Mom, and Dad. I left. I made a life for myself, a life where I’m loved by somebody. Why can’t you be happy for me?”

“What, you think Hero actually loves you?”

Villain flinched at the words. “Oh you do, don’t you?” Superhero cooed, walking towards Villain again and grabbing their face in his hands. “Oh. You poor fucking idiot. You have no idea how much Hero hates you, do you?”

Villain’s eyes glistened with tears. Superhero slammed Villain’s head back into the wall.

“Do you?”

“Just leave… leave me alone,” Villain begged, tears finally spilling over his eyes. “Please.”

Villain’s hand reached up and curled his fingers around Superhero’s wrist, weakly tugging at it.

“I can make them love you again,” Superhero whispered. “I know how. I can make you worth something in their eyes, isn’t that what you want?”

Villain sniffled, nodding. Superhero cooed, brushing the sweaty hair back from Villain’s face. “I know. I know you’re scared, but big bro’s here now, hmmm? Come on.”

Superhero pulled Villain away from the wall gently, taking Villain’s wrist in his hand. “Come on.”

“Where are we—” Villain asked, their voice hitching, wiping away their tears with the sleeve of their shirt. “Where’re we going?”

Villain’s mind only registered they were walking towards the bathroom when Superhero opened the door. Then they started pulling against Superhero’s hold.

“No! No, no, no, no, no!” Villain cried, going limp and yanking backwards. Superhero dropped Villain, cursing at them for the sudden weight. Villain took the opportunity to roll onto their stomach, pushing themselves to their hands and knees and rushing forwards. They threw themselves to their feet, stumbling slightly, almost rolling on their ankles but they were standing. They bolted for the door to the bedroom, slamming their shoulder into the doorframe as they propelled themselves out and towards the front door.

A hand caught the back of their shirt and Villain cried out. They were yanked backwards, their head slamming off the doorframe to the bedroom. Villain fell like a sack of bricks and Superhero let them.

Villain blinked up bleary-eyed at the ceiling, the world swimming in a whirlwind of colour. Two Superhero’s appeared above Villain, shaking their heads, as if they were disappointed parents looking down on an unruly child.

“Look at what you did,” Superhero said, the words coming in and out of focus like pulses. He leaned down, crouched above Villain. Then a hand passed over his face and Villain’s head whipped to the side. They whimpered. “Ah. There you are,” Superhero said, only one of him now. “Still with me, Vil.”

Another slap and Villain whimpered, weakly pushing their hand against Superhero’s. Superhero easily batted it away, opting to instead pinch Villain’s cheeks between their thumb and forefinger and dig their fingers in until Villain’s mouth formed an O and they cried out.

“Listen runt, I didn’t want to hurt you! Don’t you see? I’m trying to help you. You’ve clearly let yourself go since the last time I saw you, and nobody, not even Saint Hero will love you if you’re fat and disgusting. You want to be worth Hero’s love, don’t you?”

Tears welled behind Villain’s eyes and they tried to turn their head away, not wanting to face Superhero and the truth in his words. Superhero didn’t even let Villain flinch in any direction before his grip tightened.

“Don’t you want to be someone worthy of love?” Superhero asked, his voice imperceptibly soft. Villain let out a pathetic yes, their voice muffled by Superhero’s hold on their face. Superhero’s features smoothed out and he nodded sympathetically. “I know. Come on, let’s get you up. I’m just trying to help you be worthy of Hero.”

Superhero helped Villain to sit up, openly crying now. Superhero nodded his head compassionately. “I know. I know. Shh. It’s okay. Big bro’s here now. He’s going to make everything better. Ssh. Don’t worry. Come on, runt.”

Superhero helped the wailing Villain to their feet, guiding them towards the bathroom again. Villain, resigned, followed along because they didn’t want to get hit again. They didn’t want to try and fight back and get beaten again. They didn’t want to be ugly for Hero, they wanted to be worthy of them. Hero was brilliant, perfect, why would they settle for anything less than that? God, Superhero was right.

Superhero gently pushes Villain to their knees, and tells them to: “open up.”

Villain felt the familiar fear creep back up their spine, making their hair stand on end. They shook their head, making to stand up but Superhero kept a hand on Villain’s shoulder, keeping them in place.

“Come on. You said you wanted to be worthy of Hero, right?”

Villain deflated. A part of them wanted to be perfect, to listen to Superhero and just give in, save themselves the pain. The other part was screaming at them, telling them they were worth more than this. That they hated this, and that Hero loved them no matter what. Strangely the voice telling them to fight sounded an awful lot like Hero’s.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll do it all, remember?” Superhero coaxed, his fingers tracing Villain’s jaw and resting at their bottom lip. “Come on, Villain.”

Villain didn’t protest, but they didn’t fight Superhero either, so when his fingers pushed past Villain’s lips, Villain didn’t move. Only when they went far, hitting Villain’s gag reflex did Villain start fighting him.

They shot up from their knees on instinct, but Superhero’s hold kept them down, his other hand going to the back or Villain’s hair and pulling it, yanking their head back so he could shove his fingers down further.

Villain whined, shaking their head. They didn’t want this, they didn’t want this! Villain felt bile climbing his throat and he jerked forward, but Superhero didn’t move his fingers and they hit the back of Villain’s tongue. Villain felt the warmth climbing his throat, gripping the toilet seat and ready to vomit.

Superhero pulled his fingers out at the last second, and Villain heaved. It was only bile that came out, green-hued see through slime, because Villain hadn’t eaten in days.

Superhero clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Hmm. That won’t do. We’ll go again.”

Before Villain could protest, Superhero’s fingers were in his mouth again, unmerciful as they shot to the back of Villain’s throat. Villain grabbed Superhero’s wrist, pulling his fingers out. “Don’t fight me, Vil. We agreed.”

Superhero’s fingers hit Villain’s throat again, and they felt the muscles in their neck contracting as another wave of nausea hit them. Panicking and wanting Superhero to just let them go, Villain clamped their jaw around Superhero’s hand.

Superhero yelped, then roared and yanked their hand out of Villain’s jaw. “I’m—” Villain gasped, but Superhero cut them off with a punch to the face. Villain’s head veered down, hitting off the edge of the ceramic toilet bowl with a dull thump.

A hand in their hair and their head was wrenched back. Superhero’s fist flashed in the corner of their eye, and struck the same place in their jaw, keeping them straight.

“I thought we agreed that I—” punch. “Know” punch. “Better.” A sharp slap deafened Villain as Superhero released them again, their head snapping to the side. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you force me to, Vil. I hate to see you like this, but as your older brother I’ll do what I have to do, to make you a better person.”

A sharp kick to the stomach, once, twice, three times and Villain lurched forward, crying out and swallowing hard to keep the rush of liquid crawling like a tidal wave up their throat. Superhero grabbed Villain by the throat. Leaning his face in closer to them.

“Come on, Vil,” Superhero said sweetly. “You want to look your best for Hero, don't you? You want to deserve them, right?”

“Pl—please,” Villain stammered, choking on Superhero’s tight grip. “Just lemme— go.”

“Stop fighting me, runt, I'm just trying to look out for you.”

Superhero pinched Villain’s jaw between his thumb and index finger, his nails digging into their cheeks, drawing blood, and forcing their mouth open. His fingers found the back of Villain’s throat, pressing down on Villain’s gag reflex.

Villain felt the muscles in his throat tighten, the bile burning acidic up their throat and they lunged forward, Superhero withdrew his hand from Villain’s mouth, but kept pinching their cheeks so Villain couldn’t swallow. Only when he was satisfied that Villain was about to hurl did he let go, grinning down as Villain spewed into the toilet.

A lot more than last time, their stomach ached as they vomited. A momentary pause and then another bout reared its head and tears streamed down their face, sobbing as they let the feeling run its course out of them.

Superhero patted Villain’s hair like a dog. “Good, see. You did so good.”

“What are you doing?”

Villain froze at the voice. Superhero’s hand stopped rubbing Villain’s hair, but he didn’t remove it from Villain’s head. Hero rushed in, going to Villain’s side and get grabbing their face in their hands, thumbing away the tears.

“Villain, shhh. Shhh, it’s okay.” Hero cooed. Villain sobbed against Hero’s hands, the gentle touches. They weren’t worthy of this kindness. They didn’t deserve Hero’s caring love. This was pity. They pitied Villain, that’s why they looked so caring in that moment. Not out of love. Why was Villain so weak to melt at the kindness, they should be worthy of them! Hero shouldn’t have to see Villain like this. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”

Hero glanced back at Superhero, eyes narrowed into a glare. “What are you doing here?!”

“I knew you would be away for a while today, Hero. And I knew you would be worried sick about your ill partner so I thought I would come and look after them for you.”

Hero’s eyes found Villain’s, searching, scanning for any sign that Superhero was lying. Villain was skittish and heaving, not meeting Hero’s eyes. There was something wrong, was it just vomiting? Being sick? No, this was different. Villain was incoherent and violent last time, now they were just… subdued and lifeless and terrified.

“You stepped over the line, Superhero,” Hero said firmly, eyes burning down at their lover. “Please wait in the living room while I help them to bed.”

Superhero’s eyes met Villain’s over Hero’s shoulder, a sadistic smile on his lips. He brought a finger to his lips and pointed down at Hero. Then drew a line across his throat and mimicked Hero being killed.

“Of course, Hero,” Superhero said easily, while Villain’s trembles intensified. Hero waited until Superhero had walked out the door before looking back at Villain.

“Vil, oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I should have never left you.”

They’re just saying that because you’re weak, Villain thought.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t ask Superhero to come. I didn’t know they would do something as crazy as this!”

They’re tired of you. They don’t love you, if they did they would have never left. You’re exhausting, you wear people out.

“Come on, Vil. Talk to me.” Hero said, leaning forward and pressing their forehead against Villain’s. Villain could feel Hero’s warm breath fanning against their face. They weren’t even worthy of this. “Shhh. Vil, it’s okay. I’m here now and I’m not leaving.”

When Hero wrapped their arms around Villain, Villain couldn’t hold it together anymore and they broke down into sobs that wracked their entire body. Their fingers turned to claws in Hero’s shirt, bunching it and holding on and not wanting to let go.

They were weak, they were so weak that they made the people they loved weak for them. It bled through from Villain into them, and now they were breaking Hero’s heart. They didn’t deserve Hero’s heart. They didn’t deserve any of this comfort and warmth and love.

Hero held them tightly and kissed their hair and cheek and anything their lips could reach, whispering reassurances and telling them that they loved them.

When Villain’s sobs had calmed down to mere whimpers and sniffles, Hero moved them, putting one hand under their legs and the other under their shoulders and lifted them like they were a baby. Villain curled into Hero’s embrace, a deep red blush filling their face with warmth.

Hero shouldn’t have to do this, to be the strong one. Villain was the strong one! God what happened to them?! Why couldn’t they just be perfect for Hero?

Hero put them into bed, lying beside them under the covers. They tilted Villain’s head down to lie on top of Hero’s chest, hearing their heartbeat. They were a tangle of limbs.

“What about,” Villain sniffed, “Superhero?”

Hero’s eyes darkened. “Let him wait. You’re my priority, Villain. You always will be. Never forget that.”

Villain sniffed, fresh tears streaming down their cheeks. “I love you Hero.” They said even though it broke their heart to say that. Weak! So weak!

“I love you more than you’ll ever know,” Hero whispered into Villain’s hair, kissing the top of their head.

*~*~*~*~*

[a-living-canvas]

Sacred Heart Tattoo

TW : Alcohol, amputation, death, gore

Whumpee was laying on the cold ground in the basement. They were staring at the ceiling when they heard the sound of the door being unlocked. It must be Whumper again, but they never walk down to the basement at midnight.

Whumpee frowned, "Whumper…?"

Whumper was holding a bottle of wine in their hand. Their body were swinging from side to side as they walked towards Whumpee. "Stupid…pet…" Whumper slurred as they drank more the content of the wine before throwing the bottle on the ground. They grabbed Whumpee's collar and pushed them to the wall. Even in a drunken state, they still got enough strength for their precious pet.

"Useless…pathetic..." Whumper said with their half lidded eyes staring right at Whumpee. Whumper was so close, too close for comfort but close enough for Whumpee to reach for the keys inside their back pocket. Whumpee shifted their gaze to the door, Whumper forgot to lock it back again when they came in earlier.

Whumpee sneakily took the keys and kept it in their hand. They would use the keys once Whumper leaves them again. But for now, they would endure the pain. Whumper released their grips on Whumpee before walking lazily to the metal table. They took extra time to choose the tools because of their intoxicated state. 

