#assassin whumpee

[distracted-obsessions]

Ok, but imagine Villain/Henchman/Assassin Whumpee being found by the heroes while they raided Supervillain Whumper's lair and they take Whumpee into custody. They don't handcuff Whumpee because they aren't fighting back (either too injured or in shock) but as they lead Whumpee out of the lair, Whumpee stops.

"Did you find them?"

"Find who?"

Whumpee pulls away from them and goes deeper into the lair. Every time the heroes grab them, they get more and more distressed, saying that they can't leave. They won't leave. After a minute, they start screaming out a name that the heroes don't recognize.

Just as one of the heroes goes to knock Whumpee out, they see a child crawl out from under the stairs and run straight for Whumpee who drops to their knees and hugs the child tightly, shushing their cries and whispering soft, comforting words. "Shh, it's ok. Mommy/Daddy is here. I'm ok. We're ok. it's ok. Shh."

[chaotic-orphan]

The Assassin’s Hamartia

“Ah… I see it now,” Bounty Hunter said. Assassin kept her gaze fixed ahead of her, which just so happened to be into the fire that they were camped around for the evening. Bounty Hunter bound her wrists behind her back, and while they were camping, bound her wrists to her ankles so she couldn’t get away too quickly without causing a commotion.

Bounty Hunter propped her chin up with the tip of his boot that made Assassin physically recoil. Bounty Hunter laughed. A loud, harsh sound. “The terrifying Assassin, the scourge of the Kingdom, is afraid of dirt?”

Assassin wanted to level Bounty Hunter with a glare. Tell him he was a fool and an idiot for suggesting such a ridiculous notion. Instead, she tried to look away, her cheeks heated with a pink shame.

“Hold on, Darlin’,” Bounty Hunter said as he crouched down and took her chin between his calloused, dirty fingers and forced her to look up into his smiling brown eyes. “The Queen of blood is afraid of not having a shower?”

“You’re just reciting all my titles from bards,” Assassin spat. “You must be a fan.”

“And you’re not denying you’re a little princess, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me that,” Assassin hissed, struggling to free her arms. “Aren’t you just supposed to bring me back to the King? Not talk me to death.”

“I can do whatever I like to you, sweetheart,” he said and the threat hung in the air like one of Assassin’s knives; poised over the jugular, ready to strike. “Oh yes. Which means…”

Without finishing his sentence, Bounty Hunter slapped a pile of mud against Assassin’s cheek and she gasped, her head flinging to the side. “I can do that.”

“No,” Assassin said, shrugging, trying to get the dirt off her cheek. This is ridiculous. How the fuck had he seen that after only being with her for a few hours?! Not even her closest confidants knew that, nevermind her enemies— he… “Please, please. Get it off.”

Bounty Hunter laughed and got to his feet, walking back over to his tree and with a satisfied sigh he dropped and reclined against the bark, smirking at Assassin over the flames.

“I like to get down and dirty, darlin’. You just have to put up and shut up. But I do like to see how you squirm with a bit of mud. I may as well have shot your dog or summat.”

Assassin glared at him. Bounty Hunter smirked. “Well, have fun with that. We ride at dawn.”

[whumpwillow]

here have a thing

warnings: past torture, death mention, bugs mention (mosquitos), blood, associated misery

—

They were, in theory, alone.

The group made their way through what they’d thought was a deserted mangrove. That was the primary reason they’d chosen it as the landing pad for their airship, as the sonar array hadn’t detected any other vessels in the area, nor were there any nearby settlements. They planned it this way so they could avoid coming into contact with any other people.

That was, until they came across the man stumbling through the forest, covered in blood. Leader drew the stun gun from his waist belt and pointed it at the man, who took no notice of them. Friend subtly positioned himself in front of Caretaker, but she could still see the gory images played out in front of her.

The man was alone, and wearing nothing but a tattered pair of work slacks. His chest and feet were bare, save for the grievous wounds that marred them. His body bent forward at the waist, head hanging low, and his muscles contorted with each strangled breath. He’d put his forearm to a tree next to him and seemed to be trying to regain balance or stability or energy or something—Caretaker couldn’t tell. She didn’t know how he was even alive right now.

His head was downturned and his hair, wet and sticky with blood, was so plastered to his skin that his face was indiscernible. Blood streamed down it, as well as from numerous other wounds on his body.

They were…not the sort of wounds one would get from being lost in the forest. They were too precise. Intentional.

“Stay back,” Leader said, in his usual stern but smooth baritone.

The injured man flinched, having registered the sound, but all it did was quicken his breathing. Leader took a step toward him.

Caretaker couldn’t stop staring. Eyes wide, she observed every gash, every burn, every bruise. The wounds were fresh and weeping, but it had to have been a few days at least that the man had been wandering through the forest. He was covered in mud that mixed with the crimson that dripped from his wounds, likely having infected them already. Little red dots scattered across his skin showed that he’d been food for the mosquitos, and small scratches on his arms and legs looked more like the injuries gotten from foliage rather than…direct intent.

How he got the other wounds…Caretaker didn’t want to think too hard about it.

“Who are you?” Leader asked.

The injured man didn’t respond. His arms and legs shook something fierce, and had been the entire time. Whether it was from exhaustion or fear, Caretaker didn’t know.

“Looks like he got pretty fucked up,” Friend chimed in. “He one of ours?”

Leader grumbled something under his breath. “Blackdoor would do that.”

Caretaker pushed herself out from behind Friend and moved quickly up to where Leader was standing. She put a hand on his arm and looked him in the eyes.

“Come on,” she said. “Put the gun down. He’s clearly hurt.”

Leader eyed her stonily. His gaze flicked from Caretaker’s face to the nearly doubled-over body of the injured man and back, though the hand holding the gun never wavered or shook.

“It could be a trap,” he said.

Caretaker put a hand on her hip and used the other to gesture to the mysterious man. “Does it fucking look like one?”

Leader didn’t respond, except to reach to her as she moved forward to go to the injured man. He lifted his head minutely, but with the blood and his hair plastered to his face, she couldn’t make out what he looked like. But she knew he was watching her.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you need help?”

She raised a hand to touch him but he flinched back, stumbling over a root and falling to the ground. Leader shouted and darted forward, and Caretaker felt herself being pulled away from the spot before she could even blink.

She fumbled with the roots and leaves for a bit, but Friend came up behind her and put his arms on her shoulders to steady her. Leader had one foot on the injured man’s chest and was pointing the stun gun directly at his face.

“What are you doing here, Whumpee?” he shouted.

Whumpee. the assassin.

Caretaker shivered. She’d only encountered him once, but she’d been through enough danger at the hands of Blackdoor to know they didn’t mess around and they didn’t hold back.

Whumpee held up his hands over his face. “Pl-please, please, please—you can’t—I’m not—please—I’m—,” he begged, words coming out in short gasps.

His hands shook as he tried to protect himself from whatever he thought was coming. Caretaker could still barely see his face through the blood. Leader didn’t relent, trying to question him on his intentions, but they all already knew what his objective was.

To kill Caretaker.

She stepped up beside him, ignoring Leader’s protests. “What happened to you?”

Whumpee didn’t respond. The begging seemed to take precedence and Caretaker turned to look at Leader, wondering if she had enough persuasion skills to get him to put the gun away.

“You’re hurting him,” she said.

“He was sent to kill you,” Leader said. His eyes blazed with something dark and obsessive. “He fucking killed my brother.”

