#casual whump thoughts

[bltzgore]

One of the things I love about when you put the hands overhead is you have access to the entire torso, and I feel like we often forget just how sensitive and guarded the side of the ribcage is. Just run a nail over it and you can raise goose bumps. Lotta potential there.

quick it's an emergency~

[bittieswithbrokenbones]

thinking about bitties commonly being treated as objects and/or decorations. theres a lot of potential there but i'm currently taken with the idea of finding the cutest bitty you've ever seen but instead of giving him a loving home like he thought you would, you glue him in the bottom of a glass vase and use him as a table centerpiece.

[whumpty-dumpty-doo]

Omg, so ever since I found out about the whump community I've been reading whump stories and...

!!!!!

Some of the situations you guys write and put your characters in are so freaking brutal and messed up. (I say this with both distraught horror and affection)

Absolutely don't get me wrong, I eagerly await all of the new chapters people write and hungrily gobble them down when they're posted, but oh my god. Sometimes I read stuff and am just aghast.

I took a "what kind of whumper are you" quiz a while back and my result was "lmao you're a caretaker, not a whumper". I sat there was was like "How could that be?! I can whump characters! Come on!

And then I proceeded to realize that half the time I'm so invested in people's whump fics it's because I desperately hope for a happy, comforting ending for these poor, poor fellows and I want to see how they cope with/get out of their situations. Put them through hell, but ohhhh my goodness I just want them to be happy again in the end (or if not happy, then at least some semblance of safe/okay.)

Idk man, late night whump thoughts I'm just shouting into the void. I hope you all keep writing because I really do enjoy your works, even if I'm costantly reading them looking like this:

[casekek]

some whump tropes that i enjoy immensely

- whumpee being overstimulated by sensory stimuli - bright lights, loud/repetitive sounds, being touched, certain smells - and wincing or shrinking down to get away from it

- unresponsive whumpee who doesn’t give a crap anymore. theyd let someone push them over and theyd just topple to the side and lay there. they don’t respond to goodwill attempts to help, like having a bowl of warm food placed in front of them. they’ve checked out.

- familiar/casual whumpees - whumpees who are familiar with being treated a certain way so they don’t put up much of a fuss to being spit on or kicked. Just groan and move on with your day (could work rly well with ‘living weapon’ i feel)

- whumpees with collars!!!! it’s too dang good. especially if it’s a shock collar and they’re afraid to speak for fear of getting zapped. Bottom line is, you are property.

- whumpee being treated like a child and getting really pissed about it. bonus if the whumper has to resort to some atypical child behavior remedies to keep whumpee in their ‘role’ - such as chains, drugs, etc

- whumpee who refuses to part with an object, such as a mask, and freaks out if anyone so much as touches it.

- caretaker removing masks or collars when the time is right - only to catch whumpee wearing it again in fear or for comfort

- whumpees hands shaking so badly they can’t write or pick things up, and breaking things because their fine motor control is so horribly shot

- whumpee’s injuries being discovered by a group of caretaker friends; whumpee attempts to minimize and de escalate the damage they endured, while friend group is getting bent out of shape in horror over what was done to whumpee, and falling over each other to begin taking care of them

- whumpee being resuscitated and immediately leaping back into action without a thought to the fact that they just DIED; caretaker friend trying to get them to slow down and rest for one freaking second

- ANY kind of retrograde amnesia is soooo tasty. Especially when they don’t remember people they love and just stare at them with a blankly polite smile - OR whumpees who become aggressive with fear over not remembering anything!!

- whumpee seeing/hearing things and freaking out about it while caretaker tries to calm them down

[unicornpopcorn14]

Omg I just realized how long my ask was fvdbdhd it was an experience scrolling past it

Oh noo I'm so sorry for your bad day 🥺 glad to hear I made you feel a lil better. Here *gives you virtual hugs in support* 🫂🫂

AAA I LOVE YOUR ADDITIONS AT THE END SMM YOU HAVE NO IDEAAA The image of Chuuya brushing Dazai's hair and him melting into the cold touch has me weak 🥹🥹 + Dazai being judgemental even while sick is so in character for him lmao 😭

Also Chuuya embracing his mother hen tendencies yesss >:D WE NEED MORE OF THAT

Overall these two have my heart and it's my pleasure to share my little sick!Dazai thoughts with you, bestie!! <33

Hi Essie!!! Hope you're doing well! (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠)❤️

So I had this idea for a sick!Dazai fic (that I'm honestly too tired to write dhehee), and who else is better to brainstorm it with than my fellow Dazai whump enthusiast? :D

Based on my own experience of being sick for the past week, I forgot how awful it can get. It sucks. You're feverish, your nose is either runny or super blocked, your throat hurts, you get headaches, you're lethargic 80% of the time, all that stuff. But what sucked the most for me was how hot my skin felt. Like, clothes were so uncomfortable to wear from the sweat, especially since it's still summer around here.

So imagine putting bandages into account as well?

Yep, awful.

So I present you with a scenario: Teen!Dazai in his office, has taken over paper duty (that Mori knows he isn't gonna complete anyway) because of his fever. He feels gross, to say the least. Flushed and hazy, a little nauseous and sleepy. But his skin- his skin is scorching, and there is no way for it to disperse that heat because it can't breathe. He endures it for as long as he can until he just can't.

In his haze, he scrambles to tear his bandages off, loosen his tie, and decides that he will lie on the cold floor shirtless. The air conditioner isn't enough. No one is there to stop him.

Until Chuuya barges in without knocking as usual (to discus the paperwork he also knows Dazai isn't going to finish) and stumbles onto the scene.

Dazai doesn't even acknowledge him, has already taken off the bandages around his eye and is halfway through tearing off the ones around his neck. His clothes are disheveled as he loosens them and looks like he's about to take them off.

Chuuya gapes for a solid second, before exclaiming with a blush-

"What the fuck?!"

He rushes over, trying not to look at Dazai's skin that's on display and stops him. He wraps him with Mori's oversized coat aggressively.

Dazai fights against him, exclaiming that he needs to lie on the floor. Chuuya doesn't get it, all that he knows is that Dazai is delirious, and even if he thinks it's a good idea to tear through his protective layer now, he'll definitely regret it later.

So Chuuya ties him with the coat and decides to take the paperwork to his place, along with a flailing Dazai on his shoulder.

I just wanna see Dazai giving Chuuya hell during treating him 😭 cuz even if cooling off is a good idea for a fever, not staying huddled in the warmth equates to chills and endless sneezes. Makes you feel even more awful. So it's gonna be a push and pull of Chuuya trying to warm Dazai up (in order to fight off the fever faster), and Dazai wanting to cool off (because he isn't used to being this warm and hates it), until they come up with a compromise somehow dgdhejndjd

Yeah, just a fun idea! :3 Feel free to expand on it hehe

PEA 😭 i saw this when i was having a Very Bad Day™️ & it immediately made it sm better tysm 🥺🩷🩷

UGH THE TENDER, FEVERISH SKIN UNDER THE BANDAGES ❤️‍🩹 where everything just feels like too much, i completely understand why Dazai (in his feverish delusion) would think removing the offending material would be the solution

Chuuya barging in and quickly going from 👁️👄👁️ to 😳🤬. i love that he goes into protective mode, thinking of how future Dazai will surely regret this course of action & putting measures in place to prevent that 🥺