Whumpee eyes widened in shock when they saw Whumper pick up a medical bone saw. They never used it before. Whumpee pushed their body to the wall when Whumper walked towards them again, gripping the blade loosely in their hand.

"Whumper! Whumper! Wait!"

Whumper crouched down in front of Whumpee before they snatched Whumpee's wrist from them. The moment Whumper started working the tool on them, Whumpee screamed in agony. Whumper was humming random notes as they nearly cut Whumpee's wrist off their hand.

"Whumper, stop! Stop! Please! Please stop!!" Whumpee thrashing uselessly against the restraints. Their faces covered with tears, their voices nearly hoarse from screaming.  

Whumper let out a sound of frustration. "Shut up…" they kept moving the blade back and forth on Whumpee's skin. When Whumpee still yelling in pain, Whumper moved the bone saw blade between Whumpee's lips before slashing their mouth on the same rhythm as before. Blood spilled out to the floor as Whumpee screamed in pain and desperation. 

"Still so noisy…"

Whumper grabbed Whumpee's face before slamming them to the wall many times. Whumpee's mouth hung loosely as their skull cracked from the intense pressure. They couldn't even move their body anymore. Whumper satisfied at the lack of sound before they let go of Whumpee's bloody head to the ground.

Whumpee curled up on the floor while whimpering in pain. They held the keys tight on their grasped. I can't stand this anymore!

Whumpee tried to unlock the restraints with a shaky hand. They nearly done it when Whumper kicked them on the ribs so suddenly. "Pathetic..." Another kick on Whumpee's jaw. "Stupid...little thing..." Whumper grabbed a fistful of their hair and brought their face to them.

"So so stupid..." They kissed Whumpee's forehead affectionately. Whumpee shuddered in disgust before Whumper smiled at them "...But I love you still..."

-

Whumper woke up on the floor in their room. Their head was pounding hard from the hangover. They attempted to unbutton their shirt when they could feel a dried liquid on it, along with the familiar metallic smell. Whumper frowned before they slowly stood up and cleaned themselves. They probably just tortured Whumpee again last night, they thought. 

After they finished showering, Whumper walked to the basement like usual but their eyes turned into a scowl when they saw the door open wide.

"Whumpee?!" Whumper called for them. Heart pounding in their chest, hoping Whumpee was still in the basement and not trying to escape. The moment Whumper entered the basement, they froze on the spot. 

Whumpee still in the basement. In fact, their body parts were all separated and neatly placed beside each other on the floor. Whumpee's decapitated head was looking at Whumper's direction, mouth agape with two black holes replacing their eyeballs. 

Whumper clenched their fists. They thought somebody must have broken in and did this to Whumpee for a second. But no, they knew damn well this was all because of him.

"Ah…" Whumper swallowed hard. They chuckled in disbelieved before their eyes started watering with regret.

Wish I could play with you some more...

[ashintheairlikesnow]

For She Was Afraid

Sigh Not So | Secrets Hid Away | Shed Tears Aplenty | Fire Down Below | Rolling Down | Won't You Go My Way? | The Seas No More | The Nightingale's Song | Bones in the Ocean | For She Was Afraid |

CW: Magical whump, nonhuman whumpee, creepy whumper, it used as pronoun for nonhuman whumpee

-

"You have had this power a year," Atabei hissed as soon as the door to the study closed and the two of them were alone. Her hand around his arm felt like claws digging in to his skin, she had gripped on so tight. "And you have killed two people?"

Gilly swallowed, looking around to avoid having to face Atabei directly. The study had a large wooden desk - Eliza's late husband's apparently, from the old-fashioned design, the masculine weight and size of it. Correspondence scattered across the top, with a few books at one corner, and comfortable chairs on either side.

The walls were lined with bookshelves. There must have been two hundred books in this little room, and this wasn’t even the library.

Being the young widow of a very rich man had its benefits, Gilly supposed, and it seemed Atabei’s lady love had made the most of all of them.

“Guilford!” Atabei snapped her fingers in front of his eyes, making him jump. “I asked you a question!”

"I know! I know, my sincerest apologies-... it’s just, I didn’t kill two people…. Well, I did, but it was only one done with purpose," Gilly admitted, shamefaced, stopping to touch the spine of one particular tome. This shelf held Atabei's books on magic, carefully inconspicuous in a study full of reading material. In golden relief, the title read An Uncertain World: A Treatise on the Toa Volcano and Its Magical Properties as Befits the Pursuit of Certain Sciences. He was nearly asleep from boredom simply finishing the title. "The other was… well, very much so an accident."

Atabei stood with her back to the door, arms crossed. Here at home, her hair hung loose in its thousand braids, a glimmering waterfall of black, and she wore pants much like his own and a loose white shirt.

"An accident?" Atabei huffed an irritated sigh, fixing a glare on him he could feel even without looking up to see it. "I am not as stupid as you must think me to be, Guilford."

"No! No, Beibei, not at all. I'm not lying to you." He went to her, but she did not look at him directly. Her jaw was set with the stubborn distaste he knew so well, but had almost never seen aimed at him. "The ship's captain had a weak heart. When I commanded the siren to make him too afraid to tell what he was, it gave out. I did not mean for him to die."

“And why did the captain discover what the siren was in the first place? Hm?” Her changing accent was heavier here at her home, too, the low drawl more pronounced. Her eyes flickered to his and then away again, but it wasn’t weakness.

Not with Atabei.

“You did not keep him clothed?”

Well, no. He hadn’t. But Gilly didn’t think that was relevant. “He… misunderstood the nature of my connection to the siren. He thought it was a young man, and that…” He trailed off, face burning with embarrassment merely retelling the conversation, the captain’s sly accusations and subtle threats. “Well, the captain thought… he thought…”

Atabei’s voice was desert dry and even less forgiving. “He thought you were fucking him.”

“Beibei!” Gilly’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I’ve never heard you speak so vulgarly!”

“And yet now you have, and I am the same Beibei I was when you first made me flower crowns,” Atabei said, and there was a gentle teasing softening her voice that made him think perhaps she wasn’t truly angry, or not so angry he could not break through it anyway. She took a deep breath. "I can see now. He threatened you, threatened to expose you, and you thought the siren could help wipe his memory clean.”

Atabei didn’t need to know any of that.

“Yes, yes exactly.” Gilly leaped on this lovely lie, so much kinder than the truth. Better than telling her about the captain suggesting he might make good use of such a fine young man with such a lovely face and strong, lithe body. Better the softer lie than the truth of Gilly’s answering negotiation into sitting in the corner and watching it happen. Better than admitting that the captain had been pushing the siren down onto the bed in his quarters when the creature had sung him into fear. Or that Gilly had made sure the ship believed fully that the captain had died in flagrante delicto with a pretty passenger, which the crew had seemed… unsurprised by.

In any case, she swallowed, keeping her eyes on the windows with their heavy drapes on the other side of the room. "Fine. I can understand the accident. And the other?”

“Not an accident. The widow Neumann, who let me the rooms I was staying in?”

“Yes, the sweet little old lady.”

“... right. That one. Well, her death had a purpose. She left me everything, you see. I am… a wealthy man these days. If I had small ambitions, I would have enough to live on in comfort for the rest of my life.”

Atabei’s eyes searched over his face. “You have larger ambitions.”

“I do. This is only how I begin, Beibei. I’ll be a king, or more, before I am done.”

She nodded. There was a distant sadness in her, as if she mourned the gift he had asked of her, that she had given him. “You want that more than anything. I am happy I could help you take the first steps on your path.”

She moved away from him to sit behind the massive desk in a well-loved leather chair, leaning back and putting her feet up, crossed at the ankles. She was so very different here at home, with the coastal breezes fluttering over the drapes. So much more herself, more like how she had been when they were children. “Is there evidence? Can they trace it back to you?”

“No, no.” He waved away her concern, taking his own seat on the other side, wishing he had a glass of liquor in hand, but… Atabei was not one for alcohol here at home, and he knew there would be none unless this mysterious Eliza enjoyed it. “I was with her, but… she signed with her own hand, steady and strong. You couldn’t possibly have said it was forged. I mean, it wasn’t. I watched her sign each and every one.”

“Hm.” Atabei looked a little confused. “And then?”

“Then she drank a glass of strychnine mixed with wine, and died.”

“I didn’t know she had such a fondness for you as all that,” Atabei said, her expression of confusion deepening, although her wry humor was still intact. She even smiled, just a little, as he head tipped back against the back of the chair. “It is a great love one must feel for one’s downstairs tenant to drink deadly poison simply to expedite the tenant's inheritance.”

“Ha! I hated her more than any other soul and I daresay she did nothing but pity me, but it didn’t matter. I brought my sea creature up with me, and had it sing to her. After a while… she began to see things my way. I did her a kindness, really, if you think about it. She would have died in terror eventually, alone in her gigantic house, her little dog chewing on her toes-”

“Guilford, please,” Atabei said, face paling. “Let’s not talk about that.”

“Right. Anyway, this way she had someone she adored with her at the end, and I even gave her little dog to a friend of hers.”

“You hate that dog.” Atabei’s eyebrows raised again. “You used to joke about tossing it into the ocean for the sharks.”

“And you will yourself note that while yes, I did say that, it was a joke. It wasn’t the dog’s fault it was bred and born to drive me absolutely raving mad with its noise and that it had to be the size of a small tea kettle. The stupid thing is living a life of sheer luxury with the widow’s oldest and wealthiest friend, who has a dozen servants on hand at all times and a granddaughter who will no doubt adore the dog’s decidedly ugly smashed-up little face. And the way it breathes…” He shuddered.

“I… all right. Well, that is reassuring.” She tapped her fingernails on the desk, utterly at her ease in here. It must be her study and hers alone, now, if she kept her books on magic in here and felt them secure. “But… wait, Guilford. You said you had the siren sing.” Atabei’s eyes widened. “The siren’s song doesn’t work on women. It is well known. Only men can be fooled by their voices.”

“I know, I know, but it did work on her. And it’s worked on… three other women besides, since then. I’ve tested it.” At Atabei’s thoroughly nonplussed expression, Gilly flushed and hastened to add, “Simply to make them forget they had seen its markings, Beibei! I’m not a monster.”

Besides which, he had the siren itself to slate his lusts on now. Something about the way it still sometimes wept with his hands around its neck or dropped its human glamor to bare rows of sharp teeth without any ability to use them on him did more for his desires than any woman’s softness ever had.

The siren was a creature who should have torn him limb from limb, but Guilford controlled that power, that ferocious rage. It took real effort not to have arousal overtake him just thinking about it.

“Good. I will not aid a man who uses such a power to do harm to women.”

“I am not a man who has any intentions of doing any such thing,” He said, a little soothing, leaning forward. His elbows rested on his thighs. Downstairs, somewhere outside and presumably sitting under a tree or something, the siren began to sing. It was nonsense notes, something trifling, without any power to it.

Guilford had been pleased with it, and given it leave for the occasional making of merry tunes to pass the time, as long as it only cast a spell with its voice when Guilford commanded. He enjoyed seeing its pathetic gratitude at these small mercies, ones he could remove at any time for any reason or even no reason at all.

Sometimes he did, and forced the siren to debase itself all the more in order to earn them back.

Atabei looked over to the window, tensing slightly until she could tell there was no new magic in the air, nothing to try to override her own. Then she sighed and looked back to Gilly, nodding slowly. “Perhaps it works now because it is your will and not his? Since it’s not his magic any longer, only yours, that must go through him. Maybe that’s why… Hm. Fascinating. I will have to read more on this, try to understand…” She trailed off. “One wonders why no one has captured a siren for these purposes before.”

“Who says they haven’t?” Gilly raised his hands in question. Half-hidden by a stack of books that had never been placed back on their shelves back behind Atabei, he saw a small portrait that had been set on the floor, sticking half-out. In it he could see a woman, a man, and a little girl.

“Remember the Verenni king, a few hundred years ago?” Gilly spoke while looking over the portrait, letting his thoughts wander as he considered the family of three. “He came from the Sea Peoples, from nowhere, and it seemed like he took over every land he touched for half a century until he was killed in battle. Maybe he had a siren who sang what he wanted, and someone killed the siren first. It’s possible.”

The man in the portrait was older, hair already silvered, with a prominent beard. The woman clearly decades younger than her husband, and with the solemn look of those who must pose for hours in heavy dresses. The little girl looked very much like her, but for her nose.