Caretaker knew Leader had been consumed with revenge ever since the attack that had killed his brother, orchestrated by none other than Blackdoor’s very own assassin. She’d seen the way he stared out the window of the airship as they moved through the sky, the light in his eyes giving way to something else entirely as he talked about how he’d get his revenge. But this wasn’t the way.

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose to relieve the building tension. “Yes, I know. I was there. I saw him die on that operating table too,” she began. “But we can’t kill Whumpee here. We can get vital information from him about Blackdoor.”

Friend drew up behind Caretaker and peered around her shoulder to look up at Leader. “And about Team Member! I need to know what he did with Team Member!”

Whumpee groaned, writhing in the mud under Leader’s boot still placed on his sternum. Caretaker glanced down at him and then back at Leader, not wanting to think about how much it must have hurt those bruises staining every inch of skin she could see that wasn’t already covered in mud and blood. Deep purples, blues, greens, and browns made him look more like a piece of abstract art rather than a person.

“…scaped…” Whumpee murmured, almost inaudibly.

Friend crouched down. “What’d you say?”

Whumpee turned his head weakly in Friend’s direction. “He escaped…she let him go…when she caught me.”

He panted heavily, drawing in breaths with great effort. It seemed speaking even this little bit had exhausted him.

Caretaker gave Leader a look that she hoped conveyed to him that he should at least take his foot off the assassin’s chest. Leader understood and acquiesced, stepping back. He didn’t holster the stun gun.

Whumpee took in a deep breath once Leader’s weight was off him, but then immediately whinged in pain. His face crumbled like paper. Friend twisted his mouth to the side, a look of displeased understanding on his face.

“His ribs are probably broken. Sucks to take in a breath when it feels like you’re getting stabbed,” he noted.

Caretaker crouched down next to him. “Who caught you? Did the Eighth Chasm do this?”

The Eighth Chasm leader had a temper to match her fiery red hair. Caretaker would never have expected her to do something like this, but she also had never actually met the woman, so she supposed she couldn’t make such snap judgments. Leader had been the one to feed the information to her, and as much as he liked to think of himself as rational and stoic, he often let his emotions color his perception of things.

Whumpee shook his head, creating a sloshing noise of his hair going back and forth in the mud. “Montrose family,” was all he said before letting the silence hang in the air between the four of them.

Caretaker looked up at Leader, wondering if this was someone new he would tell her about, but his face displayed as much confusion as hers likely did. Leader’s eyebrows knitted together in concentration, but he finally shook his head.

“Is that part of Blackdoor?” Friend asked.

“Why would Blackdoor do this to their own operative?” Caretaker responded to Friend’s question with another question. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Whumpee heaved another strained breath. His eyelids fluttered, closed, and then opened again after a long pause.

“They didn’t like Blackdoor operating out of New York City…said it was their territory,” Whumpee said. His bottom lip trembled, but he didn’t seem to realize. His eyes glazed over for a moment before he spoke again.

“They sent one of their operatives to kill me and Septimus…hah, and all this,” he gestured at his battered body. “This was just for fun.”

[thewhumpcaretaker]

John Wick: *collapses under a blanket on a cold, hard floor*

Me: *hyperfixates violently*

That man on the right with the crazed look in his eyes? That's me. Ya'll don't understand. John pulled a blanket over himself onscreen in the actual movies. Like he had to get cozy because he was bleeding out and scared and definitely in shock. HE PULLED THE BLANKET. OVER HIMSELF. AAAAAAAAAAAA -

[befuddled-calico-whump]

some Lex comfort…if you will 😌

Wishful Thinking/Remember the Why

[whumpdaydreamerx]

An assassin Whumpee leaning against their car door after completing a job. Replaying what unfolded just moments before, having been ordered, threatened, to kill a family of five.

All at once, their resolve fractures as a thunderstorm breaks. Gun still in their gloved hand, they bring their palms up to rest on their eyes as they begin to sob. Whumpee slides down the car as they weep over what they’ve done. As they sit there huddled into themselves, soaked to their skin with rain, a switch flips.

Once they regain composure, they make a promise to themselves. From this moment forward, they vowed to do everything in their power to take down the organization they worked for. Save their threatened family, redeem themselves, and protect future targets.

[cepheusgalaxy]

the good boy prompt got me

Assassin/hired gun Whumpee prompts :)

Because sm of you asked about the assassin Whumpee/guard dog Whumpee prompts from my physical position whump post (which I now know are called stress positions, thank you to the person in the comments of that post), I’ve decided to make a list of just assassin themed prompts :) Enjoy <3

NON CON TOUCHING, VIOLENT/HUMILIATING LANGUAGE, HUMILIATION IN GENERAL, PHYSICAL ABUSE, SORT OF IMPLIED SA? ITS NOT MENTIONED OR ALLUDED TO VERY CLEARLY, BUT IT CAN BE DEDUCED FROM THE DESCRIPTIONS OF WHUMPEE’S INJURIES.

Note the running theme of possessive Whumper ;)

“You can’t. It’s gone��too far, Whumper; don’t do this.” Whumpee protests, shaking his head. His voice is firm but his mind is racing; he’s never questioned his boss’ orders quite so blatantly before. Whumper’s expression is blank for a millisecond, before his face splits into a twisted grin. “You think I need your permission, Whumpee?” He laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Whumpee’s every instinct scream at him to either turn tail or blast Whumper to kingdom come. He knows better than to try either. “I f*%#$ing own you.” The mirth in Whumper’s face drains away, is replaced by low, simmering fury. He grabs Whumpee by his throat, forcing out of him an involuntary gasp, and rubs his thumb over his pulse point. "You’re nothing- not even a person, really. Just a bloody gun.“ Whumpee tries his best to look indignant, fails, ends up looking pathetically hurt instead. Whumper doesn’t care, tightens his hold around his neck in response. "And don’t you f%#@&ing forget it.”

Assassin Whumpee who’s bruised and battered; a direct result of Whumper; not any mission gone awry. He stands behind Whumper while he negotiates with the buyer, exuding charisma, control- dominance. He’s the perfect opposite of Whumpee. A soft shuffling sound catches his attention. One of the buyer’s armed guards, a ways away, has his eyes set on him. But not his face, or his gun - his neck. His neck, where Whumper’s hand prints are plain against his skin, where Whumper had pulled down his collar far enough to reveal his initials, his brand, burned into him. Where Whumper’s bite marks are starting to turn a horrible greyish-purple. Somehow, ever omnipotent, Whumper half glances back at Whumpee, smirks. Whumpee’s face burns red. He planned this. He fixes the guard with a glare. God, now Whumpee’s actually praying for the deal to go bad.

A dog tired Whumpee who’s been awake for days, running point on missions for Whumper non-stop. He can’t take it anymore. “Please.” He murmurs reluctantly, ashamed to admit he’s finally reached his limit. “I need to sleep.” Whumper, who’s back had been facing Whumpee, straightens up, slowly turns around. There’s a fire in his eyes that makes Whumpee’s mouth run dry. “Do you?” He closes the gap between them, grabs the front of Whumpee’s shirt to pull his head down. Whumper’s other hand reaches into Whumpee’s back pocket, fingers wrap around the handle of his pistol. Whumpee feels the muzzle pressed into his temple. “What you need is to put a bullet in your next target.” Whumper clicks the safety off and Whumpee shudders. “Or I’ll put one in you.”