Chuuya would wrap Dazai up like a sushi roll & carry him on his shoulder like a log back to his apartment, where he proceeds to lose the idgaf war & embrace his mother hen side (which he still denies exists)

meanwhile Dazai is kicking & fighting him every step of the way, acting more like a 5 year old than a mafia sub executive (he’s still only a kid sobs), even as he shivers with chills

until Chuuya manages to get a hand in his sweat soaked curls, gently carding through them. the coolness of his leather glove against Dazai’s overheated scalp makes Dazai go still… and then slump against the couch in a mixture of relief & exhaustion. Chuuya takes advantage of his compliance to make him agree to stop fighting him, & they spend the rest of the day resting on the couch, watching movies & playing video games (well. Chuuya plays. Dazai watches & points out all of Chuuya’s mistakes) 🩷🩷🩷

[ssa-dado]

14 - What Could Have Been

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, whump and alluded smut Summary: Hotch invited you to join the team for drinks, a rare gesture revealing how deeply your presence still affected him. As the night unfolded, the team noticed the undeniable connection between you two, despite the years of distance. Peter, unaware of the subtle dynamics, accidentally outed personal details about your past, igniting quiet rage in Hotch, who later confronted him. Meanwhile, Peter revealed plans for your future. Hotch, torn between happiness for you and regret over lost chances, masked his emotions, as usual. Warnings: alluded sex and outing Word Count: 7.9k Dado's Corner: I experimented stylistically with this chapter, it's all in one setting and paves the way for the future plot. It's very similar to chapter 8, this time with Hotch's POV. Ok now let's talk about the big elephant in the room: the part I decided to add was.. that. Yep. Hate me

masterlist

At the bar, Hotch sat directly across from you, it was an old habit neither of you ever discussed, but it mirrored the way your desks had been positioned all those years ago, facing one another.

It was Hotch who insisted you join the team for drinks while you were still in town, a rare invitation that had caught everyone off guard. For as long as the team could remember, Hotch had always been the first to leave after a case, racing home to spend whatever sliver of time he could with his family. There was always a hurriedness to him, a quiet desperation behind his tightly controlled exterior. His constant absence gnawed at him, feeding a guilt that never seemed to wane, as if each hour spent at work was a betrayal to the family waiting for him.

He feared, deeply and quietly, that he was becoming the very thing he swore he’d never be: his father.

Distant.

Cold.

The most irrational side of him believed, almost certainly, that once he became that, it would take barely a breath to not only become like his father, but to repeat his father’s deeds, most painfully, the ones done to him.

A man swallowed by work, only to offer scraps of himself to those who needed him most. He could already see the parallels, the way Haley’s eyes would dull when he missed dinner again, the way Jack’s laugh grew quieter in his absence. It haunted him - the thought of losing them, of being too late to realize he’d made the same mistakes.

So when Hotch suggested a night out with the team, everyone had been floored. It was so out of character for him to initiate something so casual, so personal. And when he casually mentioned that you would be joining, it became clear to the team that this night wasn’t just a rare opportunity to unwind, it was something more meaningful. This wasn’t just Hotch taking an evening off, it was him opening a window into a part of his life that had never fully let go of him.

That part was you.

As the night went on, the team exchanged subtle glances, silently acknowledging the shift in their normally reserved boss. You were someone who had shaped him, someone who still had an undeniable influence over him, even after all this time. There was a quiet gravity to the way Hotch looked at you, the rare ease in his demeanor. He wasn’t just their stern, disciplined unit chief tonight - there was something lighter in him, something almost playful.

Across the table, Hotch’s gaze lingered on you, drawn to every subtle movement, every quiet sound. Six years of distance had sharpened his awareness of you, as if time apart had made him need to memorize you all over again. The sound of your soft chuckle, the way you leaned in, eyes wide with surprise, became etched into his mind, each moment sacred.

"Wait - what do you mean you guys have a jet now?" you asked, incredulous, your disbelief pulling a rare smile from him, one he hadn’t felt in far too long, that immediately caught the team’s attention. It was an expression so unusual for him that it felt almost out of place, but in that moment, it suited him perfectly.

“Budget increases,” he said with a hint of dry humor. “I’d say we got lucky.”

You leaned back in your chair, rolling your eyes in playful exasperation. “I swear, I’m cursed,” you teased, your voice laced with disbelief. “Every time I leave something, it suddenly gets upgraded. I leave, and you guys get a jet? Come on!”

The team erupted in laughter, the easy camaraderie in the air making the night feel more intimate, more personal. Hotch’s smirk softened into something warmer, a smile that barely lifted the corners of his mouth but was genuine nonetheless. “It probably only happened because Rossi left,” he added, his voice lighter than usual, clearly enjoying the banter. “You know he used to complain every time he had to share a room with Gideon.”

The team watched in amazement, their eyes darting between you and Hotch as if they were witnessing something impossible. Hotch - stoic, unyielding Hotch - seemed lighter tonight, the weight he usually carried on his shoulders lifting, even if just for this fleeting moment. It was as though being in your presence allowed him to breathe a little easier, his usual armor cracking just enough to let something more human, more personal, shine through.

JJ, wide-eyed and still processing everything that had unfolded, couldn’t help but blurt out, “How often did you even have to share rooms?!” Her question came out more like an exclamation, half in disbelief. She didn’t expect a real answer, just like the rest of the team.

“Oh, trust me,” you began with a knowing smile, your voice carrying the weight of countless stories untold. “I’ve shared rooms more times than I can count.” You paused, letting the team absorb that, watching as their expressions shifted from curiosity to surprise.

And then, as if effortlessly peeling back yet another layer of mystery, you added the real kicker. “In fact, I was always stuck sharing with him.” You gestured toward Hotch with a casual nod, your grin widening as the team’s jaws collectively dropped.

The room fell silent for a beat, the air thick with disbelief. The team exchanged wide-eyed glances, struggling to process what they had just heard. Garcia, practically vibrating with shock, looked like she might burst. Reid’s brows furrowed in confusion, as if trying to calculate how this detail had somehow escaped him all these years. Prentis and JJ sat frozen, their mouth slightly open, while Morgan leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised, letting out a low whistle.

Hotch, for his part, remained quiet but noticeably more relaxed, as though your playful revelation brought back memories he'd long held close to the vest. He didn’t deny it, didn’t feel the need to clarify, simply allowing the moment to exist between you and the team.

Garcia, her mouth still dropped open, asked, leaning in eagerly, hanging on every word. “Wait - how long are you in town?”

You smiled, but there was a trace of melancholy beneath the warmth. “Just for the weekend,” you replied, your tone softening. “I’m off to Poland next week.”

As soon as the words left your lips, Hotch’s demeanor shifted. His expression, which had been open and relaxed just moments before, clouded over with something more complex - regret, perhaps, or an ache he didn’t allow himself to feel too often.

He wasn’t ready for you to leave, not again. He had barely begun to savor the brief time he had with you, and already he could feel it slipping away, the distance between you growing wider with every passing moment.

Next to you, Morgan leaned in feeling the behavioural shift of the Unit Chief, lowering his voice so only you could hear. "Think you can bribe Hotch into giving us a weekend off?" His tone was light, almost playful, but the faint glimmer of hope behind it was unmistakable.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the boldness of his request, but the smirk that tugged at your lips returned almost immediately. “Don’t tell me he doesn’t even give you weekends off?” you teased, eyebrow raised.

Morgan’s exasperated look said everything.

He wasn’t joking.

Your eyes flickered toward Hotch, who had been sitting quietly, focused on the almost emptied beer in front of him, his usual unreadable expression firmly in place. You caught his gaze, leaning in slightly, as if to coax him out of his stoic shell. “Aaron, don’t you and Haley come over for lunch tomorrow? Peter will be there, and I’d love to finally meet Jack.”