“True. But why haven’t we heard of it? It should be in every history book…”

“Unless, of course, the people who come up with how we remember our histories don’t want anyone to know sirens can be so used-”

Outside, the sound of a carriage, and the siren’s song stopped. Atabei all but leapt to her feet in a sudden panic, interrupting Guilford. “Eliza! She won’t know not to talk to him-” She ran for the door and down the stairs, Gilly pushing himself up to follow her.

Atabei darted like a silverfish through clear water - he could hardly have hoped to keep up with her speed. He heard her cry, “Eliza, watch out!”

By the time he made it out the front door, huffing and puffing, Gilly saw quite the tableau.

Atabei, holding the siren’s arm with a grip so tight Gilly knew he would have lovely new bruises to appreciate before he slept tonight, was speaking in a rush to a lovely woman wearing a simple dress and tilted, wide-brimmed hat that kept the sun off her skin, with a little girl standing beside her dressed in the pantaloons and shirt common to the young.

“-was only saying hello,” The woman - who must be Eliza Howe - was saying, affronted. She had the heavy molasses accent of the northern colonies, as if she considered every word before she spoke it. “I can handle a simple polite greeting of a guest, Bei.”

There was a tremor to her voice, though, that suggested she had been relieved Atabei appeared so quickly.

“He is not a simple guest, ‘Liza,” Atabei said in return, her tone apologetic even if her words weren’t. “Remember I told you about Guilford Wentworth, and why I had to go visit him in the islands?”

Eliza turned back to the siren, who was trying subtly to pull himself free of Atabei’s grip, and failing. The monster looked away from her, confused and uncertain. Gilly felt himself think strange, strange thoughts - it has no idea what’s going on. It meant no harm. He shook himself and strode forward, catching up to the little group. The siren cringed away from his very presence, and he ignored the stir of desire that roused in him.

The little girl hid herself behind her mother, peering out with wide eyes.

“This is the thing that Guilford Wentworth captured? This? Bei, this is clearly a man,” Eliza said, and then caught sight of Gilly. Her expression pinched. “Oh, and here is another. Who... is this, then?”

“This is Guilford,” Atabei said, with a smile, gesturing to him. He bowed to Eliza, and she inclined her chin just barely to him. “Guilford Wentworth. Guilford, this is… my wife, Eliza Howe, and her daughter Sirene.”

“Siren,” The creature said, speaking words aloud for the first time. Its had an accent after losing its ocean-tongue, something that sharpened each syllable. Its eyes went to the little girl, who looked at it in something between anxiousness and wonder. Its expression was much the same. “The young are called siren?”

“Sirene,” Eliza corrected, uneasily emphasizing the differences in pronunciation. “It’s her name. She’s a girl, a-a human girl.”

“A girl, yes, this I see,” The siren said, and Guilford blinked. Had it-... used the same wry humor that he and Atabei had always enjoyed, in that sly tone? He would beat it for the pretense later tonight. Beat it black and blue and bloody and begging. “Siren is… human name, then? What I am, siren, is a name given to human girls?”

The monster stepped forward, leaning down to look more closely at the little girl even as Eliza grabbed her arm and held tight.

Its gaze reminded Guilford of his visits to the Royal Zoo, the way sometimes the great apes of the Largest Continent would watch the visitors to the zoo right back, with much the same expressions of awe and delight. Gilly thought about how deeply uncomfortable that sight made him, the bars that separated them from the people only a few feet away. The identical expressions. The reality of the strength and power the bars held in check.

“Sirene,” Eliza repeated, stepping back, her eyes flickering between Atabei, Guilford, and the siren. She looked more nervous and uncomfortable with every passing moment. “It isn’t the same.”

“Oh. I see. Hello, Sirene.” The siren emphasized the name now, too, the same way, although it didn’t seem mocking. More like it had simply decided that this was the way to pronounce the sounds, to mimic Eliza’s humanity. “I am a siren.”

“Hello,” The little girl whispered, without coming out from behind her mother's skirts. “It is very nice to meet you, Mister Siren.”

The siren’s face changed. Gilly realized, with a start, he had never seen it try to smile before. The siren tipped its head to one side. “It is very nice to meet you. Is that what humans say?”

The little girl frowned. “When they are polite it is.”

The siren made a sound - Guilford felt irrational fury when he realized it was gentle laughter, musical and melodic. "Polite is good?"

"Yes." The girl nodded, solemn as the grave. "One should always be polite, Mama says."

The siren's seemingly gentle smile faded slightly. "Mama," It repeated, voice low. "Sirens call ours mama, too."

The girl nodded, as if this made all the sense in the world. Eliza, though, gave Atabei a look of something like panic. "Bei-... What have you done?"

Atabei cut her eyes at Gilly and he cleared his throat, stepping forward, blocking the siren from the little girl's line of sight. “You don’t have to say hello to it, Miss Howe, and it is not a mister. It’s not a person. I know it looks like one, but that’s a silly little trick it plays on people. It’s more like… a dog, maybe.”

The little girl looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed. Her face - and voice - held a faintly hostile accusation he didn’t understand. “I say hello to dogs, too."

“Right. Well. Hm.” Gilly blushed, and wished he could order the siren to sing this whole moment out of existence for them all. It only made him angrier. “Perhaps not the best example…”

Eliza swallowed, stepping back, the girl moving with her in a stumble, slightly surprised. “Ah… Bei-... can you-... he’s very… very close to me, you see-... the sea thing is, I mean… but also your friend..."

“I understand.” Atabei pulled the siren backwards and shook its arm. “Don’t move. Let my wife go inside. Be still, sea creature.”

The siren stood, even without the magical compulsion, and watched as Eliza ushered the little girl away and back down the stone path to the front door of their home. She glanced a few times over her shoulder as she went, waving to the siren. "Goodbye, Mister Siren!"

"Goodbye, Sirene!" The siren called out. Guilford smacked it on the back right over some new marks from the belt he'd used on it last night and it cried out, stumbling before it caught itself.

"Silence!" Gilly hissed, and hit it again. And again. And again-

Atabei caught Gilly's arm in her hand and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Not here, Guilford. Eliza fears the anger of men. Her late husband was… unkind, when upset. Unkind to her."

“Of course.” Guilford nodded, already breathing hard. He pushed his glasses back up his nose instinctively. “We won’t trouble your beautiful wife with this nonsense. Simply show me where I can put it and it will not be seen by anyone other than you and I."

Atabei found a smile for him, and he smiled back, and for a moment - the two of them out in the grass of a front yard, with a rope swing tied to a large tree branch off to one side and a herd of cows lowing somewhere just beyond sight behind a hill - it felt like they were children again.

Atabei looked over the siren, who didn’t meet her eyes in return, staring down at the ground in the way Gilly had painstakingly taught it to. Her smile faded into a frown. “So, two deaths-"

"One by accident, remember!"

"... and wealth. What comes next? Where do you go after you finish your visit here?"

“Oh, that’s an easy question to answer,” Gilly said, watching as the siren, ignored again, crouched down and stared openly at a line of ants crawling along within the grass. “I’m heading to the northern half of the Largest Continent, back to visit my... mother. Where we will become significantly less estranged, thanks to this thing.” He kicked the siren lightly in the thigh, watching it wince without moving, attention still focused on the insects below it.

“Returning to the line of inheritance,” Atabei said, nodding, crossing her arms before her. “I see. And after she no doubt dies quite a tragic and well-mourned death?”

“Well… then maybe the next time we see each other face-to-face, I won’t be Gilly Wentworth, down on his luck sailor surgeon any longer. I’ll be… King Wentworth, or Emperor…”

“You aim high,” Atabei murmured. “You want to be like the Virenni King, the conqueror. They killed his siren, Guilford, if your theory is true. They killed the power he used and then slaughtered him as well, on his own battlefield, with one blow.”

“Right, well. I’ll be careful.” Gilly reached down, gripping into the siren's curls - he never tired of its soft hair, the way it tensed and shivered every time his fingers moved along its scalp - and pulled. It immediately tipped its head back, knowing the command by instinct without even needing to hear it by now. Its breath caught, and he knew if he touched beneath its jaw its pulse would be fluttering, like a horse about to bolt.

But it couldn’t go anywhere at all.

His mouth felt dry, just thinking about it.

“Your magic worked, it worked so well, Beibei. I can make it do anything I want, make anyone do anything I want, and no one who isn’t under its spell is ever going to know about it.”

-

"Except me," Atabei murmured, a strange tremulous quality in her deep voice. "Except for me, and mine."

Gilly, for the first time, looked into the eyes of his oldest friend and realized that if he could use the siren's power on women too, then even Atabei was not safe from him, not truly, and she knew it.

Atabei was afraid of him.

Gilly's eyes went back to the siren, who was looking up and watching the wind rustle leaves on a nearby tree. The creature's lips were parted, just a little, as if at any moment the song would begin.

Gilly smiled.

"Let's go inside," He said, smoothly, "And have tea."

Tag list: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings

For @whumptober prompts 19, 21, 22

[set-phasers-to-whump]

i've been trying very hard to be brave

prompt: tortured for information, "hit them harder"

whumpee: peter sutherland

fandom: the night agent

here's something different for a change :) it's tentatively part 1 with a second bit later this month but i cannot make any promises lol. title from st. cecilia's by animal flag

Peter Sutherland is utterly alone. He is in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night, and there is absolutely nothing around him. No movement, no light. Just him and the stars. 

He wishes he knew what he was doing here. He’d been told to come here, and that is all that he knows. 

He’s beginning to wonder why he’d listened. Why he’s here, in a more general sense. 

He isn’t sure that he wants this. 

He doesn’t want to be alone. 

A sound - far off, but like a gunshot in the silence. An engine. 

At least something’s going to happen, now. 

Headlights appear on the horizon, blinding and high up. A military vehicle, maybe. 

They hadn’t said anything about the military, but he figures he should’ve guessed. 

He approaches the vehicle, waves, then wonders whether it’s stupid to wave in a situation like this. 

The vehicle stops. Peter goes to open the door, but it swings open from the inside before he grabs the handle. A few men get out, and he tries to greet them, but they don’t say anything. 

His skin starts to crawl. Something is wrong. 

But it’s too late, and there’s nowhere to run. 

Someone throws a cloth bag over his head and ties a thick rope around his wrists, and then he’s being manhandled into the vehicle and can do little more than wriggle around in the grips of his captors. 

He tries to talk to them, at first. But no one says a word. He falls silent and tries to keep track of where they’re going, counting left and right turns, but the journey drags on forever and in total silence and he’s fucking afraid, and at some point he just stops paying attention. 

After an eternity, the vehicle stops. Dead silence. Hands pull him out of his seat and shove him down. He hits the ground hard, unable to break his fall. His body sinks slightly into soft sand that does very little to lessen the impact. 

He’s hauled to his feet and dragged along, stumbling and desperately trying to keep to his feet. They walk for a long time. It’s cold, and Peter feels numb. 

The squeak of a metal door opening. Clattering. Footsteps echoing in a hallway. There are a lot of them, Peter realizes. He’s horribly outnumbered. 

He’s forced to sit on what can only be a metal chair. He immediately tries to move it, but nothing happens. It must be bolted to the ground. 

A rope around his chest, securing him to the chair. More rope around his ankles. He is clearly not going anywhere anytime soon. 

“Who are you,” says a voice, somewhere to his right. There’s a slight accent to the words, but he can’t put his finger on it. 

He says nothing. Let me see how much they already know, he thinks. 

“I said, who are you.”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

A cold laugh. “You’re not in any position to be asking questions.”

Peter remains silent. 

A fist connects with the side of his head. It takes him by surprise, and his neck jerks so violently he swears something cracks. 

“My name is Chris.”

Another hit to the other side of his head. “No, it’s not.”

“Why are you asking my name if you already know it?”

He pictures a shrug to fill the silence. Receives a kick to the shin that really fucking hurts. 

“Fine. My name is Peter.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“What do you want?”

“Whatever you’re willing to give us.”

He really doesn’t like the sound of that. 

“Last name?”

“Seems like you already know who I am.”

Another kick, this time to the other shin. 

“Answer my questions. Don’t bother saying anything else.”

“Jenkins,” Peter says, like a challenge. He’ll make them fight for every word, if that’s how they want to play. 

A punch to the shoulder that feels almost gentle, compared to the other hits he’s received. 

“Hit him harder,” he hears a different voice say quietly. It sounds…almost familiar, in a strange way. Peter strains to hear whether it’ll say anything else, but the only thing that happens is that a fist drives into his stomach with such force that he cannot breathe for several seconds. 

By the time he can breathe again, his interrogator has already moved on. 