Crime lord Whumper is leant back against the front of his heavy, mahogany desk, long legs crossed at the ankles and stretched out in front of him. His weight is braced on his arms; shirt rolled up to his elbows and fingers curled around the edge of the desk. He tilts his head playfully, watches as an emotionally and physically drained Whumpee lowers himself onto his knees just by his feet. “Sir.” He murmurs hollowly, head hung low. “It’s done.” Whumper’s grin widens, eyes light up. “Good boy.” And despite himself, something in Whumpee keens.

A Whumper who has Caretaker captured, bound to a chair. A Whumper who has his Whumpee dutifully knelt at his feet, facing his friend, but his eyes are fixed on the ground. “You wouldn’t believe how obedient this one is, Caretaker. How eager to please. He follows orders remarkably well.” Whumpee looks up at him, shakes his head in a frantic, desperate way. He’s begging. Begging to preserve his dignity; The person he was before all of this. The person he still is to Caretaker. Whumper smiles. “You should sit in on some of his missions, watch the way he kills, the way he tortures.” He inhales sharply. “It’s almost artistic.” Caretaker looks at Whumpee; shock, pity and more than a little badly concealed disgust plain in his eyes. Whumpee is humiliated. Whumper is exuberant.

Some fun dialogue ⬇️ ;)

The slimy business man eyes Whumpee predatorily. “You’ve got a helluva gunman there. How much for his services?” Whumper’s face darkens. “He’s not for sale.” Whumpee smiles bitterly. Whumper’s not exactly in the habit of sharing.

“Pretty dog,” the man jerks his head in Whumpee’s direction. “Does it bite?” It’s a thinly veiled question. Whumper smiles like a shark, all teeth, and raises an eyebrow. “Only when it’s told.”

“Please don’t make me do this. I- I’m begging you.” Whumpee says softly, watching his friend’s movements down the scope of his rifle. Whumper lowers himself down, lips by his ears. When he speaks, it sends a thrum of electricity through Whumpee’s body. “Take the f%#@&ing shot.”

“But I - I failed you.” Whumpee frowns, shaking his head. Whumper gives him a smile. He rolls one of the bloodied bodies on the floor over to it’s front. “I wouldn’t say so.”

Whumpee hisses as Whumper presses a little too hard on one of his wounds. Whumper gives him a humoured smile in leiu of an apology - not that Whumpee was expecting one anyway. The whole ’tending to his injuries’ thing is out of character enough. “You’re pretty like this.” Whumper hums, presses down hard with the guaze again. Whumpee squeezes his eyes shut, pain making his head turn. “Then why are you helping me?” He bites out, gasping as Whumpee’s gloved fingers dig into his wound. Whumper’s eyes twinkle, corners of his mouth quirking upwards. “Can’t play with a broken toy.”

Whump is such a big part of my life guys I be listening to a song and think “hm, what a pleasant song to torture one of my characters to.” I think it’s bad too because they ain’t even sad songs they just sound like something my whumper would hurt someone to idk 💀.

[whumperofworlds]

"Can I help you, Whumpee?"

*holds up a drink* "This is poison, Whumper! Please drink it!"

"...My, this is certainly an honest assassination attempt, Whumpee..."

[jordanstrophe]

Abandoned whumpee: Final 1/2

CW: Betrayal, team whump, whumper turned caretaker, assassination attempt, hurt/comfort, annggsst

[Previous] - [Masterlist] - [Next]

Whumper watched over whumpee all throughout the night. Whumpee would wake up, not remember where they were, then struggle until whumper soothed them back asleep.

Whumper knew the sleepless nights would catch up with them eventually. They downed a tall cup of coffee, hoping to stay awake until morning...

------

Whumpee woke up that morning staring wide-eyed at whumper fast asleep on the bed with them. "Hey." Whumpee spoke, testfully poked whumper's arm. They groaned, but remained out cold.

Whumpee climbed over them and touched their bare foot to the floor, they immediately felt something cold as they flinched. There was spilt coffee at the foot of the bed along with an assortment of papers. They were badly stained, any information whumpee could have gleaned were long gone.

A silver key was dangling from whumper's pocket. If whumpee couldn't find information here, then there would be something elsewhere.

They clutched the key and snuck out of the infirmary. There were guards patrolling the halls as whumpee ducked around the corner. They let the guards pass, before slipping into the hall behind them. Whumpee tried every door they passed, all locked tight and the key fit none of them.

There was one last engraved door at the end of the hall. Whumpee heard the guards coming back around as they trembled and kept missing the keyhole. There was a silent *click* as the door swung open. Whumpee jumped in and shut the door behind them, taking a deep sigh of relief.

They stood in what seemed to be whumper's office; a large wooden desk, walls adorned with weapons, massive bookshelves. Everything whumpee expected whumper's office to look like, really.

They turned on a lamp and rooted through the desk. There were moundfuls of documents detailing whumpee's team. There were things here whumpee didn't even know... Things they weren't classified to know. They were told whumper was a murderer, someone who killed on sight; they took no prisoners and mercy was unheard of.

"Then why did you save me?" Whumpee whispered, looking at a framed picture of whumper proudly standing with their team. "Why capture me for intel if you had it already?"

In the depths of a drawer, whumpee found a roughly bound journal. It was branded with whumpee's team logo. They recognized it; each team carried one to document missions. Even whumpee had their own, though this one looked ancient...

They opened the first page before suddenly, the door opened and the lights flashed on. Whumpee gasped and dropped the book, frozen as they looked up like a deer in headlights. The person staring back had the very same expression. Horror, adrenaline, confusion.

-It was one of whumpee's teammates, dressed darkly and hooded as they took an astonished step towards whumpee.

"Whumpee? You're alive?" They whispered. "How? We thought they killed you." They gasped. Whumpee covered their mouth and clambered back to their feet. They were flooded with relief seeing a friendly face. They tried to figure out how to say a million words in a single breath.

"It's a long story-" Whumpee heaved, "I've been kept here by whumper, I got hurt in the attack and I-I was bleeding out and I was-" Whumpee trailed off with a flicker of doubt. They knew their team would think whumpee betrayed them if they were found alive in whumper's custody. The amount of intel that could be tortured out of them...

"I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't looking right at you." Their teammate filled in the silence, taking a step closer. "To think all this time, you survived..."

They didn't sound happy. Both of their eyes dropped to the journal between their feet, branded with their symbol.

"Ah, I see... So you found it." Their teammate stared.

"Found what? What have you not told me?" Whumpee demanded.

They crouched down to pick up the book, as they heard a *sswick* of a blade being unsheathed. Whumpee stopped in their tracks. They slowly looked up and stared into the tip of a blade and the eyes of someone who was no ally.

"I really am sorry." Their teammate whispered softly. "But you died that day, whumpee. It has to stay that way, for the good of all of us. You understand, don't you?" They took a step closer as whumpee snatched the book in their arms and backed away.

"Oh, come on, don't make this difficult. You've died once for us already. You can do it one more time, can't you?" They tilted their head.

"Can't I know why?" Whumpee's voice broke as their back hit the wall. "I- I didn't give you up, I didn't tell whumper anything. They weren't even what I thought they were... They weren't what you told me!" Whumpee suddenly shouted.

"I'm sure you didn't, you were always loyal. But it was never about that."

The blade came to their throat as whumpee shuttered and closed their eyes. The sound of a blade piercing flesh, a hot splatter of blood hit their chest, yet they felt nothing but cold adrenaline.

There was hollow silence. Whumpee opened their eyes, their teammate's face was blank as they sunk to the floor on their knees. Their silhouette was replaced by whumper, holding a dripping blade with a look of pure hatred.