At the mention of his son, Hotch’s expression softened, just for a moment - a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise controlled demeanor. The team noticed too, their silent intrigue palpable. But the flicker was quickly extinguished as a sense of duty clouded his features. “I’d love to,” he replied, regret clear in his voice, “but we’ve got case files to wrap up. The Section Chief is breathing down my neck about last week’s reports, and we’re already behind.”

You leaned back slightly, watching him with careful eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you realized the negotiation had just begun. It was subtle, but the shift in the atmosphere was undeniable. Even the others at the table, long accustomed to Hotch’s unshakable authority, could sense that something had changed.

You sat up a little straighter, your voice calm but with a hint of persuasion. “Aaron,” you said again, more measured this time, “there’s no reason the reports have to be done in the office. Your team could work from home, and I guarantee they’d get it done faster. Studies have shown remote work boosts productivity. Less stress, fewer distractions.”

Hotch’s eyebrow arched, his skepticism evident. “Remote work? For a federal investigation?” His tone was as even as ever, but there was a sharp edge to it, as if he were already calculating the risk. “I need oversight, accountability. If something gets missed, it’s on me. And we both know how that plays out.”

You smiled, waiting for that exact response. Leaning forward slightly, you matched his tone. “Accountability doesn’t have to mean they’re sitting in an office under your nose, Aaron. Think about it. Immanuel Kant said that true moral and productive action comes from autonomy, from people governing themselves. There’s a very interesting quote of his that explains it all, ‘Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made.’ People work better when they’re trusted to do their jobs without someone breathing down their necks. Give them that freedom, and they’ll rise to the occasion.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed, though a faint trace of amusement flickered in his usually impassive gaze. “Quoting Kant now, are we?” His voice remained calm, but there was a challenge in it, one that only those who knew him well would recognize. “Philosophical arguments aren’t going to change the fact that these reports need to be done. I need them on my desk by Monday.”

You weren’t backing down. “I’m not just quoting Kant. Rousseau, too. He argued that ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.’ If you let your team work from home, you’re giving them the freedom to do the work on their own terms, without the usual constraints. Studies show that productivity actually increases when people aren’t stuck in traffic on their way to work or dealing with office politics.”

Hotch crossed his arms over his chest, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So now it’s Kant and Rousseau? What’s next, Nietzsche?” He leaned in slightly, his tone growing firmer. “I get what you’re doing. You’re trying to philosophically outmaneuver me, but that’s not going to work. I need those reports. Immaculate. Not just in by the deadline, but flawless.”

The air at the table became heavier, and you could feel the weight of the team’s anticipation. Garcia let out a barely audible gasp, her eyes wide as she watched the exchange unfold like a courtroom drama. Even Reid, usually quiet in such moments, leaned forward, intrigued by the battle of wits. You could feel Morgan’s eyes flick between you and Hotch, his posture tense, waiting for the outcome.

You leaned in further, your own smirk sharpening. “Flawless? That’s your condition?”

Hotch didn’t waver, his expression steady as stone. “That’s right. If they are going to stay at home, I need those reports in my inbox by 3 PM tomorrow. And they’d better be immaculate - no typos, no oversights, no errors. One mistake, and it’s not just overtime for next week, it’s the whole deal off.”

Morgan whispered under his breath, “This is getting intense.” His usually confident demeanor was momentarily rattled as he realized the stakes had just been raised.

You kept your gaze locked on Hotch, knowing this was the crucial moment. “Fine,” you said slowly, your voice calm but firm, “but if they get those reports in by 3 PM - perfect, flawless - then they get the entire weekend off. After the last case, they need it. You know burnout is real, Aaron. Aristotle talked about the importance of balance, the golden mean. If you push too hard without allowing for rest, people break. The mind needs downtime to function at its best.”

Hotch sighed, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Bringing Aristotle into it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve you’ve turned into exactly what you swore to destroy. A lawyer.”

You chuckled softly, your eyes sparkling as you locked gazes with Hotch. "What can I say? Sometimes you’ve got to fight fire with fire." you said, your voice light but knowing. “And you know I’m right. If you give them some breathing room, they’ll come back stronger. They respect you enough to deliver.”

Hotch remained silent for a long moment, his arms still crossed as he considered your words. You could feel the tension build at the table, the team watching closely, barely daring to breathe. Finally, Hotch exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp but thoughtful.

“Alright,” he said at last, his tone measured, “they can work from home tomorrow. But the reports need to be in by 3 PM. And I mean flawless. One mistake, and it’s overtime for everyone next week.”

You smiled, but your eyes stayed locked on his, knowing the weight of what you’d just achieved. “And if they meet the deadline, they get the whole weekend off?”

Hotch hesitated for a brief second, his expression softening slightly as he glanced around the table, seeing the exhaustion etched into the faces of his team. He nodded. “Yes. The weekend off. But only if everything is perfect.”

The room seemed to collectively exhale, the disbelief and relief spreading through the table like a ripple. Morgan let out a low whistle, shaking his head in amazement, he gave you a playful nudge. “Miracle worker... you sure they actually need you in Poland?”

Garcia clapped her hands to her chest dramatically, her eyes wide with delight. “This is like watching a legal thriller! I swear, next time I’m bringing popcorn.”

Reid’s eyes were wide, still processing the layers of philosophical argument and negotiation tactics, clearly fascinated. “That was… an impressive synthesis. You combined Kant’s moral autonomy with Rousseau’s ideas of freedom, and when you brought up Aristotle’s golden mean - well, that concept is actually about balancing between-”

Prentiss, sensing a Reid ramble incoming, quickly cut him off with a smile. “Reid, I think she’s got it.”

Hotch shook his head, locking eyes with you across the table, his expression a mix of disbelief and admiration. “Just don’t make a habit of this,” he said, his voice edged with familiar authority, but there was something softer beneath it.

You shrugged, the taste of victory still lingering, but a flicker of sadness crossed your face. “Don’t worry,” you said, voice quieter, “in less than 72 hours, it won’t be a table separating us, but an entire ocean. It won’t be as easy then.”

Hotch’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Then in your letters, leave Kant out of it.”

You chuckled, the emotion behind it harder to hide. “You got it, partner. But don’t be surprised if Nietzsche makes an appearance next time.”

The door to the bar swung open with a soft creak, drawing everyone’s attention: Peter walked in, his presence immediately noticeable. He cut through the low hum of the bar’s evening crowd, his tall frame moving with casual confidence.

Hotch was the first to spot him, his eyes narrowing slightly as Peter caught his gaze and raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Peter was clearly planning something playful, and Hotch, though a bit apprehensive, respected the gesture and leaned back slightly in his chair.

Peter moved with purpose, his footsteps soft and calculated as he approached from behind you. You were still engaged in the conversation with the team, completely unaware of his presence. The warm glow of the dim lights bathed the table, casting soft shadows across your face as you laughed, oblivious to the fact that your fiancé was closing in.

In one swift movement, Peter leaned down, his body hovering close to yours as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders. The sudden pressure and warmth startled you, your eyes widening for a split second before recognition dawned.

Peter placed a quick kiss on the side of your neck, his lips brushing your skin lightly, just enough to send a ripple of surprise through you. His embrace was confident, bordering on possessive, and the scent of his familiar cologne filled the small space between you.

“Guess who?” he whispered playfully, his voice low and teasing, sending another shiver through you before you could fully react.

You tilted your head, looking up at him with a mix of surprise and fond exasperation. “Pete,” you breathed out, your voice laced with a smile despite the flush of embarrassment creeping into your cheeks. “You scared me!”

The team watched the scene unfold, their collective shock from moments before now shifting into amused smiles and curious glances.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, an eyebrow raised in playful approval. “Guess Pete likes to make an entrance,” he muttered under his breath, earning a chuckle from Garcia. Peter, meanwhile, didn’t seem to notice the eyes on him as he approached.