“Who do you work for?”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t really want to waste his newly-regained ability to breathe properly on responding to a question that the asker surely already knows the answer to. 

A punch to the chest, painful and solid but not horrible. 

“Who do you work for?”

The question is repeated by several other voices, echoing around him. 

“Who do you work for?”

“Who do you work for?”

“Who do you work for?”

“Who do you work for?”

The noise is nearly overwhelming. He doubts that they’d even be able to hear his answer over all of it. 

Eventually the echoes die away. His feet are starting to go numb from the rope binding his ankles. He’s long since stopped feeling his hands. 

“Once more. Who do you work for?” The singular voice is quiet, now. And very serious. 

Footsteps behind him, and then an arm wraps around his neck, not squeezing, not yet, but there. It’s a clear warning. 

Peter barely breathes as he forces the words from his mouth. “The United States government.”

The arm disappears. Peter takes a deep breath, the cloth bag sticking to his face so that the breath is not as deep as it otherwise might be. 

And then the arm is back, and it is squeezing this time. He chokes and tries in vain to get away, to gain any room at all to breathe. 

He’s on the verge of passing out when the pressure stops. He gasps and coughs in the confines of his cloth prison. 

There is not enough air. He keeps trying to breathe and it isn’t working properly. He’s on the verge of hyperventilation, panicking and thrashing uselessly against the ropes binding him. 

The bag is removed from his head almost gently. He catches a flash of light, mottled colors and shapes that are too bright and too much, and then a blindfold is tied around his head, plunging him into darkness again, but at least he can breathe. 

He gulps in air like he is never going to get the chance to breathe again, and eventually, his lungs stop burning and his head stops spinning. 

“You will tell us what we want to know now, I think.”

Peter barely even parses the statement, too caught up in the relief of breathing fresh, unobstructed air. 

The relief does not last long. They ask another question, and he doesn’t quite hear it, and then a fist drives into his stomach, even harder than before, nearly making him vomit. 

The question is repeated - “what part of the government do you work for?” - and Peter answers truthfully. The words taste like bile, like betrayal. 

This process continues for an eternity. A question. A brief period of time in which to answer. If he answers, usually nothing happens. Sometimes they smack him, but nothing more. If he doesn’t answer, if they think he’s lying, they hit him. The locations vary. The intensity does not. 

He lies, sometimes. When they ask for specifics, when he’s pretty sure they don’t know the answer already. Bases his answers in truth, but dresses them up or down. 

They swallow every lie he feeds them, not to mention the few truths they don’t believe. He’s not giving up too much. Nothing overly damaging. 

And then, the questions and the attack stop. Just like that. He’s untied from the chair, far too exhausted to even think about kicking out at his captors, and then he’s bundled back into (presumably) the same vehicle. 

He hadn’t really cared about how bumpy the ride had been before. But now, his entire body aches and every jolt of the vehicle sends a wave of pain from his head through his feet. He feels a million different things at once. Exhausted and nauseous and numb and resigned and afraid and angry and helpless. 

He wants to go home. Wants his mom, his dad. Wants Rose. 

They dump him in the sand again. He lies with his face pressed to it, slightly warm and unpleasantly itchy, and listens as the sound of an engine grows further and further away. 

He can feel the sun beating down on him, growing steadily more intense. He needs to move. He can barely feel his legs. 

After a long struggle, he makes it to his knees. He spends some time trying to untie his wrists, not stopping until he feels them start to bleed. 

Resigned to that particular fate, he very slowly gets to his feet. His head spins, and he nearly falls right back down to his knees. 

Instead, he makes it all of ten steps before he trips over something and falls, his knees and chin connecting with something hard. 

For a few seconds, he doesn’t move, immobilized by the shock and the pain of the fall. But when he starts shifting, he discovers something wonderful - he’s hit a rock, and its shape is such that he can rub the ropes against a fairly sharp edge until they break at last. 

The second the rope falls away, he reaches up and pulls off the blindfold. 

The sunlight is blinding and dizzying. He sinks down to sit on the rock that has freed him and looks down at his hands. His palms are streaked with blood and both wrists are encircled with red loops, deep indents in the skin showing how tightly he’d been bound. 

He looks down until his eyes adjust to the light. Then he takes a glance at his surroundings. 

He’s not sure what he’d expected. The middle of nowhere, probably. Nothing around him for miles, just sand and sun and the endless sky. 

He is not more than a quarter mile from an airport. He can see its buildings, watches a plane land, watches another one take off. 

He walks towards it, noticing all the time how much everything hurts. He cannot breathe without pain. Every step is a fresh agony, but at least he’s moving. 

He doesn’t stop moving until he’s through the doors. The air conditioning hits him like a blast, and he nearly sinks to the ground right then and there. 

As it is, he manages to stagger to a single-user bathroom and bolt the door behind him before his legs give out. 

He sits propped up against the door, breathing in the cool air, for several minutes. Eventually, he gets back to his feet and leans against the sink, examining his face in the mirror. 

They’d been relatively kind to him there, actually. There’s a scrape below his left eye and a bruise on his right cheek, but he’s looked worse. 

Less good is the blood on his chin - his own doing, from the rock that had turned out to be his salvation - and the bruise already forming across his neck. 

He does what he can. Washes away the blood and blots it out of his clothing as much as he can. Messes with his collar so the bruising on his neck is as obscured as it can be. 

His clothes are sandy and sweaty, but he leaves them as-is. He doesn’t want to look at the patchwork of bruises waiting for him underneath. 

He allows himself one final moment in the bathroom, sticking his mouth beneath the tap and drinking as much water as he feels able to. He’d scarcely noticed the thirst until now. The water tastes like blood and sand and it hurts to swallow. 

The airport is hectic, and hardly anyone even looks at him twice. By some miracle, his passport is still in his pocket, and so is a small amount of cash and his credit cards. His phone is gone, and so is his bag, but at least they’d left him with something. 

It’s a clear signal, to him. Get the hell out and do not come back. 

He doesn’t even think of trying to find the US embassy, of staying here any longer. He can’t. He’s exhausted and hurting and afraid and there is a flight to JFK in half an hour. 

He gets the last available seat, smashed in between a guy the size of a pro football player and a young child belonging to the family across the aisle who won’t stop talking. 

Despite this, he’s asleep before the plane even leaves the ground. 

thanks for reading!!! i had a really great time writing this and i really wanna do a follow-up...i have an Idea but we'll have to wait and see lmao

[shshshquietnow]

alright, here’s three words :D

Glass, Metal, Honey

Teehee :)

Contents: creepy whumper, intimate whumper, monster whumper, human whumpee, fantasy whump, threats of being eaten (don't know if there's a more concise way to out that), non con touching

...

Stupid stupid STUPID. Cane was stupid, thats all there was to it. He'd been lost for days in the middle of nowhere in the woods, so shut the first sign of civilization he saw was going to be shifty.

"You shouldn't have entered, little morsel. You're in my house, I can sense wherever you go."

He clutched his silver dagger like a life line. Vampires, werewolves, demons, fey- no, fey were iron. Ghosts if he somehow managed to catch the thing's reflection to trap it. Those were all what silver was good against, this thing was none of those.

It was dark- the middle of the night, clearly when the thing was most powerful, as it hadn't made itself known until the sunset, when Cane had already beet here for a few hours. But it was dark now, Cane couldn't see where he was or remember where he had been...

But the thing... it was fast, it was cunning and tricky and it was very good at making Cane very very scared. It had chased him out to some sort of art room, if Cane remembered right. It was made of shadows, slinking in and out of them to scare the boy as well. Two forms too, right as the darkness came Can had seen a man like figure atop the stairs,but once the sun was completely gone it turned into a great wolf like- with its laughter, HYENA like- moster.

It wanted to eat Cane... he wasn't sure if it meant literally though, he'd heard of some monsters that feed off of terror, or instead of flesh will eat souls.

But no, whatever it will eat... the shadow thing was clearly playing with its food. Cane couldn't tell if he should be glad or not. On one hand it was giving him time to think, to plan his escape... on the other, there was no way Cane stood a CHANCE once it decided it was more hungry than it was bored.

His breath caught as he bumped into something, making a noise. That was bad enough, but a second later something glass- probably some sculpture in this art room- screamed, crashing and shattering. Cane's high nerves caused him to yelp, and all at once Cane felt eyes on him.

Then a hand, pressing onto his stomach, pushing him backwards into... another body. Human feeling, like a large lean man.

Cane couldn't breathe, Cane couldn't BREATHE as he felt a chin rest on his shoulder, the shadow thing hugging him from behind. It hummed, that sort of hum like he'd just eaten a perfectly cooked steak.

"My, you're breathing really fast," the thing chuckled, nuzzling into Cane's neck. "You weren't trying yo get away from me, were you? Your fear is just... inTOXICATING, I must say..."

The thing moved its hand off of Cane's stomach and up to his chest, clawed fingers and palm over his rapidly beating heart.

"Oh yes... that's what I like to feel..." the thing smiled- it must be smiling. It sighed. "I'm going to keep you around a long while, little morsel. I can just TASTE how sweet you'll be..."

All at once Cane was filled with terror- of course he was already scared out of his mind wandering the manor in the dark running from some shadow thing, but this fear wasn't his- it was overwhelming, taking him over, making him freeze up, it had been put into him. It was too much and the hands on him... Cane passed out.

He was vaguely aware- he felt the shadow thing lift him from behind his knees into a bridal carry. "Delicious..."

[a-painful-ordeal]

5. Satanic and Chained Up

Cw: Slavery, slapping, extremist ideology in a fantasy setting, whumper believes in the Divine Right Of Kings, religious justification of torture, stress position, threats of a flogging, description of a flogging that hasn’t occurred.

Note: whumper and whumpee’s religious stances do NOT reflect my own. This is an exploration of ‘The Divine Right of Kings’ and general extremist bullshit. Evan’s views also are me playing with how atheism can manifest in a world where the gods frequently interact with mortals. Lord Maynard is a paladin and this is a subversion of the usual stereotypes.

---

Evan’s heart races as he stands in a huge bedroom with a four-poster bed. The beauty and size dwarves him in comparison. Beautiful curtains hang from the wooden frame above the bed. To one corner of the room is an ornately painted screen to change behind. The screen stands next to a well-decorated wardrobe. In the other corner, sits a wooden table with a bowl of exotic fruits that Evan has never seen before. A fire sits not too far from the bed, glowing gently in the absence of its master.

Evan moves around the room, checking and double checking the windows for an exit. They are locked. Fuck. They are locked.

His anger and fear blend together. Why couldn’t he have just gone along with those guards and pretended. Maybe no one would have noticed. At least that way, he wouldn’t have gotten a thrashing and- whatever this is…

Deep breath in. And out. Calm. He tries to relax as an eternity passes. Waiting. Focus on something else. Anything else. What would he be doing now…? If he hadn’t been so stupid to think someone would genuinely try to help a street kid. He’d be… bickering with Meg maybe. Arguing about her dumb fictional crushes which he had never been able to relate to. Or maybe he’d be telling her to put another flea-ridden cat she found back where she found it, or so help him… it was always an empty threat. Meg enjoyed the bickering. And in all honesty, so did he. Or, maybe he’d be trying to wash her smelly unicorn toy. That thing was disgusting. M, would probably be hanging around watching, or taking Meg’s side. M had always been soft when it came to the little ones, letting things slide that she’d chastise him for with a grin now. She’d looked out for him like that once, too. A long time ago. But now she counts on him being able to help her look after all three of them. Counted. But she counted on him helping her look after all three of them of them. What would she do now?

Evan rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. No. He will see them again. This is not the end. He’ll get out of here…. Somehow…and move his way back to…. Wherever they were before. It’ll be fine. Or maybe they will rescue him? Find out what’s happened and come to save him.

The doors swing open, cutting off his train of thought, as the large, well-dressed figure of Lord Maynard enters. Evan finally gets a good look at him as the man strides into his chambers. He’s a human man, with well-kept black hair. He has large, broad shoulders and styled black hair. If Evan had seen him around the town, he might have assumed he was a merchant.

Maynard moves towards Evan, like a lion assessing an antelope. Evan swallows, exhaustion from earlier being chased away with a fresh bout of fear. He fights the urge to move back, instead, standing his ground. He raises his chin and puffs his chest out, swallowing back the pain from his beating.

“So. You must be the little slave who stole food and tried to escape?” the Lord asks. His tone is light, with a hint of danger to it.

Evan stays silent. His mouth begins to dry and the urge to back up begins to scream at him.

Maynard steps close. “Answer me when I’m talking to you.” His demands echoes around the room.