"They dare set foot in my house!?" Whumper shouted. Their eyes suddenly darted to whumpee, who flinched. Their back was to the corner, face stained with blood, they trembled while hugging the journal to their chest.

"How did you get- ... No, one thing at a time." Whumper stopped themselves, putting the blade out of sight. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?" They asked instead, nudging the corpse off their feet.

"I'm- ... I'm not hurt." Whumpee responded rapidly, trying not to show they were gasping for breath. "They were going to k-kill me." Whumpee touched their fingers to their chest where their teammates blood was splattered. "And you just... S-saved my life..."

"As much as I want to gloat and say I told you so- I'm just glad I got here when I did. Come with me, let's get you changed and we'll talk." Whumper held out their hand.

To be continued, 2/2

[Previous] - [Masterlist] - [Next]

@parasitebunny @starzabove @frog-hat-fa-ggot @morning-star-whump @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @mommymarichatfurever​  @isita-torrrres @tobiaslut @anonintrovert @sausages-things

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whump Prompt 143

Write something inspired by this scene:

The autumn day is beautiful and cool. For just a few minutes, whumpee can almost imagine that he's free.

But then it happens. The change begins, and his control, his mind, start to slip away.

"Please no...not now...this can't be happening n—"

Transformed into the living weapon that he is, whumpee can only think of two things: his target's face, and a single word that pulses through him: destroy.

[abhainnwhump]

I will never turn down a Whumper going out to assassinate Whumpee, only to realize they're too sweet and/or pretty and they can't do it, falling in love with Whumpee instead. They know their boss is going to probably kill them, but they refuse to harm, much less kill Whumpee. They don't deserve it.

[whumperoni-and-wheeze]

[A] and [B] are career assassins. [A] is mortally wounded during a hit, [B] agrees to drive them to the hospital and leave them there. [B] is bad at comforting [A] and barely fighting hysterics, instead just repeating the same lines with increasing desperation:

"I swear to God, [A], you're not gonna die."

"You're gonna be fine bud, just stay with me, it's just a few miles."

"How're you doing back there?"

"Tell me what's happening [A]"

"I'm not gonna live with myself if you die back there [A]."

(Bonus points if [C] and [B] keep yelling back and forth while [A] bleeds out.)

"Step on it [B] we're losin 'em!"

"Shut the FUCK up, I'm gettin us there!"

[ghostf1ux]

The Demon's Sword: A New Life (A New Death)

Day 3: Pinned Down

Word Count: 5.2k

TW/CWs: Living Weapon things (manipulation, conditioning, etc etc), dehumanization, usage of it/its for pronouns (for dehumanizing reasons)

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 ->

-------------------------------------------------------

Before, there was quiet, comforting darkness. The kind that wrapped you up, swaddled you like a baby and made you feel like you were floating in eternal bliss.

It was nice.

It was peace.

It was rest.

And then… it faded away.

Something happened. It's a blur, lost to a fractured mind's memory.

But then there's green.

Acidic, toxic, evil, disgusting green.

Green like maniacal, cackling laughter reverberating through a broken bird's skull.

Green like swishing robes and hushed whispers and fear and a twisted perversion of life.

Green like drowning, burning liquid filling his lungs, filling his veins and ripping him apart and stitching him back together and everything is pain and everything is hurt and everything is green green green–

The boy– not a boy anymore, not with how the green, the Pit has rewritten him– screams a guttural, agonized scream as he claws himself to the surface and–

And why does that feel so familiar? Choking and drowning and burning and stabbing and hurting and dad it hurts so much, please help me, please– 

Hands burning against his skin like acid rip him out of the toxic water, ignoring his thrashing in favor of following orders. Orders he can't hear, not over the blood rushing in his ears, not over his gagging as he throws up that glowing green nectar of hatred and carnage, not over his awkward scrambling for anything of use as he finds his own body to be unfamiliar and foreign to him.

The hands move him around, pushing and pulling and shoving and hitting and hurting. His nerves are alight, the slightest touch feeling like an open flame against his skin. He doesn't know how many there are– too many– that shove his shoulders to the ground and drive a knee into his back, pinning his legs so he can't kick them off while a fistful of his hair is yanked back. More force his mouth open and shove something inside, something harsh and metallic that fits almost perfectly to the backs of his teeth and doesn't quite let him bite down all the way, but close. Enough that he can close his lips and nothing more. Something else, attached to that, pushes down on his tongue, keeping it flat and pinned to the floor of his mouth. Useless.

He rips his head out of the grip holding him there, roaring at everything else that comes even close.

It doesn't deter them. They grab at him again, this time more forcefully, the metal pressing painful lines into the roof and floor of his mouth. Something hooks and slides and snaps into place over his mouth, and briefly, he panics, but it subsides when he finds himself still able to breathe, if with a little more difficulty than before. It's solid, and heavy, and digs into his skin under his jaw and across his nose and cheeks, but only just barely obscures his breathing. Not nearly enough to hinder him in any way, but when he tries to open his mouth he finds it’s plenty to keep him from doing that ever again.

Despite that, he fights. He snarls, he growls, he struggles. Even when his arms are pinned behind him with thick metal shackles, he tries to squirm his way out of the grip of the hands.

Eventually, it works. The hands– they let go, and he's blissfully aware of the respite it gives his skin, his nerves that feel like a naked live wire.

When they try to return, he lashes out on instinct, in desperation, to get them away from him again. Blinded by the green as he is, he's painfully aware of the warm wetness splashing over his hands and his arms and his face and his chest as he moves from one obstacle to another– just trying to get away, to get safe, to get home– 

When nothing reaches out to touch him he pauses, breaths heaving and irregular and stuttering and raspy. Something within him settles, for now, at least. The green bleeds away and– 

His eyes widen at the scene around him. Blood splatters coat the stalagmites and pool under the twelve bodies surrounding him. All the forms are unmoving, crimson coating every surface in sight. The only other color is that wretched green, shining brightly, acidically, despite the gore piled around him like a fucked up ritual circle.

He falls to his knees, uncaring of the way the blood splashes up onto his bare legs and the rough stone digs into his knees. Something stirs and twists within him. It's not guilt. He doesn't feel guilty. It was self defense.

It's… he doesn't want to say it's satisfaction. It's not satisfaction. This– he isn't satisfied by this. He doesn't take any pleasure in this. The blood, the gore, the senseless violence of it all, the way it makes his blood burn hotter, brighter, excitement and adrenaline coursing through his veins as the green takes and takes and takes– 

“Alzali,” a man's voice– smooth and oily, like a snake– barks from behind him. He whips his head around, staring up at the man who called him by that name– it's wrong, he knows it's wrong, but he doesn't know what's right– with narrowed eyes and a growl building in his chest. The woman beside him– she's younger, but they look similar (and very familiar)– tuts, manicured nails hooking into the underside of the muzzle and pulling up. The metal hooked to the inside of his mouth digs into the back of his teeth and forces him to follow the motion. He is left teetering dangerously on his knees with his hands useless behind his back, the smallest misplacement of weight ready to send him careening so only the metal digging into his teeth holds him up. She produces a chain– thinner than a traditional one, but no less strong– that gets hooked into a small gap across the front crease of the muzzle.

“As I said. The perfect candidate to become the Sword of the Al Ghuls,” the woman murmurs, her voice thick and sweet as honey, but with a bitter, deadly undercurrent that sets his instincts on edge. Her hand that had hooked under the muzzle before now rests heavily in his hair, idly combing through it. He growls, lurching away, but she just pulls the chain attached to the muzzle taut and the metal in his mouth follows the chain, dragging him back to her side so she can rest her hand in his hair a little more firmly this time. “Some training will be required, but that was predicted.”