You had already begun to stand up, intending to grab a chair for him so he could join the table with the team. But before you could fully take a step, Peter caught you off guard, tightening his hold on you just enough to gently pull you off balance.

The suddenness of the movement made you pause, and before you could fully process it, he spun you around to face him. Without hesitation, Peter leaned in for a deeper, more intimate kiss.

The bar, the team, and everything around you seemed to blur into the background as his lips pressed against yours with unmistakable passion, momentarily stealing your focus from everything else.

The kiss was long enough for you to feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your body instinctively tensing. You loved Peter, there was no question about that, but you had always preferred your affections to be private, intimate, not something to be shared with the entire bar. When the kiss finally ended, you felt slightly breathless, and the weight of the team's eyes made you even more aware of the situation.

“Hi, princess,” Peter murmured, his lips still inches from yours as he spoke. His voice was soft but had an unmistakable edge of possessiveness. “I missed you. You could at least answer your phone once in a while, you know.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out a little shaky. “You know how bad I am at checking my phone,” you said, attempting to keep the conversation light, your eyes flicking toward the team, who were all trying to hide their laughs and amusement. “And didn’t we agree on dropping ‘princess’?.”

Peter’s hand, which had been resting lightly on your waist, now moved lower, sliding down your back until his fingers found the back pockets of your jeans. His touch was casual yet deliberate, his grip a clear display of ownership, almost as if he were marking his territory in front of everyone. His tone dropped slightly, becoming more suggestive. “You’ll find a way to convince me about that tonight.”

Hotch sat across from you, outwardly composed and focused, as he always was. To the team, he appeared calm, his usual stoic self, but inside, he was acutely attuned to every subtle change in your body language. He noticed how your posture had stiffened slightly, how the smile on your face didn’t quite reach your eyes. These were signs of discomfort he knew all too well, the kind you never had to explain to him.

For the longest time, Hotch had been genuinely happy for you, relieved even, that you had found someone like Peter. But now, watching your dynamic unfold for the first time, something didn’t sit right. Peter’s overly familiar gestures, his lack of awareness of your boundaries, gnawed at Hotch. How could Peter miss what was so clear to him? You never liked public displays of affection, Hotch knew that. You preferred quieter, more intimate gestures, the kind that carried deeper meaning.

But Peter, either unaware or choosing to ignore your discomfort, kept his arm securely around your waist. You shifted slightly, your eyes flickering to Hotch’s for just a brief moment. In that second, a silent understanding passed between the two of you. He saw how you felt - uncomfortable yet trying to keep the peace - and in return, you acknowledged his quiet presence, a grounding force amidst the whirlwind of Peter’s boldness.

As Peter finally stepped back, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting down next to you, the team exchanged quick  glances with one another. They were still processing the shift in energy, the unspoken dynamics they had just witnessed.

As Hotch watched, irritation flickered within him, slowly building into something more.

He had picked up on your discomfort immediately - why hadn’t Peter? And the more he observed, the more the realization crept in: maybe he didn’t like the two of you together as much as he’d thought. You, after all, were the type of person who believed that affection wasn’t measured in how loudly it was shown but in the care behind it. The way you would linger in a conversation, your touch light and careful, as if every gesture held meaning. The quiet moments, the unspoken words - those were what mattered to you.

You introduced Peter to the team as your fiancé, and they exchanged greetings, though the atmosphere remained tense. Only then Peter, in his usual charismatic way, greeted Hotch after six years as well. “Fatherhood looks good on you. Must be all those sleepless nights,” he teased.

Hotch smiled politely, though his thoughts were elsewhere. Peter, seated comfortably beside you, kept an arm draped around your shoulders, his thumb brushing against your arm absentmindedly. He turned his charm on the team, effortlessly engaging them in conversation. “Before she was Hotch’s partner and stole my desk - and my heart - I was his original desk mate,” he joked with a grin, leaning over to plant a light kiss on your cheek.

The team chuckled, clearly intrigued, their curiosity shifting to Hotch as they began peppering Peter with questions about their time together. Peter fielded them with ease but made it clear, “Oh, we were fine, but we didn’t click like he did with her. They were always in sync, like clockwork, it was terrifying. I used to call them ‘The Suits,’ because God forbid they ever showed up to work in anything other than matching attire.”

You laughed, nudging Peter playfully before teasing back. “At least I didn’t wear ties. My suits had some style and were timeless, unlike his. I still have nightmares about that tie with that weird triangular pattern.”

Peter squeezed your shoulder affectionately, offering a chuckle of his own, but Hotch, sitting across the table, raised an eyebrow in mock offense. "Coming from the only person who still wears vest suits?" Hotch quipped, his tone dry but playful. “Timeless, really.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Better than a white eyelash,” you fired back, with a mischievous grin. The comment earned a round of laughter from the team, who had never seen Hotch teased so effortlessly.

But Hotch wasn’t done. He leaned forward slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Oh, right,” he said, voice laced with mock seriousness. “Because the height of fashion is wearing all-black, every day. It’s like working with an artfully dressed shadow.”

The team erupted into laughter, their eyes flicking between the two of you, you immediately bite back "Hey, black goes with everything, it’s called consistency."

“And monotony,” Hotch countered smoothly, not missing a beat, a small smile tugging at his lips as he reveled in the rare lightheartedness of the exchange

The conversations around the table continued, but for Hotch, they faded into the background. Laughter and voices became a distant hum, blurring into white noise as something else - a distant, barely audible melody - began to tug at his attention. At first, he didn’t even realize what was happening. It was just a faint pull, like a whisper at the edges of his mind, muffled beneath the chatter of the team. He wasn’t sure why his mind latched onto that sound, why his breath caught in his throat at the faint strains of music.

The room around him faded, and the melody became louder, clearer.

His heart stilled as the realization hit him - it was that song.

It’s All Coming Back to Me Now.

The soft notes carried him to another time, another life. His mind flashed back to that night, years ago, when you and he had rehearsed the choreography to this very song for an undercover operation. It had been the first time you’d been so physically close, your bodies moving together in perfect sync.

The chemistry had been palpable, undeniable, electric. He could still feel the warmth of your waist beneath his hands, the way your breath had mingled with his as you moved together, the quiet intensity of your gaze as it locked with his. After that final twirl, your forehead had rested against his, the space between you charged with something neither of you could quite name, but both of you had felt.

And later, back at his apartment, the air between you had become too heavy, too charged to ignore. It was as if every unsaid word, every stolen glance had built up, until the tension finally snapped. The space between you vanished in an instant, swallowed by something deeper, something primal. One moment, your voices were filled with the brittle edge of restraint, and the next, his hands were on you - urgent, trembling, like he had been holding back for far too long.

It wasn’t graceful; it was raw and unrefined, a blur of tangled limbs and breathless gasps. Your fingers clutched at his shirt as if to anchor yourself to him, pulling him closer, as though the distance between your bodies had always been too far.

His hands moved over you like he was memorizing you, fingertips tracing the lines of your skin, leaving behind a trail of heat. Your touch was just as desperate, each kiss full of unspoken longing, lips pressing harder, faster, as if you feared this moment might slip away, dissolving into something you could never get back.

He could still feel the way you had whispered his name - soft at first, tentative, as though testing the weight of it on your tongue.

But as your bodies gave in to the desire that had simmered between you for so long, the whisper turned into something louder, something hungrier. You cried his name out in the dark, your voice trembling with both need and fear. It had cut through him, that sound - like a confession you had both tried to suppress for years but could no longer deny. It echoed in his mind, haunting him, pulling him back to that night with an intensity that refused to fade.