Evan feels his legs beginning to shake. Answer or not… this is a trap. Anything he says… he’s fucked.

Maynard walks forwards and strikes Evan. The rings on his hand scour two bloody lines across the cheek. The lines cut into the already yellow and blue cheek, which hasn’t fully recovered from earlier. “You will give me a response or I will have a finger taken off for your insolence.”

Evan’s breath hitches in his throat as he feels his throat begin to constrict. He feels all bravery leave him. “Y-” he coughs “Yes. I am.”

“You will address me as Sir or Master. Understood?”

“Yes… Sir…”

Maynard smiles “That was easy, wasn’t it?”

Evan stays quiet. Unsure what he could say in response.

“Now. Let’s get one thing clear. I will not tolerate disobedience from scum. The gods have placed me on this world to protect the good people from devils like you. And if that causes me to have to whip the evil out of you, then so be it. I will be doing my duty.” Maynard says this with pride in his voice, like man who has achieved something grand.

“You will obey me. And you will learn the place that the gods have allocated to you. Understood?”

Evan blinks. He fights the urge to call this man absolutely fucking nuts. Best not to do that when trapped in a room with him. “Yes…Sir.”

“Good. Now. You will kneel when I enter a room. Understood?”

Evan blinks, taking a small step backwards. His body shouts to run whilst his brain pushes him to fight. A surge of resilient pride runs through him for a moment, just long enough for all sense to be lost. “No-”

What he said suddenly registers, and he wants to kick himself.

“No?” There is a quiet rage in Maynard’s voice.

“Wait, I mean-” Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Fear shoots through him. Just comply. Stay alive and live to fight another day.

Evan drops to his knees with a thud that causes him to wince. He stares at the ground. Let that be enough. Please.

“Don’t you dare say no to me.” The Lord growls “But no. By all means. If you don’t want to kneel. Don’t.”

He grabs Evan’s thin wrists in one hand, roughly pulling Evan to his feet and dragging the boy across the room to the four-poster bed. Evan’s wrists are shifted from Maynard’s left hand to his right hand as he grabs some cord that holds the bed-curtain together. He throws it over the wood at the top of the bed, before wrapping the other end, tightly around Evan’s wrists. Maynard then begins to wrench Evan’s weight up, until the boy is on his tiptoes.

“There. Now you don’t have to kneel. How does that feel? Boy? Better. I hope so.” Maynard spits, his voice full of righteous anger.

Evan’s wrists scream at him as the cord tightens, digging into his wrists. His jaw trembles slightly from the pain as the skin on his hip is stretched out. He lets out a small whine.

“I asked you a question. Does that feel better?”

Evan’s mind races. Yes? Or no? What does the man want to hear? Anything. Say what he wants. Fuck bravery and resilience. He wants to make it out of this in tact. Evan makes a split second decision. “No... Master.” His skin crawls at the word. The word fills him with a strange repulsive nausea but he continues. “I would… prefer to kneel…” There is a foul taste on his tongue as he finishes the sentence. He wants to swear and spit and shout… but so far, that had just gotten him hurt. Maybe this will work better? Do what Trygve said… keep his head down?

“That is a shame… you can kneel in the morning. Before I have you flogged for your little scene earlier.”

Evan blinks. That… didn’t work… wait. Flogging. What?

The boy’s shock is clearly evident on his face as Lord Maynard looks at him “You didn’t think that you wouldn’t be punished for your act of dissidence did you?” He shakes his head as he causally begins to the screen to undress for bed. There is the click as he undoes his belt. The sounds of fabric rubbing together.

Evan can see an arm stretch to grab a night shirt.

“You stole from me and injured my employee. Clearly, you deserve some punishment. Otherwise the gods wouldn’t have brought you into my hands. No. But don’t fear. I’m not unjust. The punishment will fit the crime. You stole from around twenty meals. And injured a guard. I’d say thirty lashes should suffice.”

Evan’s stomach drops. And heart races in his throat.

Maynard reappears. “You can stay there till the morning, I think. Until you realize that kneeling for me really isn’t that bad.” He moves a candle to his bedside table. And spends a couple of moments pulling the bed’s covers back, causally. As if there wasn’t someone else in the room. He then climbs into bed. “Thirty lashes. Unless you wake me up. If you make a sound I will make sure that they flay the skin from your back. Understood?”

Evan nods quickly, blinking back tears.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Y-yes… Sir…”

Evan’s face has gone pale during this speech. As the realization begins to set in. He’d seen floggings before. Thieves who’d gotten caught, or someone who’d started a fight. He’d seen ten lashes bring a grown man to tears as his skin was abused by knotted leather. Evan’s whole body trembles.

“Good. Much better.” With that, the Lord blows out the candle and nestles down in his bed. Curling up to sleep off the feast.

Evan stands there, hanging silently. His elven blood allows him perfect sight of the dark, grey room and the glowing embers from the fire. Despite the darkness that covers the room. His calves hurt as cramp sets in.

He blinks and hangs there. His wrists hurt as his hand’s circulation begins to go and the cord bites into his flesh.

Big tears begin to well in Evan’s eyes as he just wants to curl up and go home. Fuck why couldn’t he have stayed with Meg? Life had sucked in places before but this… this was worse. Why couldn’t he have decided not to meet those fucking men? Why can’t he just keep his fucking mouth shut?

The prospect of a flogging makes his chest heave deeply in a sob. He wants to sniff. To shakily cry and scream openly but he doesn’t. He uses all his willpower to keep himself from sobbing. He will not dig himself a deeper hole. A deeper grave to lie in.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His knees hurt. Fuck. He tries to stretch out one leg to disperse the cramp, but that makes the other hurt more.

He wishes the morning would come sooner. And then wishes that this would last longer. Before his back gets torn open. Skin ripped from flesh. What kind of whip would be used? A bullwhip looks lethal, but what if this man preferred to use a sailor’s whip? Or maybe he would use one which is metal-tipped. Fuck fuck shitting fuck. Evan’s throat contracts slightly as his breathing increases.

Evan had seen the scars before. Of course he had. The only way to avoid a flogging if you were caught stealing or some other crime, was to pay. Gold will get you anywhere. The scars were ugly, and humiliating. They told the world what you have done and there was almost nothing that could undo that.

His legs tremble. He feels sick. Tears won’t stop falling. He silently inhales, allowing the shaky sobs to be as silent as possible. He hangs there, exhausted and terrified. Silently waiting and dreading the dawn.

-------

AN: Hopefully that was alright!! I decided to not put it through grammarly this time so hopefully the grammar and spelling isn't Wattpad levels of bad 🤣🤣

Again please do not mistake any of the characters beliefs for my own. I'm mostly just playing around in a DND setting. Lord Maynard would be a Paladin of Conquest and I'm playing with subverting paladins as a 'noble' class. If you want, feel free to guess Evan's class!

Masterlist Next

Taglist:

@sunshiline-writes @kixngiggles @pumpkin-spice-whump @ivycloak

[ironwhumper359]

Whumper prompt 3, have fun~

The Tenets of Growth: Pt. 1

The Path of Cultivation

CW: submission, allusions to torture, religious themes, religion used to justify torture, whumpee turned whumper, stress position

Word count: 1500~

---

“So, what did we learn yesterday?”

Aster considered the question carefully as she knelt at her Cultivator's feet. She’d learned long ago, when she was merely a Seed, not to speak a single word without considering whether or not it could be misconstrued by the harsh woman as too stupid, too clever, or too disrespectful in general.

"We learned that life...does not flourish without decay. That the rot and filth that surrounds us need not kill us, but can enrich our surroundings and make us stronger. But if we succumb and become a part of it, rather than use it as fuel, that is when we cease to grow and begin to wilt."

Aster desperately wanted to sneak a glance up at the Cultivator's face, to gauge her reaction to her words, but she kept her eyes fixed on the ground, hands clasped behind her back and her head bowed low.

"Then you have learned well," the Cultivator said, and relief and pride flooded through Aster in equal measure. "Rise, and accompany me. There is something you must see."

Aster obediently got to her feet, hands still folded behind her and head down as she walked, but her breath came a little easier after the words of praise. She walked through the Nursery's winding corridors without truly seeing her surroundings, placing her full trust in the Cultivator to lead them on the right path. As was true in all practices at the Nursery, this was to remind her of humanity's dependence on the Goddess Perivyta for all things, but Aster longed for the day she would finally Flower and begin to learn the layout of the halls for herself.

Finally, they stopped in front of a door, and the Cultivator pulled a key from somewhere inside her robe. Unlocking the door, she stepped back to allow Aster to enter the room first. As was customary, Aster stepped inside and immediately knelt at one side of the door.

"Her Ladyship Lantana, Third Cultivator of the Durtham Nursery enters," Aster announced, and the Cultivator swept into the room. Aster rose long enough to close the door behind her, but before she could kneel again, the Cultivator grabbed her by the arm.

"Hold," she said simply, and Aster froze. "You are very close to your Flowering, Initiate Aster," the Cultivator continued. "And in spite of your early difficulties Sprouting, my fellow Cultivators and I have taken note of your growth."

Aster bowed her head.

"I am grateful that your ladyship saw the weeds at work in my heart and Pruned them in time to allow me to flourish," she intoned.

"Your growth is my growth," the Cultivator replied lightly. "Lift your head, Initiate, and observe the room."

Aster did so, and a wave of nausea rolled over her. They were in a small cell, sunlight from a single barred window shining into the room and illuminating a large patch of rough, exposed earth in the middle of the stone floor. A long shadow was cast by a single metal loop bolted to the floor, and Aster could feel her heart beating faster in her chest at the mere sight of it.

"You may speak, Initiate," the Cultivator said, and Aster swallowed.

"Your ladyship, I...I thought you said that my growth was sufficient?"

"Did I also not say that you are nearing the time of your Flowering?" the Cultivator asked, and Aster nodded quickly. "I have meditated upon the will of Perivyta on where to assign you for specialty study, and it has been laid upon my heart that you are to walk the Path of Cultivation."

It took every ounce of Aster's meticulously crafted self control to keep her mouth from falling open. The Path of Cultivation? Her? Aster had only heard whispered rumors of what the path for initiates was like, but everyone knew that to be a Cultivator was the highest honor in the order. Everyone else, not just the initiates, but the Sowers, Tenders, and even Pruners had to answer to the Cultivators.

"I have spoken with the other Cultivators, and they have agreed," Lady Lantana continued. "However, the Path of Cultivation is unlike the other paths of the order. Training is only given to one initiate at a time, and only when the circumstances are right."

Aster nodded absently, their mind spinning with a dozen questions. Why was only one initiate trained at once? What circumstances? What was even the difference between the Path of Cultivation and the Path of Sowing, shouldn't it basically be the same information? Why was she the one chosen, out of the dozen or so Budded initiates who were nearing their Flowering?

"Praise Perivyta for her goodness, for she has provided us an opportunity," the Cultivator said. "This morning, the city courts delivered a guilty verdict to a notorious thief that plagued the streets for months before he was finally caught. He is being transferred here tomorrow, and the First Cultivator has agreed that you, Initiate, shall undertake his Cultivation."

"I...I am honored, my lady," Aster stammered. "But...forgive me, I just...would expect such an important task to be carried out by one with more experience."

Or any experience, she thought, but did not say.

"The Path of Cultivation is not one to be walked lightly," said the Cultivator. "It is one thing to plant a flower in a bed. It is quite another to coax fruit from a tree that has been set upon by rot. Initiates purposely are trained with initiates sent to us by tribute or sentencing, so that in the future they will have the skills necessary to deal with any difficulties in their future plots."

Aster swallowed, then nodded.

"I understand, my lady. What are to be my first steps?"

"Tomorrow, you will start your studies, beginning with the performance of Ritual Re-Planting. But first, you must demonstrate your readiness to walk this path. This cell is to be the site of your study, and must be consecrated. Assume your meditative position."

Aster turned around, and for a moment caught a glimpse of the Cultivator's sharp face before bowing her head again. The expression was unreadable, and Aster forced herself not to squirm as she knelt on the patch of dirt.

She brought her arms out from behind her, clasping her hands over her heart and curling low to the ground. She pressed her forehead to the earth and counted silently to three before straightening again, resting her head on her still clasped hands.

"Thanks be Perivyta, by Her grace I grow," she murmured, tucking her chin to her chest.

She extended her arms out and up until they were raised above her head, palms facing upward in a gesture of acceptance. 

"You are to remain in meditation until I return," the Cultivator instructed. "At that time, if your heart is prepared, you will undergo your Flowering."