“See to it that it happens swiftly,” the older man replies, glaring through bright green eyes at him. He levels the man with his own heated glare, not backing down until there's the cold press of razor-sharp metal against his throat. “You would do well to respect your betters. Always remember that you exist at my sufferance. You are a weapon, a Sword, who answers to the Demons alone and will serve only to be used by the Demons alone. You exist to kill, and nothing more.”

When he responds with nothing more than his defiant, continued glare, the woman tugs sharply on the chain with another tut of disappointment. “He shall spend his time in the Cage for the foreseeable future.”

“Begin its training following that. I expect results by the year's end,” the man hisses, sheathing his katana and turning with only the whisper-quiet swish of his cape signaling his departure.

The woman watches as he leaves, then tugs sharply on the chain again. “Alzali–” she snaps, only waiting a mere few moments for him to begrudgingly scramble to his feet before he's tugged along by the muzzle.

She keeps the ‘leash’ short as he's led through the compound. Memories flitter about in the dark haze that is his mind, and somewhere along the way, whether he remembers it or simply puts the context clues together, or some combination of the two, he deduces that this is the League of Assassins. Or Shadows, depending on who you ask. The man from before was Ra's Al Ghul, the leader of the League. The woman currently leading him to who fucking knows where? Talia Al Ghul, Ra's’ daughter. Both master assassins, incredibly dangerous, and people he really does not want to be in this position with.

Alas, it seems that even with his new lease on life he was still dealt a shit hand. 

------------------------

Through the winding, nearly identical passageways of the Nanda Parbat, it's not long before he's all sorts of turned around and confused. Not that he can turn his head to take in any potential details, with the chain keeping his head pointed forward.

Talia stops before a large, plain door, at least compared to all the others. When she leads him inside, he's surprised to see it open into a wider arena. Not the actual floor of the arena, but instead to the outer stands of it. It's not big, could maybe hold between a hundred and two hundred people in the stands. Despite the size, it's not nearly full.

Figures clad in dark robes line the stands, heads snapping to stare at him. Calculating, assessing, predatory eyes, from every angle, from every side. He can feel them tracing over his every step and movement, noting every imperfection, cataloging every weakness.

He has a lot of those. He knows. Because with every step, he nearly stumbles. His weight is all off. His balance, as a result, is fucked. He can't even imagine what it might look like, might feel like, to go through any more complicated motions that used to be muscle memory, because his skin itches and pulls and it's not right, it's not fucking right.

Talia stops him on the edge of the sunken arena, unclipping the chain off the muzzle and letting the shackles clatter to the dusty ground behind him.

He only gets a glimpse of everything around him before Talia shoves him over the ledge and he falls the ten or so feet down into the sand-floored arena.

He manages to catch himself before he completely crashes into the sand, and it's a good fucking thing too because not even two seconds later there's someone on top of him with something bright and sharp and dangerous and the green flares up in response. He's suddenly aware of everything and nothing– the gloved hands grabbing him, punching him, beating him, his desperate and clumsy struggle to fight back, the inferno rushing through his veins that tints everything that horrible, awful green, making the roar of blood in his ears sound like that evil, haunting cackling– but not the silence of the crowd, not the scuffling of feet against the sand, not his own gasps of pain when the dagger or sword or whatever rips into his body ruthlessly, mercilessly. If he thought his body was strung like a fucking live wire before it's nothing compared to now, and he screams, he knows he screams, but he doesn't hear it, not over the cackling, not over the feeling of his flesh fucking melting– or at least what feels like it– and certainly not over that shrill, ear-piercing whistle that manages to break through everything else. It's sharp as the katana that nearly sliced open his throat earlier, an unspoken command he doesn't know the meaning of, can't quite place the intent.

He throws the body off him, snarling and using the wall to help him find his balance.

That whistle fucking burrows into his brain, ringing in his ears.

The green flares from an inferno to an erupting volcano, and everything else…

Disappears.

------------------------

Everything becomes a haze of green.

His life becomes a cycle of pain, a desperate struggle to fight off every attacker that comes for him, then choking (usually, sometimes it's just his restructured bones cracking and grinding together until unconsciousness takes him if he’s not choking on his own blood from his throat being slit), then drowning, then everything hurting way too fucking much, and then it repeats.

Over.

And over.

And over.

And over.

Until he doesn't know how many times it's been that he's died and been forcefully sewn back together with fiery green threads.

Until he doesn't know how long it's been since the first time he learned to breathe again, and that godawful muzzle was fitted onto him, and he was called “Alzali” for the first time.

Until the last time he drank anything other than the venomous green he drowned in and the blood he after choked on is nothing but a distant memory.

Until he doesn't even remember what anything tasted like in his mouth besides the metal hooked behind his teeth to keep the muzzle in place, and the grains of sand that made it in through the little gaps.

Until rest and respite were just two distant words with no meaning, no hope to them, because even in unconsciousness he never got the rest, and in death he would always be ripped from it back into the cold.

He’s learning to expect it.

------------------------

Somewhere along the way, he stopped needing to be thrown in the Pit as often as he used to.

And when that happened, somehow it all got worse.

When he used to be brought to the Cage to be pitted against the League's members, he was now brought there for formal training to refine his skills. Of course, that was just a glorified way to say he was still being beaten within an inch of his life, just, now he couldn't kill the person doing it to him.

Not for lack of trying.

With the beginning of every match, he would start on the defensive. Talia would watch on impassively until he was unable to get up, and throw him into the little two-by-four foot cell she liked to shove him in to recuperate. When the injuries were bad enough, he was tossed right back in the Pit, then the cell. When they weren't, the residual healing effects would take care of it in the three or so days at a time he'd spend curled up in the silent, suffocating darkness.

After long enough of only minimal improvement, it became clear that even with them forcing him to fight, he would have no motivation if all he knew was pain and suffering.

So one day, after god knows how long of him being locked up in that cramped, suffocating cell, Talia came to let him out. Instead of leading him back to the Cage, however, she led him to another cell that was devoid of anything resembling a room besides the fact that it was big enough to let him spread out at least twice over, and contained a small mat in the corner. He was tossed in, but that didn’t stop his exhausted gaze from turning confused and suspicious at the sight of the space, the small bottle of water, and small thermos of… something, on the ground.

“Drink. You will have six hours here. When your skills improve, you will be brought back here instead of the cell.” Talia tugs him closer before fiddling with something on the front of the muzzle, and, amazingly, takes it off. The metal bit remains in his mouth, but just the feeling of the air on the lower half of his face is more of a balm then he ever would’ve thought it would be. “You will be rewarded for your learning and cooperation, and punished for your continued resistance. There is always more that can be done. Remember that.”

With that, she takes the muzzle and leaves, locking the cell door behind her.

He wastes no time following the direction, stretching himself out and finally getting some actual food and water in his system, enjoying the six hours of peace he’s been given.

------------------------

After that first reward, it became very apparent to him that he didn’t actually have a choice in improving.

Because every time he even seemingly disobeyed, every time he hesitated to snap to attention at Talia’s sharp command from the stands of the Cage, or when he glared at her for calling him to her side, there was a punishment. Not right away, of course, or at least, not the big ones. A short reprimand, a single tug to the muzzle or a knee to the gut was the immediate punishment. The big punishment was at the end of the day, when the tally was counted.