There was something almost painful in how you touched him, like you were trying to carve the memory of your skin into his. Your nails raked softly down his back, your body arching into his as if the space between you wasn’t close enough, could never be close enough.

His hands roamed over you, slow but firm, tracing the delicate curve of your spine, the softness of your waist, the places he’d never dared to touch before. It was as if each movement was a conversation - every kiss, every breath shared between you was full of the things you’d never said aloud.

Your breath, hot against his neck, sent shivers down his spine, and the way your lips trembled as you kissed him, it felt like surrender. His forehead rested against yours, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven, as your bodies moved together in a rhythm that felt both foreign and familiar, as though this was how it was always meant to be.

And yet, it was never just desire, it was something deeper, a release of everything you’d held back. The vulnerability of it all had scared him then, and it still did. In those moments, stripped bare of the walls you’d carefully built around yourselves, you had been real, more real than either of you had ever dared to be before.

He had tried to forget it, to push that night into the farthest corners of his mind, but now it clung to him like a shadow. He could still feel the way your fingers had trembled against his skin, the way your body had fit against his as though it belonged there. The memory of how you’d breathed his name into the dark, then screamed it when the tension finally broke, was etched into his soul. He could still taste the urgency of your kisses, the way your bodies collided in a mess of emotion and need.

It was a moment suspended in time, where everything between you had been laid bare, and now, no matter how much time had passed, that memory refused to fade. It lingered, haunting him with what might have been, with the things you could never say aloud but had spoken through your skin, your breath, your body pressed so desperately against his.

But now, you weren’t his.

You belonged to Peter. And he, to Haley.

The sound of the song was drowned beneath the chatter around him, but somehow, the melody still pulled at his attention, louder than the voices just feet away. He tried to focus on the present - the team’s banter, Peter’s charm - but the past was louder, heavier. His chest tightened as his eyes flicked to you, and for a brief moment, your gaze met his.

You looked at him, your brow furrowing slightly as though you could sense it - something was wrong. You were trying to place it, to figure out why his expression had suddenly grown distant.

Then, the recognition hit you too.

The distant melody reached your ears, and you understood.

Hotch could see it in your eyes, the way they widened just slightly in acknowledgment, the way your posture shifted. For the first time, you both understood that what you had felt back then - the chemistry, the pull - hadn’t been one-sided.

It was as if, for all these years, you had been silently carrying the same secret, both too afraid to say it out loud. And now, you both knew the truth: you had felt it too.

But it was too late.

The life you each had now stood in the way, separating you like an ocean that couldn’t be crossed.

Almost unconsciously, your fingers found your rings, the movement so subtle yet so heavy with meaning.

It was an old rhythm, a quiet, unspoken dance the two of you had always shared, the kind of synchronization that went unnoticed by the world but spoke volumes in its silence. The small gesture seemed insignificant to the others, but between you and Hotch, it was everything, an echo of what once was and what could never be.

Your fingers twisted the silver engagement band around your finger, its cold metal grounding you, reminding you of the promises made to someone else, a life you had chosen. But even as you did, your touch was restless, the movement betraying the calm exterior you wore. The ring spun slowly, like time itself, like the years between you and Hotch, like all the moments that had slipped through your grasp.

Across the table, Hotch’s hand absently turned his gold wedding band, the warm metal catching the dim light of the bar, casting a soft, golden glow. It was a faint reminder of a life lived for someone else, of duty, of commitments he could never break. The glow of the ring reflected in his dark eyes, hiding the flicker of something deeper - something that neither of you dared to acknowledge aloud. His thumb traced the edge of the band, slow and deliberate, as though the weight of it was both a comfort and a burden he couldn’t shake.

In that small, shared moment, your fidgeting hands told a story. The rings - the delicate silver on your finger, the steadfast gold on his - shone like symbols of everything you had chosen, but now felt also of everything you had lost.

They were promises made to others, and yet they were reminders of the things you could never speak of, the uncharted territory between you that still lingered, just out of reach. The space between your hands felt infinite, a distance marked by time, by choices, by vows you could never break.

The team, ever observant, exchanged quiet, knowing glances. They had no idea of the weight of what had just passed between you and Hotch, but they noticed the synchronicity, the way you both fiddled with your rings at the same moment, the invisible thread that seemed to connect you two even now.

As if to break the tension, Peter leaned in closer, oblivious to the undercurrents between you and Hotch. With a broad grin, he draped his arm around your shoulders and raised his voice, cutting through the fog of memory.

“You know, when I saw you two dancing to this song back then, I knew I couldn’t let her fall for him. That’s when I realized,” Peter said, his voice filled with affection, “I wanted to marry her. I couldn’t let her slip away.” He smiled, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

Hotch’s stomach churned as Peter’s words sank in, the weight of them pressing down on him. He forced a polite smile, but inside, his thoughts spiraled. He glanced at you just as Peter kissed you, watching the way your face shifted into a quiet smile. You recovered quickly, as you always did, but Hotch saw behind the mask. He always had.

The atmosphere around the table grew heavier, the weight of unspoken tension thickening the air. The team, sensing something but unsure of what it was, shifted uneasily. Peter, still oblivious to the undercurrent between you and Hotch, tried to lighten the mood, chuckling as he added, “I’ll admit, at first I thought Hotch was a bit too old for her - sorry, Hotch,” he said with a laugh, clearly unaware of how his words were like salt on an open wound.

Hotch barely heard him. His mind was still trapped in the past, tangled in the memories the song had brought rushing back. He glanced down at his wedding band, the gold a reminder of everything that had changed, of the life he had built with Haley. And yet, across the table, he could feel the weight of what might have been, what he had never allowed himself to fully acknowledge.

Hotch forced a smirk. “Well, I’ll try not to take that too personally,” he replied, his tone light, drawing a wave of laughter from the table. But inside, his heart wasn’t in it. His mind was elsewhere, caught between the weight of the moment and the past that seemed to linger just beneath the surface.

Peter, emboldened by the laughter, leaned in with that easy charm of his and pushed further. “But I was even more surprised when she told me she dated that lawyer right after she moved overseas. How old was she again?”

The words hit like a sudden gust of cold wind, cutting through the warmth of the conversation.

Your expression shifted instantly, a quick, forced laugh escaping your lips as you scrambled to steer the moment away from the awkwardness that now hung between you all. “Forty-five,” you said, the number leaving your lips almost too quickly, like a reflex.

The room seemed to pause, the laughter dying out as the words settled heavily in the air. The only thing you could hear now were two words, echoing louder than anything else,

she and forty-five.

It was as if everything around you had gone quiet, the team's voices drowned out by the weight of what Peter had unintentionally revealed. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable, a sudden tension stretching across the table as the team sat in stunned silence, processing what they had just heard.

Hotch’s brow furrowed slightly, his curiosity and confusion clear. The silence that followed Peter’s comment only made his next word stand out more. His voice, calm but pointed, sliced through the stillness. “Lawyer?”

The single word seemed to hang in the air, heavier than everything else. Your heart raced. You opened your mouth to explain, to say something, but before you could find the words, Hotch’s familiar smirk reappeared, his eyes glinting with that familiar humor he always used to disarm tense situations.

“You always gave me so much grief about being a lawyer,” he said, the smirk deepening as his eyes locked onto yours, “claiming you couldn’t stand them. And now I find out you dated one? Hypocrisy, partner.”

His playful jab lightened the moment, and you felt a surge of relief. You rolled your eyes dramatically, grateful for the shift in tone. “She was the exception, I swear,” you replied, playing along. “And for the record, she was a force of nature, youngest senior partner at one of the biggest law firms in London.”