Without another word, the Cultivator turned and strode out of the room, leaving the door open behind her. Aster saw her feet disappear, but did not lift her head to watch her go. She inhaled deeply through her nose, held it for a moment, then released it through her mouth and began to murmur softly to herself. 

“Perivyta, Sower of Life, from whom all life derives. All life is your holy and sacred gift, and we give thanks to you in all we do. We are your Purest Seed, created from your being and scattered by your hand into the world to produce your fruit. The Earth is your holy gift to us, yet we also are your gift to the Earth. All we take from it, we return to you in glory. As you nurture us body and soul, so we shall nurture others, and their growth shall be our growth, and our growth shall be your growth. You are the holy giver of life and the holy giver of suffering; when we flourish we rejoice in your bounty, and when we suffer we rejoice in your Pruning. We submit to your will, that at the end of our lives when we are gathered into the Great Harvest, we may be counted among the fruitful and brought to your Table of Plenty. Let us not stray from your ways, lest we be cast aside with the chaff and burned in the fire of your hearth.” 

Aster had never been good with time, but she’d once heard another initiate say that it took less than two minutes to recite the Tenet Prayer. Of course, that was if you were simply reciting the words with the goal of reaching the end; Aster found that if she slowed down and focused on each line, connecting it with the deeper meaning of each tenet in her mind, the prayer would take even longer. Which, on the one hand, made the time spent meditating seem to pass slower, but on the other hand, at least it gave her something to think about other than the deep, persistant ache that was already beginning to develop in her arms. 

She closed her eyes, and began again. 

“Perivyta, Sower of Life, from whom all life derives…”

---

Author's Note: Aaaand that's where I'm leaving off this first installment! Don't worry, there's more coming very soon, and while it won't necessarily have less world building, it will definitely have a lot more whump! If you'd like me to make a taglist for this fic, let me know and I'll definitely do that!

[whumpshaped]

mayhaps I request whumpee being slowly hypnotized by “caretaker” to become more and more submissive and incapable of more and more stuff (like reading, self regulating, being alone) so whumpee becomes clingy pet that wants to be pet and doted on

tw bad caretaker, conditioning, hypnosis, gaslighting, manipulation, past trauma

“Oh, darling. Not again.” Caretaker sighed at the sight of the broken glass on the floor, the big puddle of water at Whumpee’s feet. “You’ve always been a clumsy one, haven’t you?”

Whumpee opened their mouth to protest. They hadn’t. They had been pretty capable once, they thought. Before the captivity, before Caretaker had taken them in to care for them.

They closed their mouth again. It wasn’t worth it to argue over semantics. “I’m sorry,” they said instead. “I can clean it up.”

“And cut your hand on the glass? No, it’s quite alright. I’ll handle it.”

Whumpee was instructed to sit on the counter while Caretaker worked, muttering about all their little flaws and faults. It was a constant by now. They knew the list front to back, they could’ve recited it on command if Caretaker ever asked.

Or maybe they couldn’t. Stupid was on the list, after all. With a bad memory was yet another item. Maybe they were only kidding themself, trying to hold onto a version of themself that didn’t exist anymore and wouldn’t exist again.

“There,” Caretaker said with a soft smile when they were all finished. “Safe as ever. Unless you slip again, of course. But surely not, right?” They stepped in front of Whumpee, preventing them from hopping off the counter on their own, and cupped their cheeks. “You’ve learned your lesson from that one, hm?”

“Yeah,” they said dutifully. “No slippery socks on the slippery tiles.”

“Smart thing,” they cooed, sliding their hands lower and grabbing them by the waist to lift them off the counter. “Maybe we should have a rule about you not handling any glass items. I can get you a plastic cup that won’t break.”

I’m not a child. No, a child at least had an excuse. What was their excuse? Trauma made them unable to hold a glass? Trauma they should’ve long healed from by now?

“Okay,” they said quietly. Caretaker knew better.

Caretaker ruffled their hair and leaned in, whispering into their ear. “You’re a useless little thing, aren’t you? Constantly breaking things. Really, you’re lucky I keep you around when you’re so clumsy.”

Whumpee leaned back against the counter a bit more, grateful to have some support now that they were starting to feel so dizzy again. “I’m lucky…” they repeated thoughtlessly.

“Yes, you are. So lucky that I’m generous and kind. Kind enough to care for a destructive, useless thing like you.”

“Useless thing like me…” they murmured, barely registering when Caretaker lifted a hand. They only came to when their friend started snapping their fingers in front of their face, looking concerned.

“Are you alright?” they asked, and Whumpee blinked a couple times before nodding. “You completely zoned out on me.”

“Ah, I… I’m sorry. Thank you for still caring for me.” They smiled a little. “I know it must be annoying. I’m glad you’re so kind.”

[deckofaces]

Hi bestiiie please please please could you write a fae whumpee with yandere human(s)? No pressure ofc and thank you in advance 💕

Please accept these lesbian fairies as a token of my appreciation ✨️

Omg of course you can request that bestie <3 I hope you like it! (Also ugh I love the fairies, I cherish them)

Gilded Cage

Tw: burns/blisters, yandere whumper, captivity, fae whumpee, use of iron against whumpee

Faerie sat down on the soft, but fake grass of their room. Surrounding them there were potted plants everywhere. Some of them were huge and almost reached the ceiling while the others were tiny. It seemed like an insult, the fake forest Human provided for them. They missed the real one, the one they were from. Their wings were folded behind their back and tears ran down their face as they wished they could escape. 

They looked down at their wrist. It throbbed horribly. There sat an iron cuff, the human that had taken them prisoner knew enough about fae to not fall for their tricks and knew that iron weakened them. So much so they could not escape. 

Faerie hopelessly picked at the cuff, trying anything to pull it off their wrist. All they could do was wince in pain as the action just burned their fingers.

They glanced up as they heard the loud sound of the door unlocking. Human stepped into the room carrying a bag with them and crouched down in front of the faerie. They wiped their tears, though Faerie pulled their head away soon after.

“Hello my Faerie,” Human hummed, admiring the faerie that sat in front of them.

“Don’t call me that,” they whispered in reply, “I do not know your name, do not use mine.”

Human chuckled at that, wiping more tears. “Oh dear.. You know I can’t give you my name. That is not why you are here. But do not think about that.. Why are you crying?”

Why had the faerie been crying? Maybe humans really were that stupid. Everything about their situation made them want to sob. But currently it was the condition of their wrist. It looked to be covered in burns from the iron cuff, and it ached like nothing else they have ever felt. They weakly lifted their cuffed wrist, showing Human their burns.

The human did not look too fazed by all the burns and blisters, as if they expected it to happen. But when they spoke, they sounded calm and almost caring. “That will not do, I do not want permanent scarring if I can help it. I need to keep your beauty intact.” 

They stood up and walked towards the bathroom that connected to the faerie’s main room. They leaned against the wooden door waiting for Faerie. “Well? Come on then.”

Faerie hesitated on the ground. Human would help them? There must be a trick, but they looked back down at their burning wrist and thought anything would be better in that moment than the iron on their skin. They shakily stood up and made their way to the bathroom.

“Once you fully understand that this is where you are meant to stay, Faerie, the iron cuff will no longer be necessary.” Human unlocked the cuff, it fell off their wrist and they put it back in their bag. Faerie almost cried out from relief as the pain suddenly lessened and cool air hit their skin.

Soon after, Faerie heard the sound of rushing water coming from the faucet. Human put their arm under it, they tried to yank their arm away at the sudden cool feeling, but Human’s grip on their arm tightened. 

“Shh don’t do that. The water is cooling the burn. It will ease the pain dear Faerie.” Human guided their wrist back under the water which caused them to sharply inhale. However they slowly started to relax, they hated that the human had been right. After a few minutes the pain eased to a low throb. 

To prevent drying out the skin, Human turned off the water and took out lotion from their bag. They put a little in their hand and applied it to Faerie’s wrist. Their touch felt so gentle, Faerie found themself relaxing just a bit, letting out a breath they were holding. 

Their eyes followed Human’s hand on their burned wrist. “Why..”

“Hm? What is it?” They paused their work, looking up at Faerie and meeting their eyes. 

Faerie gulped, trying again. “Why.. why do I have to stay here?” They tensed up again, afraid of Human’s reaction to their question. 

Human smiled warmly at them. “The city is too dangerous for you. You were lucky that I was the one that found you first when you wandered into civilization.”

Tears welled up in Faerie’s eyes again, they wished someone else found them. “You could have just taken me back to the forest. Not here.”

Human found sterile gauze bandages in their bag as well. They took care to wrap it loosely around Faerie’s wrist. “Dear, dear, there is no reason to cry. If I took you back to the forest, I could never guarantee your safety. Forests can be dangerous too. Or what if a faerie hunter came after you? I would never forgive myself. You will be better in my hands.”

“But-“

“No buts,” Human said lovingly to the faerie. They ran their hand through their long wavy hair, massaging their scalp. 

“Let’s go back out into the main room, I’ll let you rest without the iron cuff on, you look exhausted.”

[astaldis]

No. 29/31: Chapter 5 - Of Setbacks, Sighs and Soups

@whumptober-archive​

Fandom: The Witcher

Whumpee: Cahir

Caretaker: You (no name insert)

Chapters: 5/5    Words: 10,410

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Reader (no name insert) 

Additional Tags: Witcher Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Alive Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach Whump, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Monsters, Hurt/Comfort, Shadows, outnumbered, Makeshift bandages, Blood and Gore, Full Moon, POV Second Person, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, mediwhump, Tourniquet, Blood Loss, Major Character Injury, old and new scars, fever, delirium, soup

Summary: You made a stupid bet. Fortunately somebody arrives just in time to save your arse from the shadows stalking you. A Witcher, exactly who you need.

Excerpt from chapter 5 - Of Setbacks, sighs and soup

Except for a quick run to one of your neighbours to buy fodder for the horse and listen for news on missing villagers, you spend all day tending to the sick Witcher, administering willow bark essence and tea, changing bandages and refreshing the cold compresses. Cahir is badly delirious and raving with harrowing fever dreams. By late afternoon, his temperature finally, finally seems to go down a little and he sleeps more easily. Perhaps you can take a quick nap, too? Gods, you cannot remember ever having been so tired in your life. You add another log to the fire in the fireplace, then flop down in your chair, yawning heartily and rubbing your eyes. You let them fall shut with a sigh.

It must be the middle of the night when you wake up from your exhausted slumber. Cahir is tossing and turning in his sleep again, mumbling something about a fire in his fevered dreams. Not exactly feeling well rested but definitely better, you get up from the armchair with a sigh and, for the umpteenth time since you have brought him to your house, kneel down next to Cahir. Shit, his brow feels hotter than ever. You know that the fever helps fight the infection, however, if it does not break soon, it might have dangerous side effects that could kill the patient. Unless Witchers with their mutations are more tolerant to high temperatures than normal people? But Cahir looks so ill, it does not seem very likely. 

Quickly and with yet another sigh, you put on your cloak and shoes to get a bucket of fresh, cold water from the little brook behind your house. The advantages of living on the outskirts of the village ...

Continue on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50457418/chapters/129304840

[whumpdyke]

Whumptober #1:

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

——————————————————

“C’mon sweet thing, this one will be easy.” Whumper cooed, so much closer to Whumpee’s face than they’d thought he was. They shifted back with a small animal sound of fear before their face was grabbed harshly and pulled once again close to their captor. “No, no giving up. That’s a bad habit, there’s no space for that here. Just try.”

Whumpee nodded softly as well as they could between the clenched fingers pushing into their cheeks. Maybe this one would be easy. In the dead dark before their eyes, covered securely with a blindfold, they saw little spots start to dance. They’d be unconscious again soon, and that brought a soft breath of relief. When this had all started, that realization have would bring a full blown panic, but by now they knew that it was the one way to secure peace. They might as well try before they faded away again.

“Good, that’s perfect.” Whumper’s hand moved up to pet their hair gently, ignoring the shaking that it brought on. “Okay, you ready?”

“…Yes.” Whumpee’s voice was hardly a whisper.

“Alright, sweet thing. How many fingers am I holding up?” Whumper asked. Gentle and clearly expectant of an immediate answer.

Fresh tears started to soak Whumpee’s blindfold and they choked down a sound of protest. They tried to feel if Whumper’s hand was still on them, if they could feel and differentiate between the folded and outstretched fingers, but the hand was gone from their hair and all they could see was black, black, black.

“I…I don’t know.” The last word was choked and desperate. Whumper tsked softly and then sighed, clearly disappointed. Whumpee’s blood ran cold.