Those punishments were worse than the beatings he’d receive in training. They usually consisted of lashes, where he would be forced to his knees with his wrists chained to a post in front of him. Talia wouldn’t do the punishments herself, just watch impassively off to the side. Sometimes she just stood there with crossed arms, sometimes she would sip a cup of tea, sometimes she would simply be doing paperwork or making calls for whatever work she did for the League.

Suffice to say, he started learning.

But the muzzle never came off again, only replaced by a new one with space between the metal for a straw to drink the water and broth provided to him.

------------------------

The first time, he was desperate. It was after a punishment, a whipping of thirty lashes. He was already unchained from the post, crumpled in a heap on the rough ground. Blood leaked from the wounds, old and new, on his back. His body was a mess of blood, sweat, searing pain, and barely held in tears. Talia stopped in front of him, arms crossed and looking down at him.

“Alzali,” she ordered tersely, intense, emerald-green gaze trained on his form. The order is the final test for the day. After every punishment, she’d call him to her side with that name, that command. If he failed to heed it, another five lashes were administered and his wounds were dressed, but only with the bare minimum effort and materials, and then he was thrown back in that cramped cell that makes him nearly freeze up with the thought of being shoved in there again.

He breathes out a slow, measured breath, limbs shaking as he tentatively unfolds himself and forces his aching, burning muscles into some mockery of a kneeling position he’s seen the other assassins doing. His form is not nearly as rigid as it should be, he’s half curled over and using his hands to support himself from falling over, but his head is bowed and no reprimand comes.

He holds himself tense and still as he can be as shifting weight steps lightly out of the room, until it’s just him and Talia. Him, kneeled and bowed in a pool of his own blood that still drips off his back. Talia, who watches him with the smallest, triumphant smile. It’s barely anything, only people who really know her would even be able to see it.

He certainly doesn’t.

“Come, Alzali,” Talia orders, almost… softly. It’s not actually soft, but it’s as close to it as he’s heard from her in the months of him being here.

It’s slow, and agonizing, but he manages to push himself to his feet before her. He towers over her, despite his hunched form and trembling body. Despite this he does it without a sound, long since having any sort of sound-making beat out of him, whether it be in pain, anger, or god forbid, defiance.

Talia turns with an approving nod, letting the chain hang limply between them as she leads him back into the Nanda Parbat’s corridors. It acts more as a guide and a threat these days than a leash. A constant reminder that he can’t run, even if no one is actively pulling on it, tugging him forward with it. 

That night (he presumes) he’s brought to the more spacious cell he was brought to for that first reward. There’s no water and no food, but there’s enough space for him to stretch himself out and that’s good enough, in his book. 

------------------------

The second memorable time was during a regular morning of Talia coming to retrieve him for training. He had been allowed to stay in the bigger room that night, had even been allowed some water and proper dressing of his wounds for snapping to attention any time Talia called for him. He still got a punishment for all his other mistakes, but it was only twelve lashes and the treatment afterwards made up for it. He was improving, according to Talia.

She unlocked the cell door and stepped in, where he was already waiting on his knees with his head bowed and hands folded in his lap. She hums approvingly, as she always does whenever she finds him like this. It makes him relax, just a touch, to know she’s happy with him.

She’s just tipped his chin up to clip the chain onto the muzzle when a soft ringing interrupts the near silence. Talia straightens, pulling her phone from her pocket. She glances between the device and him, his gaze impassive as he waits.

“Stay here,” Talia mutters, lifting the phone to her ear and taking the chain with her as she leaves.

He watches her leave, lowering his head to look straight ahead rather than up. Her voice echoes from the hallway outside his room, slowly becoming quieter, as if she’s walking further away. His gaze lingers on the cell door, left wide open. His fingers twitch as he stares at it.

This is the first time he’s been left alone with an open door. 

A means of escape.

No one in sight, or even nearby, if he had to bet. No one came down here very often, other than Talia and himself.

He could… he could run.

He could escape.

He could try.

Would he succeed?

He probably wouldn’t succeed.

A compound of assassins, one he doesn’t even know the layout of? Why is he even slightly entertaining that stupid idea?

Plus, when he would inevitably be caught, he would be put through so much worse than he goes through right now. It would be like the beginning, whenever that was. Worse.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

It feels like just a few days ago.

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

Talia told him to stay here.

If he stays here, he doesn’t have to go back to that cramped cell. He doesn’t have to be thrown back in the Pit.

So he stays.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there. By the way his knees and back begin to ache, he guesses at least an hour or two.

When he finally hears footsteps again, his body reflexively straightens and tenses. He watches the doorway with sharp eyes, narrowing them when he sees more than one shadow on the ground.

Talia rounds the corner, that pleased pull to the corner of her lips reassuring him, his gaze turning less intense in response. Following her is the flowing form of Ra’s Al Ghul, dark green cape swishing dramatically as he enters the small cell. His face remains impassive and calculating, even once his gaze lands on him, but he’s able to detect the brief sparkle of genuine surprise before it’s gone.

“As I said before,” Talia indicates matter-of-factly, stopping beside him in a scene that gives him deja vu, “he has improved immensely. It is only a matter of time before he is ready.”

Ra’s hums flatly. “And when shall that be, daughter? I grow weary of its reluctant progress.”

“Soon,” she assures him. “Since the first time, the time it takes for him to learn has shortened dramatically.”

“I wanted results by the year’s end,” Ra’s hisses, and he tenses in response, more of a reflex than anything else. 

Talia motions for him to stay, before stepping forward. “It has not yet reached the end of the year, and these are results. This is not an endeavor that can be completed effectively within a single year, father.”

“Fine. Then we shall test its combat prowess,” Ra’s huffs, turning his attention back to him before barking a sharp “Alzali!”

He goes to move before glancing at Talia, who gives him a minute nod. With the affirmation of Ra’s being someone to obey, he stands, averting his eyes down in an effort to avoid Ra’s’ gaze with the hope he’ll take it as a show of respect and submission.

Ra’s just turns and walks out of the room, him falling just two steps behind the father and daughter. Close enough to shadow them, far enough that they retain their space and can move freely as if he isn’t even there.

They bring him back to the Cage, where the stands are once more lined with assassins eager to fight in the ring. Having been through this plenty of times, he waits for Talia to direct him to the edge of the wall before hopping down. Her and Ra’s take their seats, and Ra’s motions for them to begin.

------------------------

The third time, arguably the most important time, was during a training session.

He was just doing his normal sparring session with the assassin who was teaching him bladework. Katanas and daggers for the most part, but he was being trained to use almost any weapon containing a blade. It was going well. He learned every move the assassin had to teach him, and was holding his own in the sparring match.

That being said, when the assassin retreated once more after knocking him to the ground again, he was reminded of his inexperience despite the training having been happening for the past months.

He brandishes his knives– a kris and a karambit– dropping into a ready position across from the assassin, who’s leveling their katana at him steadily.

The assassin rushes at him, sweeping the long blade across the air at him. It’s easy to dodge– but the following strike twisted towards his abdomen isn’t.

Despite this he flips over it, movement flowing smoothly into a swipe at the assassin’s neck. They lean back just a hair’s breadth out of the way before the katana is coming up at him from below. He blocks with the kris– swings out a leg– wrenches the blade out of the assassin’s grip in the same movement–

A shrill, ear-piercing whistle splits the air. His eyes narrow on his opponent.

In the half second after his foot hits the ground he’s already pivoting into a bent knee. His kris dagger acts as a bladed shield against the kick aimed at his head while his karambit digs into the assassin’s thigh– then drags up up up– right through the assassin’s abdomen– through their ribs– their chest– up to their shoulder– before slashing a ravine all the way across their neck. Warm blood sprays across his face, drenching most of the front of his robes.