The tension broke as the team erupted into laughter, the awkwardness melting away, though a few lingering glances darted between them. Garcia, ever playful, fanned herself with exaggerated motions. “Oh, so the youngest senior partner cancels out the fact that she was, what, two decades older than you?”

Peter, oblivious to the shift in energy, leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, adding with a grin, “Guess that means I’m too young for you, huh? I’ll have to step up my game.”

Hotch sat in quiet fury, his expression controlled, though anger churned inside him. Peter’s careless words echoed in his mind, louder than the laughter around them. He knew how fiercely you guarded your privacy, especially with people you’d just met, and Peter had exposed it all for the sake of a good story.

Watching you force a laugh, pretending it didn’t matter, only fueled his anger. His fists clenched under the table as he met your eyes briefly, seeing the discomfort you tried to mask. Peter had crossed a line, and Hotch felt it deeply.

To ground himself from the growing urge to snap, Hotch forced his focus away from Peter’s careless words and instead became hyper-aware of his surroundings. The almost empty glasses of the team caught his eye - Reid’s water was down to its last sip, Garcia’s cocktail was mostly melted ice, and even Morgan’s beer glass sat nearly drained.

It was a small distraction, but one that kept him from letting the anger boil over. Ever the composed leader, caring as always, Hotch cleared his throat, his voice steady but with a forced lightness.

"Anyone need a refill?" he asked, his tone casual but precise, offering a small smile to the group. He stood before anyone could answer, already signaling to the bartender. Taking control of the moment was his way of regaining composure, of keeping his emotions in check, even as the burn of Peter’s thoughtlessness lingered beneath the surface.

Garcia and Morgan exchanged mischievous looks before Morgan called out, “Tequila shots for us!”

“Noted,” Hotch replied with a smirk, already recalling everyone’s drinks without needing to ask again. You had always admired that about him, his ability to notice and remember the smallest details, always quietly looking out for the people he cared about.

Peter, as if sensing an opportunity to bond or perhaps clueless to Hotch's inner turmoil, quickly followed. “Need a hand with the drinks?” he offered, his voice light and easy.

Hotch gave a curt nod, though inwardly, he was grateful for the few steps of distance from the group - more importantly, from you. Peter fell in step beside him, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering just below the surface, the kind of tension that came from years of unspoken history. As they waited at the bar, the quiet between them grew thick, and for Hotch, it was impossible to ignore Peter's earlier thoughtlessness.

After a moment of charged silence, Hotch spoke, his voice low and firm, tinged with an edge he couldn’t quite suppress. “You know, what you said back there about her past... that wasn’t yours to share.”

Peter blinked, clearly caught off guard by the shift in tone. He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Oh, come on, Hotch. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean any harm.”

Hotch’s eyes darkened, locking onto Peter’s with a quiet but unmistakable intensity. “It’s not about harm, Peter. It’s about respect. That’s her story, not yours to tell. You don’t know the team like she does, and they didn’t need to hear it from you like that.”

Peter, clearly flustered by the sudden seriousness, let out a nervous chuckle. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I mean, they’re her friends, right?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, the flicker of anger just barely kept in check. “It is a big deal. You didn’t see the way she reacted. I did.”

Peter hesitated, the weight of Hotch’s words beginning to sink in as he glanced back at the table. His brow furrowed, suddenly seeing the moment through Hotch’s eyes, realizing, for the first time, the discomfort he had caused you. The easygoing confidence he had worn so naturally faltered.

Hotch’s voice dropped to a near whisper, the words laced with a subtle warning. “You’re supposed to protect her, not expose her. Remember that next time.”

Peter swallowed, his confidence shaken as he tried to brush it off with a weak smile. “Yeah… you’re right. I’ll watch it.”

While waiting for the drinks, you were left alone with the team, and for the first time that night, you felt truly exposed. It was like being caged in a zoo, observed from all angles, every subtle move you made dissected by the group around you. Prentiss, ever the one to stir the pot, leaned forward with a mischievous grin, breaking the silence that had settled like a thick fog.

“So… about sharing rooms with Hotch on all those field cases. Did you two ever, you know…?” she teased, her tone playful but pointed.

You laughed, trying to dispel the weight pressing down on you, the joke coming to your lips almost automatically. “Oh, absolutely. Every night. HR had to intervene because we were so unprofessional,” you said, your voice light, hoping humor would smooth over the moment. "We're talking about Hotch... and I'm not that different" But there was a tension beneath your words, something guarded, something you weren’t quite ready to let slip through.

The team chuckled, the moment seemingly passing, but JJ, always more perceptive, leaned in with a more serious, knowing look. “Did you ever think about… something outside of work? Something more?”

Her words cut deeper, and for a moment, the table fell silent. The laughter died away, replaced by an almost palpable stillness. You hesitated, your heart racing as your eyes flickered toward the bar, where Hotch stood talking to Peter. The unspoken question lingered between you and the team, hanging heavy in the air. “Honestly? What we had as partners was important to both of us,” you finally said, your voice soft but steady. “It wasn’t worth risking that for something that might not have worked out.”

Meanwhile, back at the bar, while still waiting for a portion of fries that Reid had begged them to order, Peter leaned in closer to Hotch. “There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about, Hotch. The reason I was calling her earlier today… After that lecture at the academy, they offered her a full-time teaching position. They want her to take over Gideon’s old class.”

Hotch’s heart skipped a beat, though he kept his expression neutral. “At Quantico?” he asked, doing his best to mask the sudden surge of emotion rising in his chest.

Peter nodded, unaware of the internal storm brewing inside Hotch. “Yeah. It’s a big opportunity for her, and it means we’d finally settle down. No more crossing oceans every few months. We could start putting down roots.”

Hotch swallowed hard, the implications of Peter’s words sinking in with a weight that made it hard to breathe. You’d be back in Quantico, close by. The thought brought with it a mix of hope and dread.

He would see you again, be near you again, but it wouldn’t be the same. You had moved on, built a life that no longer revolved around him. The life you were building with Peter didn’t include him the way it once might have.

Peter, oblivious to the conflict raging inside Hotch, continued. “They also offered me a position, unit chief in the White Collar Crimes Division. We’d finally have normal hours, a more stable life. You know, time to build something together. Maybe start a family.”

Hotch felt a sharp pang of something he couldn’t quite name - regret, maybe, or longing, or something deeper that he’d never fully confronted. The idea of you starting a family with Peter gnawed at him in a way he hadn’t expected. He should be happy for you – he was happy for you - but the thought of you stepping into that future, a future he wasn’t part of, left a hollow ache in his chest.

He glanced back at the table, catching a glimpse of you laughing with the team, your face lighting up in that way it always did when you were at ease. In that moment, the weight of what could have been - and what would never be - hit him harder than he’d imagined. You were on the verge of stepping into a new chapter of your life, and he was stuck watching it unfold from the sidelines.

Peter’s voice broke through his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. “I just hope she says yes. It’s a big change, but it feels right, you know?”

Hotch forced a smile, nodding even as the ache in his chest deepened. “Yeah, I’m sure she’ll make the right decision,” he said, though the words felt hollow in his mouth.

As they gathered the drinks and returned to the table, Hotch’s mind raced, unable to stop thinking about the what-ifs. He couldn’t shake the memories of the past, of the closeness you’d once shared, or the realization that the future you were building with Peter was slipping further and further from him. But as he placed the drinks down in front of the team, his smile remained firmly in place, masking the turmoil inside him. He had mastered the art of hiding what he truly felt, after all.

You could be back, but at what cost?