“You said you were going to try this time. You just have to think, I know you can count. I’ll give you another try.”

Whumpee’s mind reeled, the dancing spots making their reappearance as their breath caught again and again. They didn’t know, they couldn’t see, didn’t this psycho see the fucking blindfold, they’d been in the dark for so long for so so long and there was no light or fingers or numbers or anything except the blurry spots and their own blood rushing inside their ears and…

“Th-three.” They guessed.

“Hmm. That’s wrong, sweetheart. You really need to be making more of an effort, this is getting embarrassing for you.” Whumper sounded genuine, truly disappointed and Whumpee couldn’t take it. They hated this stupid game and this fucking monster making them play it and they just wanted anything but this darkness and pain. Whumper spoke again, “What do you think is a good punishment to encourage you to work harder next time?”

An involuntary noise, pure anguish and fear, clawed its way up through Whumpee’s throat and they shook there where they sat on the hard, unforgiving floor.

“God, you’re too stupid to even think of one, huh? I guess it’s my job again. You really could pick up the slack sometimes, you know.” Whumper chastised, and Whumpee heard the sound of a metal tool scraping against a tray that they knew must be blood soaked by now. And they couldn’t even pull together the will to scream.

Note: This is my first time participating in Whumptober or really writing whump at all! I’ve done quite a bit of personal and academic writing but have never put anything online, so I’m looking forward to participating this month and reading other people’s work. I hope you enjoyed! :)

[starryybrained]

YEAHHH

I think characters should collapse out of nowhere but in the most comical disruptive way. Fall back onto a table or smth and break and knock stuff over on it and get embarrassed and laugh it off even though something is probably horribly wrong. Or maybe even collapsing into a cabinet or smth filled with fragile objects! Oops! God that was embarrassing!!

I think they should slip and fall down the stairs (going down and falling down the stairs or going up and slamming their face on some stairs) and even though it hurts they’re like damn I must have missed a step! Oops haha!! Its okay I’m all better now

But the underlying issue is never addressed bc Whumpee is a lllllittle too good at brushing all these things off

Or Whumpee does something so stupid and reckless that they knew was stupid and reckless and now they have to double down and act like it’s not horrible

Whumpee who says they think they’re feeling a little better and then immediately throws up or smth

Whumpee who bursts into laughter at what just happened/their previous experiences bc it’s so ridiculous but it hurts

Whumpee who has a stupid injury like a gunshot wound on their ass and damn it really hurts but also haha funny

i love silly whump. i love a character who is obviously hurt/unwell but still goes "im fine guys!! dont worry!!" and then family guy falls. i love a scrawny character getting picked up by the scruff of their neck and flailing around before resigning themselves to their fate. we need more silly whump.

[justbreakonme]

My fav kinds of whump fics are when like, a servant/pet Whumpee is just, in complete denial that someone might want to be nice to them, and Caretaker really doesn’t know what they’re doing, so they’re just trying to make it through the day, like:

Whumpee: I cannot have wants, my needs are not important, I am meant to suffer to serve my master until I die. I know all of this and yet I am still a failure and still desire unbelievable privileges like food, and water, and sleep, and to not be hit.

Caretaker: Hi. *provides basic needs with the slightest amount of decency*

Whumpee: They just want me stronger so I can work to serve them, and I have not been punished yet because I have not had time to fail them yet. But I am inherently flawed, and I will fail them. This will not last.

Caretaker: Here you go. *keeps providing basic needs and human decency, even once Whumpee is stronger*

Whumpee: Surely this will not last. They are simply more patient and less critical than my previous master. What an undeserved miracle, to be given this leniency.

Caretaker: Here, take this too. *gives Whumpee something that’s an “impractical luxury” like a blanket or stuffed animal or dessert*

Whumpee: This is not for my benefit, and if it is, it is to train me. Still, what a joy to serve a master who uses rewards of such luxuries. I do not deserve such goodness, I must remember this, and prove to them that I will not grow spoiled.

Whumpee: *tries to do above and beyond for them, and instead makes a mistake that breaks something and hurts them in a way obvious to Caretaker* I have failed, and anger is more than justified, and I will take my punishment willingly, it will make me better. Why does the idea of master striking me feel more like grief than fear? Could I have grown to consider them…almost a friend? Oh how stupid, how foolish of me, to even consider such a thing. I am meant to suffer-

Caretaker: Oh no, oh no… *helps fix mistake and soothe the pain caused by the injury, all the while not showing any anger or disappointment, only concern* *tells Whumpee not to try what they did again, that they didn’t want them to get hurt*

Whumpee: Maybe they could see that I was trying to serve them better. Surely that must be it, why otherwise would they not want me to be hurt? How lucky I have gotten so far. But I must not fail again.

Whumpee: *gets sick* I must keep going.

Whumpee: *collapses* This is it. Master will finally punish me as I deserve, I have failed yet again.

Caretaker: Get well soon! *brings them medicine and soup and let’s them sleep in peace*

Whumpee: They are simply wanting for me to get well before they punish me. They don’t want to make a mess, or they want me to feel it all, without my attention divided by sickness. After all, how can I learn from a punishment I am barely conscious for?

Whumpee: *gets better* Now this truly is it. I shall face my punishment.

Caretaker: Glad you’re better! Here, take this. *doesn’t punish them, instead greets them with more necessities and an additional “impractical luxury”*

Caretaker: *keeps being nice, not punishing Whumpee, and making sure they are well provided for*

Whumpee: Possibly they are simply understanding of my inherent flaws, and mercifully allow the occasional lapses, so long as afterwards I am repentant and humble.

Caretaker: You’re important to me. *sacrifices something important just for Whumpee, like missing a work meeting to take them to the park or cutting off a friend because of the way they treated Whumpee*

Whumpee: I do not understand… But it is not my place to understand, as I am simple and flawed. I must just continue to serve as I was trained.

Caretaker: Oh, how nice, let’s have fun together! *makes up sweet little nicknames for Whumpee, knows their favorite things and makes sure to use that knowledge, compliments Whumpee on things outside of what they can do for others*

Whumpee: *realizes that they had changed so much since coming to Caretaker, and that this new version of themselves was not only safe and not hurting, but also happy and supported emotionally.*

Whumpee: *has an emotional breakdown due to pent up emotion, joy, and pure relief*

Caretaker: :O

Caretaker: I fucked up! I fucked up bad! I broke them!

[whumpsday]

Kane & Jim #37: A Small Funeral

Masterlist

content: angst / emotional whump, vampire whumpee, character assumed dead, violence

takes place around the same time as Sunrise, though obviously at night.

-

Bellamy ended up being the one to set up the funeral.

The de Sang family seemed all too happy to be rid of their most shameful son, none caring to hold a ceremony honoring his memory. It made Bellamy wonder what his family would do with him when he died. Hopefully nothing, he thought bitterly. He wanted his funeral handled by his friends. They’d been more family to him than his biological one ever had.

They’d offered to come. Caroline, Sylvia, Leon, the usual bunch. But aside from a brief and rude introduction with Caroline eight years ago, none of them had even met him. Kane certainly wouldn’t have liked any of them, the condescending prick he was, and he was doubly sure that none of them would have liked Kane. Or at least, not the person Kane was when he died.

It still didn’t feel real.

But it was. He stood alone under the waning moon in front of a gravestone marked Kane de Sang, without even a body to bury.

Other than that single night of the reunion, he hadn’t even spoken to Kane in upwards of ninety years, since they were children. Kane never answered any of the letters he sent. Bellamy wondered if he’d ever read them at all. It was too late to ask, now.

He felt stupid for getting so emotional about a man he hadn’t been friends with in more than ninety years. He’d always been told he was too sentimental. Kane used to tell him that, even when they were boys.

But he was. Kane used to be his best friend. The one who taught him how to be confident. The one he spent his childhood with. His first love, though he’d never dared admit it.

And now it was too late. Not that Kane would have ever reciprocated, but there was so much left unsaid.

The boy he’d been best friends with had died a long time ago, Bellamy conceded. Somewhere along the way, all the joy and brightness had been sucked out of him by that all-consuming need to gain the approval of his miserable family. It had happened before they’d even parted ways.

He likely wouldn’t have recognized Kane, even if they’d managed to reconcile their friendship. The human boy’s terrified face flashed through his mind. Jim, he’d said his name was. The way he’d begged Bellamy for help he couldn’t provide. He’d been so relieved when he’d heard that he’d managed to escape, after years of guilt imagining the boy’s suffering, though he knew Kane must have been in quite the fit of despair over it.

And now, five years later, he’d gotten himself killed by hunters. Of course he had. The man couldn’t use persuasion to defend himself. He’d promised Kane he would always protect him when they were children, and he’d utterly failed. Sylvia said it wasn’t his fault. Caroline, too. But it still felt like it was.

Though, part of Bellamy felt that maybe this was for the best. Had Kane lived, he would have only continued victimizing humans for centuries to come. Caroline had told him all about what the boy had said after they left.

He said that Kane just... beats the shit out of him until he does what he wants.

Bellamy’s heart shattered at the thought. How had his dear Kane turned out this way?

And now he was dead. Nothing could be done to fix any of it.

Maybe he would finally be able to move on, after all these years.

“I’m sorry it turned out this way, my dear.” Bellamy said softly to the ornate headstone.

He stood there for a while. It felt wrong to leave. He was the only attendee of Kane’s funeral, and once he left, it would be done.

Unfortunately, that didn’t remain true for long.

“Hey, Verta.” called a voice Bellamy hadn’t missed.

“Fuck off.” he snapped, not even bothering to turn around and look.

“Well, that’s not very nice. Can’t a guy attend his own little brother’s funeral in peace?”

“What are you even doing here?” Bellamy asked, voice choked with tears.

“Like I said, I’m attending.” Anton casually rested an elbow on Bellamy’s shoulder, which he promptly pushed away, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t act like you ever cared about him.” he scoffed.

“Well, I bet he’s talked to me more in the past ninety years than he’s talked to you. Guess that makes me his best friend, huh?” Anton said through a grin.

Anton had always been good at getting under people’s skin, something Bellamy had learned to try to rebuff since as far back as he could remember, having always been around the de Sang family since he was a child. But he was out of practice, and this was a knife straight to the heart.

Bellamy stood there in stony silence, still staring at the gravestone marked Kane de Sang. Fresh tears pooled in his eyes and quickly spilled over. He’d always hated crying in front of Anton. 

“Still a crybaby, Verta? Thought you would’ve grown out of that by now.” Anton sneered. “You and Kane really were a matching set like that.” He nudged the gravestone with his foot.

Bellamy shoved him away. “Don’t.”

“Ah, what’s it matter? He got himself killed doing stupid shit he knew he shouldn’t have been doing. Everyone knew he couldn’t hack having his own human. You’d think having the first one run out on him would be lesson enough. He was an idiot for even trying.” Anton shook his head with a tsk-tsk.

Before Bellamy knew it, he found himself tackling Anton to the ground. He was smaller than Anton, but the older vampire wasn’t expecting it, caught off guard by his sudden attack.

He punched Anton square in the face as hard as he could, something he’d wanted to do ever since he was a child. His parents couldn’t admonish him for it, now.

“Take it back!” he demanded, landing another hit in quick succession as Anton tried to push him off. “Take it back, you bastard!” Tears streamed down Bellamy’s face, his voice broken as he continued to smash his fist into Anton’s face.

“Get off me, you little freak!” With a hard shove, Anton managed to push him away, blood gushing from his broken nose.

“Leave, now.” Bellamy commanded.

“Always the killjoy.” Anton grumbled, but he did leave.

Bellamy was glad he’d declined his friends’ offers to join him. He disliked losing his composure in front of others. It happened so rarely- he was proud to be known as a gentle soul, after the monster his father had tried to turn him into- but even he had his limits.

He went back to staring at the grave. Kane hadn’t been so lucky. He’d tried his best to be the monster his parents wanted him to be, and look where it’d gotten him.

Kane would probably still be alive today, if Bellamy had stayed. He could have given in to Kane’s demands and stayed. They would have moved in together. Even if Kane never felt the same way as Bellamy felt about him, they would have still remained best friends. They would have been happy together.

But that was never a possibility. He never could have stolen an innocent human life away for his own selfish reasons. Countless lives, piling up over the centuries.

It was always going to end this way.