He stares wide eyed as the body crumples to a pile of blood and gore on the sandy ground. His hands shake, still gripped around the two knives, both slick with the assassin’s blood.

He didn’t want to kill the assassin.

He didn’t mean to kill the assassin.

“Good job,” Talia praises from behind him. He doesn’t turn to look at her, gaze trained on the dead body. “You listened well. A special reward is in order. We shall get you cleaned up, then you may enjoy your reward. Come, Alzali.”

There’s only a moment of his gaze lingering before he’s dutifully following Talia out of the Cage. He feels kind of… numb? Or maybe blank is the right word for the spread of emptiness that stems from his chest out to the tips of his limbs, head thick with a cavernous empty space where he thinks his thoughts should be. It’s not like he hasn’t killed before, but every time he has, it’s been out of desperation or when he wasn’t in control of himself because of the Pit. That was– that wasn’t either of those. He was laser focused. Nothing was different. So why…?

Talia leads him to a different room than his. It’s huge, at least compared to what he’s used to. Everything looks expensive as hell. There are two beds, which strikes him as odd, but he dismisses it when Talia directs him to the washroom, where he’s told to clean up. Usually she doesn’t particularly care how dirty he is after a training session, since he always gets washed up after his wounds have been treated (as long as he’s been good) so he doesn’t fully understand why she’d be telling him to do it now.

Regardless, he listens. He gets changed into different clothes than the ones he’s been wearing his whole time at the League. They feel like a higher quality, and are softer. Quieter when he moves. Brand new, and fitted perfectly to his bulky frame. They’re darker than the other ones, all blacks and greys with red accents. There’s a hood that shrouds most of his face in shadow, though he doesn’t flip it up right now. 

When he returns, Talia motions for him to sit on the floor behind where she stands, her back to him. He folds his legs underneath him, kneeling and waiting obediently.

“My father believes you would be best as an unthinking, unfeeling object to be ordered around at his discretion,” Talia muses, swaying slightly. “Despite this, I believe you to be your strongest when you care.”

He furrows his brow in confusion. Talia seems to sense it, despite not facing him.

“I do not believe, even with all we could do, that your emotions could be removed. It is your blessing and your curse. Therefore, you will utilize them.” She turns, but he hardly notices her because his gaze is locked on the toddler in her arms, looking down at him with narrowed eyes. They’re the same shade as Talia’s– that vibrant, soul-piercing emerald green– but their shape is different, akin to his father’s presumably, and so, so familiar. “Damian, this is your brother, Jason. Jason, you are the Sword of the Al Ghuls. You will answer to Damian, and you will protect him with your life and more. He is your priority in every situation, no matter what my father may say.”

He– Jason– Jason nods, watching the boy with wide eyes. She sets him down, and Damian approaches him, studying him intently. His gaze lingers on the muzzle with something like confusion, but he doesn’t comment, only turning back to his mother.

“I thought I was the only blood son,” Damian questions.

“You are, habibi. Jason was taken in by your father, but due to his mistakes, was lost to him. Now, he is here to serve us.”

“The Sword of the Al Ghuls,” Damian murmurs, turning back to address Jason. “And he is adequate in battle?”

“He would not be the Sword if he was not,” Talia responds easily. Damian nods.

“Fine, if we must have him.”

Jason watches him leave, then turns back to Talia, who watches him with a knowing gaze. They stay like that, before she nods.

“Come, Alzali. I have business to attend to. You will accompany me.”

He nods, standing and following silently behind her. Memories, hazy at best, swirl through his mind for the rest of the day while he stands by Talia, a silent shadow while she works. Nothing really sticks in his mind, but he knows one thing. One thing that sticks through it all.

The name ‘Jason’ sounds right.

[whumpwillow]

Assassin whumpee where they are expected to do perfect and are just pulled in by whumper’s words of praise and manipulation. Because after what they’ve done, who else would love them?

oh yeahhh i love me some assassin whumpees with guilt complexes

[thewhumpcaretaker]

The Broken Veil: Sneak Peak of Chapter 1

I will hopefully be releasing this fic (my first ever released) on AO3 soon, but I'm waiting for my account invite, so enjoy this preview in the meantime. This will be a highly indulgent 18+ fic focused on whump, hurt/comfort, and dacryphilia. TWs for this chapter: grief, crying, nightmare

Summary: John Wick has just agreed to kill Santino’s sister, Gianna, repaying the marker that gave him a life with Helen. However, Helen is trying to contact John from the afterlife, to show him that it is possible to stop the cycle of violence – not by forfeiting his own life, but by creating a fundamental shift in international systems and perhaps even the balance of good and evil in this world. But he doesn’t have to do it alone. She’s coming back.

Autumn evening in New York reels between gold and grey. A pale white sky bruises over with grey smog. Even the sky is beaten in New York, and yet even the sky sparkles. Golden streetlamps and distant red flashes hang as earthly stars between the glassy black voids of skyscraper walls. Airport whiskey sparkles amber in John Wick’s grasp, and his inward body buzzes faintly against its motionless exterior. Not drunk, not tipsy, not that it would matter. He knows himself drunk, drugged, tired, bleeding, the way the machine of his body handles in every state.

On the street below, a child in a woolen pea coat grabs onto his mother’s hand as they step up into the queue to check luggage. From the bar, John can’t see their faces, only the knit caps crowning both their heads. The boy has a backpack as his carry-on, and it’s too large for him. He shifts uncomfortably. At his movement, the mother fusses and leans down to adjust it. John’s eyes are fixed on her. They begin walking again and the child, excited by something on the far side of the taxi line, dashes towards oncoming traffic.  She pulls the little boy back from the street as a car swings recklessly close to the curb. John flinches away from the scene. It was hardly a close call – the kid had a long way to go before reaching the road, and even then, no doubt the car could have swerved at that speed. But it’s the sentiment of the thing, her tenderness…another swig of whiskey so he can’t finish the thought, and he turns from the window.

Drifting, playing the businessman without effort, scanning the crowd, uneasy with this moment of peace between wars. Stay in the moment anyway. Black wingtips clicking too crisply on grimy tile.  A glimpse of his reflection in the storefront of a candy shop, an impeccable mask. First class is boarding at JFK Gate 11, direct to Rome. No threats among the passengers – not that he expected any, but an enclosed box in the sky is a bad place to run into an enemy. It’s an opportunity he’s exploited himself in the past. A cordial smile to the flight attendant.

Now there is no more moment to stay in. Only the trans-Atlantic stretch of night, brutally alone.

He doesn’t want to be here. He knows how the machine of his body handles in every state, and right now he handles it by tricking it into doing what it’s ordered to do. Don’t think about doing anything, don’t think about killing. Just sit still, stare straight ahead, and don’t talk yourself out of this job. The job right now is to stare at the blinking light on the wing of the plane and not move, that’s all.  He remembers Gianna in their youth. She didn’t want to be a part of all this. She never had much in common with Santino. His ruthlessness, sure, but it was in service of something other than a desperate grasp for authority. She lived her life her way, pursued pleasure quietly between business, on her own terms. Don’t think about it. He thinks about how to do it instead. It’ll be right to give her a moment to face her death. Worth the risk. He owes her that much. Or is that the body rebelling again? Don’t think about it at all. Go to sleep.

He leans back and shuts himself down.