[jayden-writes]

safe

pairing: Lucifer x gn!Reader

wordcount: ~3k

genre: hurt/comfort, angst, whump

cw: kidnapping, strangulation, threats, violence, murder

summary: Did it truly matter that the hands cradling your face so very gently were bloody?

other notes: no name, Y/N or MC used // AO3 // thanks again to @gravedwe11er for helping me so much with this fic

A piece of fabric pressing over your mouth and nose was all it took to plunge your world into darkness, a pungent smell being the last thing you could process. You’d been on your way back from a short trip, unsuspecting, unaware of who was lurking in the shadows. How much time had passed, you couldn’t possibly tell, but as you finally came to, all you could feel was a dull pain engulfing your entire body. Upon trying to check for any injuries, you realized your wrists were tied, bindings digging tightly into your skin. Slowly, your other senses started to return to you, and you registered that you were sitting, something around your chest keeping you upright.

Forcing your eyelids open, you blinked a few times, attempting to make sense of your surroundings. It was dark, the small, sparse room only dimly lit. If you had to guess, you'd say it was some sort of basement; the floor was unfinished, and the brick wall looked rough. “Mh-” you tried to speak, but all that you managed to get out was a muffled, quiet sound. You’ve been gagged. A heavy weight settled deep in your stomach. The cloth forced between your teeth tasted musty, already damp with your saliva. Looking down with wide eyes, you took in the multiple rows of rope wrapped around your upper body, restricting your breathing, arms bound behind you at an awkward, painful angle that made your shoulders ache. The edge of the metal chair you were sitting on cut into your thighs.

When you wiggled around to free yourself, or at least loosen the restraints, the legs scraped on the crude floor, making your ears hurt. But no matter how hard you fought, it was futile. Holding back tears, you let your head hang, closing your eyes. Deliberately keeping your inhales slow and steady, you tried to think of a solution despite your racing thoughts. Panicking wouldn’t save you, you knew that. Clearly, you would be unable to free yourself without outside assistance. And with your mouth gagged, you weren’t even able to invoke one of your pacts to call them for help. So, what should you do? What could you do?

Before you had any more time to reflect on your circumstances, you heard heavy footsteps above you, drawing your attention. Seconds later, a door was opened, the light momentarily blinding you, then it was cut off again. In the remaining light bleeding through the crack of the door, you saw feet, legs and after that, slowly, the rest of someone unknown to you entered your field of vision - though it was obvious that it was a demon. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, the pale blue piercing through you. A wolfish grin curled around her lips as she stepped closer. You wanted to shrink back, huddle into the furthest corner of the room. But you couldn’t.

“Ah, finally awake, are we? I bet you must have a lot of questions.” Her voice was casual, as if she was simply out for a stroll while she towered over you. “Well, too bad! You see, as much as I’d like to have what would undoubtedly be a very productive conversation with you, I know you’d just call upon one of those so-called Lords that grovel at your feet.”

“Mph…! Mn…!” you tried again, only earning an amused chuckle from her.

“I’m not particularly keen on having one of those brothers that practically fawn over you come to your rescue. Pathetic, really. Demons of their status acting like that around a human. They're supposed to be leaders, to be an example to us lowly demons. Ha, as if! Traitors, all of them, and they should be treated as such.” She gripped your chin roughly, her pointed fingernails scraping along your flesh as you glared at her defiantly despite the ice-cold sensation running through your veins.

“Don’t give me that fucking look, human, show me some respect,” she sneered. For a moment longer, she held your gaze, then her eyes wavered. Faster than you could comprehend, a sharp smack resounded in the small room, and your cheek stung. The force of the slap made your head spin. “You’ll lose that defiant look of yours soon enough and learn to grovel at our feet, just the way it should be. I’ll correct the mistake that fool of a prince made.”

Leaning even closer, she brought her hand down to your throat, closing her grip tightly around it. “I could kill you, just like this,” she whispered harshly into your ear as you struggled against her. Faintness quickly took you over, and your vision became frayed at the edges. Were you going to die like this? “Throw your decaying corpse at the feet of these pathetic weaklings and watch them become consumed by their emotions. And then, I’ll be the king.” You couldn’t die. Not now. Not like this. Not here. Not at her hands.

Finally, she let go of you, and you slumped forward. Blood rushed in your ears and you coughed into the cloth. “Tsk.” She spat on the ground right next to where you were trembling on the chair. “That was more boring than I’d expected. Thought you had more fight in you. But you'll see-”

Her speech was cut off when, suddenly, the door was thrown open, banging against the wall and making both you and your captor flinch. “And what exactly,” drawled a frigid voice as slow steps descended the stairs, “was ‘more boring than expected’? Enlighten me.”

You immediately recognized who it was - of course you did. But the softness that usually laced Lucifer's tone whenever he was talking to you was entirely gone, replaced by a sharpness you’d rarely heard from him. It wasn't directed toward you, you knew that, and yet you couldn't help the shiver running down your spine at the sound of his booming voice. Though he sounded composed, it was clear that he was anything but. The air felt electric, and the dangerous aura he exuded made your hair stand on end. Your heart skipped a beat, only to start pounding faster, a whimper escaping from behind the gag.

Lucifer came to a stop in front of the other demon, who had become virtually frozen in place, all color drained from her face. Gleaming red eyes glanced at you, swiftly assessing your state, before, whatever it was he saw, made his gaze harden even further. “Look away,” he instructed you in an oddly soft tone, and then his focus returned to your abductor, who was now visibly shaking.

“M-my lord,” she stammered, the quiver in her words unmistakable. “Please, you must understand-”

Within the blink of an eye, Lucifer had her pinned against the wall, a pained shriek filling the room. “What must I understand?” he asked, sounding deceptively calm, as his fingers dug into the throat of the other demon. She fought against the grip, trying to loosen the hold. To no avail. Lucifer was unmoving, unbothered by the nails scratching at his gloved hands. Clicking his tongue, he let go, and she collapsed to the ground.

“Please,” she tried, her voice strained as she coughed, attempting to gather herself. A hard kick was delivered to her stomach, causing her to cry out again and curl in on herself. When it was followed by Lucifer stepping on her hand, you knew you should have heeded his order and looked away. As it was, you were unable to avert your gaze as the bones of her fingers cracked beneath the force of his foot. She was pulled up to stand, though most of her weight was being held up by him, pinning her against the wall once more. “I-I'm sorry,” she choked out as he pressed his forearm into her throat.

“Are you truly sorry? Or are you merely trying to save your worthless skin?” Lucifer questioned in a dangerously low voice. He trailed a finger along her cheekbone. “Perhaps,” he mused, “I should rid your body of it. Find a better purpose for it. I believe some bookbinders still use demon skin for books. It would make a terrific present for your family, wouldn't you agree?” He paused, taking in the horror flickering across her face with an impassive expression. “Of course, that would be rather time-consuming. And, quite frankly, I have more important things to tend to than your worthless existence. Let's make this quick then, shall we?”

As if she weighed nothing, he slung her toward the opposite wall, a sickening crack audible as her head made contact with the bricks. She bonelessly fell to the floor, groaning in pain. Before she was able to regain her bearings, Lucifer was kneeling beside her prone body, not caring about the rapidly forming puddle of blood that was dirtying his pants. A dagger glinted in the dimly lit room, and only when blood spurted from her throat, her last, gurgling attempts at breathing filling the air, did you look away, your breaths coming in sharp gasps against the cloth. You felt sick.

With the mangled corpse of the demon lying at the feet of Lucifer, his gaze returned to your quivering form. The intense sheen in his eyes vanished as he took swift steps toward you, appraising your pale appearance. Crouching near you, he partially obscured the gruesome scene behind him. But now, with him finally by your side, he didn't need to. You didn't want to look at it, didn't care about the dead demon, the only thing your sight was drawn to was him. All that mattered was the man before you. The man who could easily kill you just like he killed her, who barely even batted an eye at the wounds he’d inflicted upon that woman. You knew that, rationally, you should be terrified of him, at least as much as you’d been terrified of her. And yet you weren't.