-

sorry for making bellamy cry :(

taglist:

@annablogsposts

@badluck990

@ceph-the-writing-spook

@cicatrix-energy

@crying-wings

@crystalquartzwhump

@cupcakes-and-pain

@cyberneticfire

@darlingwhump

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@down-in-the-whumps

@elrysdoesstuff

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@extemporary-whump

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@harri-00

@iamtheshriekingguineapig

@icyheart-and-friends

@inpainandsuffering

@interdimensional-chaos

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@lactose-intolerant-egg

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@littlespacecastle

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@melancholy-in-the-morning

@morning-star-whump

@msjessmahler

@myhusbandsasemni

@mylifeisonthebookshelf

@neverthelass

@nicolepascaline

@nine-tailed-whump

@no-terms-and-conditions-apply

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@t0rture-me

@whump-blog-reblogs

@whump-cravings

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@whump-me-all-night-long

@whump-my-heart-away

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@wits-and-wrongs

@wolfeyedwitch

[set-phasers-to-whump]

what does it mean, to be alone?

prompt: troubled past resurfacing

whumpee: sakari nurmi

fandom: karppi/deadwind

hi! i will admit i played a little fast and loose with the prompt on this one but this is something i've been wanting to write forever. it's an exploration of sakari's parents' death (following the explanation given in s3) and as such it is quite heavy and fairly graphic so please be mindful of that. hope you enjoy it!

Sakari wakes up to warm, soft sunlight streaming through his curtains. He yawns and rolls over in bed to look at his alarm clock. 

It is almost 10:30. His parents will have made breakfast by now, and he knows there will be a plate waiting for him on the kitchen counter.

He climbs out of bed, leaving the blankets a tangled heap atop the mattress. He tugs on a pair of socks and pulls a hoodie over his head, then makes his way to the bathroom. 

After he brushes his teeth, he spends some time scrutinizing himself in the mirror. His hair is a mess, sticking up on one side and flat on the other, and he tugs his fingers through it until it’s mostly fixed. There’s a pimple on his cheek that wasn’t there yesterday and if he really looks hard he’s pretty sure he can see the faintest shadow of facial hair coming in. Maybe. 

He pads to the kitchen and discovers that there are no signs of anyone else in the house being awake. The room is chilly and dark. There is no smell of coffee, no dishes in the sink, no plate of food awaiting him. 

His parents must be having a very rare lie-in. Sakari heaves a sigh - he’s hungry, and he’d been hoping for his dad’s pancakes. 

He isn’t a very good chef himself, and anyway, his dad is the only one who can make pancakes the way he does. Not even his mom can do it, even with his dad standing over her shoulder and offering advice. 

He’ll have to make do with something else. 

He pours himself a bowl of cereal and decides to make some coffee for his parents. They both tend to be a bit grouchy in the mornings before they’ve had a cup, and Sakari knows that this is especially true when they’ve slept in. 

He fills the machine and switches it on, then takes his cereal to the couch and turns on the TV. He’s not really supposed to eat on the couch because his mom dislikes it when there are crumbs on the cushions, but he’ll be careful. He keeps the TV volume low so as not to wake his parents, watching an episode of an American comedy show that he’s seen before. The smell of coffee permeates the room and makes him feel warm. 

When he’s finished the cereal, Sakari decides he’s had enough of the kind of stupid TV show and switches it off. He puts his bowl and spoon into the sink - he thinks about washing them, but decides that it can wait. Maybe his dad will do it. 

He considers filling two mugs with coffee and bringing them to his parents in bed, but his dad always adds cream and sugar to his and this is simply too many moving parts. He can’t carry two hot mugs and the cream and sugar all at once. Besides, if they decide after he wakes them that they want to go back to sleep, it’ll be for nothing. 

He decides to go wake them up and tell them about the coffee, at least. He wants to ask them whether they’ll buy him a new CD and he knows that the nearby shop is having a sale this weekend, so it’s perfect, really. He thinks they will say yes, and imagines that the coffee will help his cause. 

Sakari walks down the hallway towards his parents’ room. He knocks lightly on the door and when neither of them calls out for him to wait a second, he goes in. 

He doesn’t realize that anything is wrong, at first. The room is dark, curtains drawn tightly across the windows. The air feels a bit stagnant and warm, like sleep. 

“Äiti, Isä.” 

Neither one of them stirs. Sakari approaches the bed on his dad’s side. “Isä,” he repeats, reaching out and jostling his dad’s shoulder. 

He doesn’t move. 

Sakari taps his dad again, then jostles him harder. He recoils when his hand suddenly touches something wet. 

In the dark, he can’t tell what he’s just touched, and he goes into his parents’ bathroom to wash his fingers off. 

He switches on the light and looks down. For a second he doesn’t know what he’s seeing. And then it very quickly dawns on him that the substance on his fingers is blood. 

He leaves the bathroom without washing it off. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest. Something must be wrong. There’s too much blood on his fingers to be from a small cut, but what on earth could have happened? People don’t simply start bleeding for no reason. 

He turns on the lights with his clean hand. It’s shaking. He feels like he can barely breathe. 

His dad remains a lump beneath the navy blue comforter. Looking past him, he sees his mom. He doesn’t see the blood at first, and then he steps closer and realizes that the white sheets and pillowcase his mom is lying on are stained bright red. 

He’s breathing hard and he feels dizzy. He does not want to look any further. 

But he has to. 

He walks around to his mom’s side of the bed, looking at the floor the whole time. 

There is a gun lying there, right beside the bed. It is black and small and he has never seen it before. He swallows hard, then very slowly raises his eyes. 

His mom’s arm is hanging limply off the side of the bed. And there is a hole in her temple and blood everywhere, so much blood, and she isn’t moving and when he touches her face the skin is cold and so she’s dead, but how can she be dead? She can’t be dead. This doesn’t - he doesn’t know what’s happening. Is he dreaming? He pinches himself with trembling fingers, forgetting about the blood on them as it smears onto his sleeve. 

He doesn’t wake up. This is real life, but - how can it be? 

“Äiti,” he says. “Äiti, Äiti.” He shakes her vigorously. This can’t be real. She must be sleeping. His mom can’t be dead. 

She doesn’t move. He’s crying and the tears blur his vision. He shouts for her one last time. The only answer is silence. 

He climbs onto the bed, crawls over her, through the blood, touches his dad’s face. 

His fingers leave bloody prints on the cold skin and - he looks like he’s sleeping, eyes closed and mouth slack, how can he be anything but asleep?

“Isä.”

Nothing. 

He grabs the comforter and pulls it back very slowly. 

The sheets below are also bright red with blood and there is a hole in his dad’s shirt, in his chest, right where his heart is, and his clothes are all bloody and he’s dead. 

Sakari flies off of the bed, stumbling backwards into the hallway. He throws up, right on the carpet, and then falls to his knees. He wants to scream but no sound will come out of his mouth. He sobs instead, gasping and choking on his own breaths. 

He cries for a while, and then at some point he realizes that he needs to call for help. Maybe - maybe they aren’t dead, and a doctor can fix them. Maybe an ambulance will come and they’ll finally wake up and yell at him for calling 112 for no reason. 

He gets to his feet and stumbles along down the hall, still half-blinded by tears. He goes to the kitchen, to the phone, and picks it up. 

His hands are shaking so much that he can scarcely dial the right numbers. The line rings, and a woman’s voice, in English, asks what his emergency is. 

He does not know how to say what he needs to say in English. All the right words have left his brain. Even in Finnish he cannot think of what it is he needs to say. 

“Please help,” is what he eventually whispers down the line. 

“What’s your name?” the woman asks. 

He does not know why this is important, but he tells her anyway. 

“Okay, Sakari, what kind of help do you need?” she asks. She doesn’t say his name quite right. He doesn’t know why it matters. 

“I don’t - I don’t know,” he replies. “My parents, they, they are hurt. Please.” He is still crying, shuddering breaths and sniffs interspersing his words. 

“Where do you live?”

He tells her their address, and she says that help will be there soon. She asks if he wants to keep talking to her, but he doesn’t have anything else to say, and so he hangs up. The phone slips out of his hand and clatters to the floor. 

He doesn’t know what to do, now. He doesn’t want to go back into his parents’ bedroom. He doesn’t want to see any more. 

He decides that the best thing to do is to sit on the couch and wait for help to arrive. It’s close to the door, so he’ll be able to open it when they knock. 

He sits cross-legged on the couch and does not move. He has stopped sobbing, and now silent tears roll continuously down his cheeks. He feels hopelessly young and afraid and confused, and all he wants, in the whole world, is to crawl into his mother’s arms. 

After a little while, he hears a siren out on the street, and perhaps a minute passes and then there is a sharp knock at the front door. 

“Johannesburg fire and rescue,” a voice calls out, and Sakari stands from the couch, nearly falls, and then hurries to open the door. 

There are several people standing in the hallway. They’re carrying bags and they have stretchers and for a few seconds all of them just look at him. 

The one closest to him, a big, tall guy with a bag slung over his shoulder, puts a surprisingly gentle hand on Sakari’s shoulder and guides him further into the apartment so that everyone can get inside. 

“What has happened?” he asks, and Sakari manages to find the right words this time. 

“My parents, they are - they are in their bed and there is blood. They are - I think that they are -”

He cannot say it. He’s breathing heavily again and the man puts a hand on his back and tells him to breathe deeply. 

The other people have disappeared into the apartment. Sakari thinks they are probably in his parents’ room, and all of a sudden he feels that he needs to be there. He needs to be with them. 

He stands up very suddenly and rushes towards his parents’ bedroom before anyone can stop him. The door is open and there are four people standing around the bed and none of them are doing anything to help his parents. 

They don’t notice him at first, and then one of them sees him and starts trying to get him out of the room. 

“Don’t look,” she says, but Sakari has already seen. He knows what is there. 

He ignores her and pushes his way back into the room. One of the people speaks into a radio attached to his jacket. He talks very fast but Sakari hears him say police. 

“Are they -” he starts to ask, but cannot finish the question. 

The woman who had tried to get him to leave looks very upset. She shakes her head and touches his shoulder very gently and just like that he understands. 

They are dead. Really dead. His parents are dead and there was a gun and that man said police so someone has killed them and they are dead. 

The scream that he had been unable to produce earlier now rips its way out of his throat. He sinks to the floor and howls. 

Things go a little bit blurry. His throat hurts and his eyes sting and someone is carrying him even though he is way too old to be carried. They bring him to the bathroom, and he watches as someone else washes his hands. The water runs down the drain ruby red. 

There are voices and footsteps in the hallway. More people are here. 

“Who is here?” he asks. It hurts to speak and his voice sounds funny. 

The man who is with him - the one who he had met first, he’d said his name but Sakari doesn’t remember - says that it is the police. “I’m going to speak to them,” he explains. “And see if they need any help from you.”

Sakari nods mutely. He is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet and looking down at his hands. There is a bit of blood under one of his nails and he cannot stop staring at it. 

The man comes back after a moment with a big plastic bag. “The police would like to borrow your clothes,” he says. Sakari looks down at himself and for the first time realizes that his sweatshirt and pajama bottoms are covered in blood. 

He is left alone in his bedroom to change. He strips off all his clothes - he isn’t sure whether they need his t-shirt and underwear, since they are clean, but he decides it is better to give them everything. 

He puts on a pair of jeans and a new shirt. He wants to take a shower, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. He feels like there is blood all over his skin. 

The man returns and takes the bag of clothes. Then he asks Sakari whether he would like to go to the police station. The police want to talk to him. 

Sakari nods. He does not have anywhere else to go. 

They go back into the hallway and there are a lot of people standing around. They are talking to each other and the door to his parents’ room has been closed. Sakari stares at it, and a police officer catches him looking and shakes his head. 

Sakari follows a whole group of people out of the apartment. None of them are really looking at him, and they’re all very quiet. He wants to scream again but he is exhausted and does not have the strength for it. 

He rides in the back of a police car to the station. The two officers, a man and a woman, speak quietly to each other in the front seat, and if Sakari unfocuses his eyes they look like his mom and dad. 

He looks at them and tries to imagine that they really are his parents. That they are driving somewhere exciting. But he can’t maintain the illusion, because he knows with horrible certainty that they are dead and they are gone forever. 

He leans his head against the window. Tears of pure exhaustion drip down his cheeks and his breath fogs up the glass. 

Not even halfway to the station, he falls asleep. One of the officers carries him inside, and Sakari does not so much as stir. He is deposited gently onto a couch, and left undisturbed. No one has the heart to wake him, this thirteen-year-old boy who is suddenly completely alone in the world. 

He sleeps dreamlessly for twelve hours, and there is a brief, blissful moment when he first wakes where he does not remember what has happened to him. 

And then he remembers. He feels numb and disconnected from everything, and when a police officer tries to talk to him, he finds that he cannot say a single word. 

thank you for reading!