***

He’s making coffee for Helen. The bag crinkles as he scoops rich grounds into the machine. This feels so vivid, he can even smell it. He freezes. Feels vivid…this isn’t real. Lucid dream. They are always so fragile, they don’t have much time. Where is she?  Movement, out of the corner of his eye. Between the kitchen curtains, he can see her outside in the garden, her back to him. The way her hair falls above the cotton of a simple sundress, the way it just touches her shoulders…she is before him, he is ready to do anything to get to her. “Helen!”

She turns towards him and her face flares with a mirror of his own desperation. She points to the front door and disappears to the left, and he runs to meet her. There is a strange vastness to the entryway, he can’t reach the far end, but the door is already open. Only the screen is locked, and she’s trying the latch, silhouetted in light. He can feel his racing pulse all the way through his wrists now. She’s looking at him with so much urgency, his heart rattles almost sickeningly with each test of the latch and she’s saying over and over, “Rome, John, Rome! The moment is coming. Let me in.”

***

When he gasps awake, his lungs are already heavy with tears. There’s something darkly gorgeous about the disoriented longing still raging through him like an adrenaline shot and he lets it linger. Hope.

It takes him several minutes to even become irritated with that final twist. A play on words, a stupid, too-obvious, unoriginal trick of the unconscious, lacking the elegance she deserves. “Home, John, home. The moment is coming. Let me in.” If I ever can, I always will. Believe me. But I can’t. He crushes a sob against his rib cage with a deep inhale, swallows, and buries his face in his hands for a moment. Don’t even go there, don’t even imagine the impossible. Then he watches the sun make sheens of silver over the jagged European coastline, still basking in the memory of how she fought to reach him.

***

From the edge of the finite, a form withdraws, regathering strength but burning with the lingering sight of him.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Is It Enough? (Tower: Day 99)

for Angstpril, Day 19: Breaking Down

cw: imprisonment, beating, strangulation, vague noncon implications

prev ///// masterlist ///// next

•×•×•

"See to it he never does this again."

The command, spat at the guards, was the last thing Alexei heard before they threw him back into his cell, ears still ringing from the punch he'd taken. The door locked, and for a while it was quiet. In the cell, in the hall. Quiet everywhere but in his head.

The dread building inside him was so potent he was sure he'd be sick, and try as he might, he couldn't direct his thoughts away from it.

Cold blue of a clear sky—

(What are they going to do?)

Flaking rust, crumbled iron—

(What are they going to do to me?)

Clear, cheer, deer, fear, gear, hear—

(What are they going to do to me?)

He'd been stupid. He wasn't going to pretend otherwise. The city council had been invited on a tour of the prison, something about securing funding, or acquiring votes for a new bill. Wade had told Lex about it beforehand as he hosed him down, forced a comb through his hair, a toothbrush into his mouth.

"Even the mayor will be there. Be good, or else."

They'd unchained him from the wall and had him stand in the doorway, flanked by two guards. The warden had thought he was helpless. Half-starved and wearing power dampeners and missing his fucking arms. His mistake.

When one of the council members had reached out to touch him, like a child on a double dare, Lex had fought past the dampeners, focusing until he thought his very blood would boil, and set her expensive silk blazer on fire.

 And now he was about to find out exactly what 'or else' meant.

The cell door opened before long, guard after guard pouring into the small space. Lex knew what was coming; he curled into a ball and ignored them, waiting for the blows to start flying. And when they inevitably did, he tried to find a poem, or even a rhyme to cling to, make it all more bearable, but every boot in the gut only served to scatter his thoughts, and in the end, he was resolved to simply waiting for it to end.

The beating was the worst one he'd taken since coming here, leaving his body shuddering, blood oozing from his lips, breath coming in short wheezes—he'd felt several ribs crack during the assault.

The voices above him were fuzzy. He didn't care. He didn't need to know what the guards were going on about—

"But is it enough?"

That pulled his attention, shoving him into a cold-blooded clarity, words sharp enough to cut into his skull.

"What do you mean, 'is it enough'? Look at him."

"They get beaten all the fucking time. Lopez said—"

"What do you suggest? We're not supposed to do permanent damage."

"That's what the healer's for."

The conversation was quickly turning to argument, and the words were bleeding together. He could only catch scraps.

"...strung up." (Shut up)

"Nothing to tie on…" (Bygone)

"...in the break room." (Doom, plume)

An arm curled around his torso, pressure on newly-cracked ribs, and he bit back a whimper as more hands latched onto him and lifted his body. His instincts screamed at him to fight back, but it hurt to move. He could only hang there limply as they carried him out of the cell and down the hall. Going where? Why? (Cry, pie, lie, die.)

Movement stopped, a switch was flicked on, and Lex squinted as bright light flooded his vision. He could hear garbled words from a TV, music coming faintly from a radio, the slight squeak of boots on the floor.

Break room.

"Stand him up!" one of the guards called. Lex blinked away the spots in his vision, letting his eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights. As he did, he saw that the guard's number had dwindled down to three.

"I don't know if he can—"

"Well he'll remember to really fucking fast."

Hands held him up on either side, and something was looped around his throat, pulled tight against flesh and knotted. (Spotted, clotted, dotted, no no no—)

He was vaguely aware of the other end of the thing around his neck being tossed high, over a metal ceiling beam, and caught, yanked.

Lex's body jerked as it cinched on his throat, and he choked, trying to take in air, finding he couldn't unless he stood perfectly straight, and even then it was only barely. All his body wanted to do was curl in on itself, and his ribs throbbed as he tried to hold position, closing his eyes against the harsh lights. 

"Fucking hell man, this is gonna kill him."

"He passes out, you let him down. Hand me the whip."

"You sure we're allowed to touch it? Rentals—"

"Rentals won't give a shit as long as we return it clean."

A whistling sound pierced the air, followed by a sharp slap across his back. Lex arched forward reflexively, cutting off his own air with the movement.

"Dude. That was weak as shit, let me try."

Lex braced himself, but it wasn't enough. The whip cracked as it hit the air this time, striking him on the shoulders. Another was right on its heels, lighting a line of fire that ran parallel to his spine.

With every blow, it was getting harder to hold himself up, to keep breathing. It was only the fear that kept him awake, that animal terror that struck him when he couldn't reach the air.

A strike cut across several marks at once, and Lex cried out, his knees buckling.

"Maybe we should stop—"

"He's fine."

He managed to get to his feet, gasping, tears streaming down his cheeks. Wasn't it enough? How could this not be enough?

The next lash pulled a scream from him, cut off rapidly as he stumbled and the rope closed his throat. He didn't even have the energy to hold back a strangled sob. How could this not be fucking enough?

Another strike, and he lost his footing, the pressure on his windpipe crushing, legs shaking and useless and failing.

"For God's sake."

The rope suddenly went slack, and he crumpled, gasping, unable to choke down the whimpers that came crawling up his throat.

"Jeez, David. Buzzkill much?"

"I'm not losing my fucking job for your entertainment."

The linoleum floor was cool on his face, and Lex clung to the feeling, trying to focus on anything other than how much it all hurt.

"He literally tried to kill Senator Collins. He should count himself lucky right now."

"Lucky? He's practically dying at your feet."

"Yeah, we're supposed to ensure this never happens again. Gotta make sure he never forgets." Lex heard fabric shuffling above him, the faint click of metal on metal.

"Fucking hell, dude,"

"No one's making you stay and watch."

"He's already had the shit beat outta him."

Another sob escaped Lex. They were done now, right? Fuck, he'd hoped they were done, they had to be done—

"But is it enough?"

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