Those same hands that had just killed in cold blood, still stained red, were gently working on undoing the painful restraints keeping you in place. Those same eyes that had shone with ruthless indifference as he had taken a life now looked at you with carefully guarded concern and cautiousness. The crimson streaking his sharp features, dripping off his jaw in beads, complemented the eyes that were looking at you with a contradictory softness perfectly.

Once the cloth was removed from your mouth, all you could muster was a broken sob in the vague shape of his name. With a soft sigh that was probably shakier than Lucifer would have liked to admit, you were gathered into his arms. A hand gingerly pressed against the back of your head, guiding your face into the crook of his neck. The wet blood on his glove was undoubtedly staining your hair, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care; the warmth and safety you found in his embrace was all that mattered.

“Do you have any serious injuries?” he asked quietly, his breath brushing against your ear. Upon feeling you shake your head, he lifted you from the chair, carrying your weight with ease, and you instinctively wrapped your arms over his shoulders. As soon as he'd made it up the stairs, you could hear multiple sets of steps approaching in a hurry alongside several voices, yelling over each other. You recognized all of them, and they rushed around you, a few of them touching you.

Lucifer tightened his hold on you as the sudden onslaught of sensations made you whimper and burrow yourself further into him. “Stop it. This is not helping,” he reprimanded them sharply, and immediately, it grew quiet and the hands withdrew. “I will return home,” he continued. “Do with the body as you wish, though you ought to leave some remains. And don't dawdle too long.”

With that, he went outside, the fresh, cool air replacing the stuffy, metallic tang of the basement. The trip back was short - or was it long? You weren’t sure. It was silent, neither you nor him said anything. The tension in Lucifer was palpable, his posture rigid as he carried you. You mindlessly played with the fabric of his shirt, rubbing it between the tips of your fingers while your head rested on his shoulder.

“I'm okay,” you whispered, although it sounded hollow even to your own ears. He released a heavy sigh and hugged you closer to him.

“You're okay,” he simply echoed.

Next thing you knew, you were back inside. Lucifer's bloody hands were gentle as they worked on divesting your still-trembling form of your clothes, his gaze never lingering anywhere but his own fingers. Not that you would have noticed either way; you were blankly staring ahead, only vaguely aware of his actions. When he had finished, he spoke in a soft voice, as if afraid to startle you, “All done. Are you ready to get in?” Your attention snapped back to the present, to the warm bathroom you were standing in. The tiles beneath your bare feet were a little cold, just now starting to heat up. In the background, water was running, gradually filling the bathtub right next to you.

“Lucifer…?” you mumbled, receiving a squeeze to your hands in response. Looking down, you realized he was gently holding them in his own, ugly bruises and abrasions blooming across your wrists. His gloves were still damp, some of the blood staining your skin.

“Yes. I’m here. Let’s get you cleaned up now,” he responded patiently, directing you toward the tub. Your steps were mechanical as you followed his guidance, entering the warm water and submerging your body in it. Drawing your knees up to your chest, you hugged your legs to yourself, simply gazing at the rippling shapes around you.

“I will leave for a moment to change. Call for me if something is the matter.” For a beat, Lucifer waited for a reply, a reaction, anything from you. When he received none, he sighed wearily. “It will only be for a moment, I will be right back,” he said before stepping out. As you submerged your hands, you watched as the water surrounding you turned a light shade of pink. The pain radiating from your wrists was distant, detached from your being. You observed how you flexed your fingers, then curled them toward your palm, nails digging into the flesh. Had your hands always looked like that? Turning them around, you inspected them, spreading the fingers apart, pressing them together and-

“Does it hurt a lot?” a voice asked and you flinched hard, spinning toward the source. Lucifer was kneeling next to the tub, his brow creased in a frown. “I did not mean to startle you. You seemed very… absorbed in your thoughts. I suppose you didn’t hear me return.” His gloves were gone now, with no traces of the blood that had marred his skin just minutes ago. He had changed into clean, comfortable clothes as well. Upon your prolonged silence, he reached for a nearby cloth, dipping it into the water, then moving it over your body in slow, gentle circles.

“Is this real?” you muttered, the words leaving your mouth before you had even formed the thought.

“Yes, it is real,” he confirmed calmly, though his ministrations faltered briefly. “We are in my bathroom, back in the House of Lamentation. You are safe here.”

“Mhm…” you hummed noncommittally, your gaze drifting down to your submerged hands as you balled them into fists and stretched them out. The water rippled at the repetitive motion and you couldn’t help but stare at the patterns it created. The sensation of the cloth brushing over your skin faded into the background. Only when larger hands stopped your movements, grasping yours gently, did you glance at Lucifer again. You blinked at him blankly. Something in his expression was off, though you couldn’t tell what it was.

“I’m tired,” a voice said and you didn’t have the energy to think about whether it was your own or not.

“Let’s get you into bed then, hm?” he suggested softly, letting the water drain and carefully supporting you as you stood up and stepped out of the tub. A large towel was wrapped around you with which he patted you dry before he helped you into a set of clothes. They vaguely smelled like him. With an arm over your shoulders, he guided you out of the bathroom and back toward his room. Once at the bed, you lay down, sinking into the mattress. For a moment, Lucifer simply remained next to you, regarding you with an unreadable look on his face. Eventually, he knelt beside you and opened the drawer of the nightstand, pulling out a small container. Gingerly, he took one of your arms and scooped out some ointment to apply to the raw skin on your wrist, then he repeated it on the other side as well.

After stowing it away again, Lucifer turned off all the lights besides the candles and climbed into the bed next to you, cautiously gathering you into an embrace. A hand cupped the back of your head, hugging you into his chest as the fingers stroked your scalp. Aside from his even breaths and your slow, shallow ones, it was silent. An invisible weight was tugging on your limbs, the only thing holding you in place, holding you together, were the arms enveloping you.

“Can I let go?” you mumbled, not quite sure yourself what you were trying to ask, but he seemed to understand nonetheless.

“Yes, it’s alright to let go now,” he reassured you, squeezing you a little tighter. “I’m here and I’m not leaving.”

Humming in response, you nestled closer to him, feeling your breaths gradually synchronize with his as you surrendered yourself to the heavy warmth overcoming you. Soon, everything else slowly faded away until you finally drifted off to sleep, safe in Lucifer’s hold.

[cldflsh]

started reading season zero recently, and in one of the panels barry has a broken ankle that healed wrong. wells said very casually that they just need to break it again and let it heal correctly. and barry said “it still hurts, you know.”

and i feel like he didn't say that nearly enough in the show. because some moments were very questionable. take oliver for example, when he wanted to teach barry a lesson by shooting arrows directly into his back.

“hE HeALs fAsT—” SHUT UP. oh my god. what if one of the arrows hit a nerve and he got paralyzed for days? what if it punctured a lung, or both, because it was multiple arrows.

don't get me wrong, i love whump as much as the next guy. but so many times during the show barry was just . . . neglected. and that's putting it lightly.

look at him. look at the silly. my little meow meow. look into his innocent fking eyes and tell me why you thought it was a good idea to hurt him like that.

[mouldycakes]

"There is something wrong with the way that I am built. I... I can't, uh, I can't just enjoy happiness like regular people, you know? [...] every time something good happens in my life, I... I just I think of when it's gonna end. That's all I can think about." - Danny (S04 E19)

Original HERE.

I saw it on Twitter and wanted to have it and suffer over here ;_; Transcript of the whole conversation in 4x19 + some thoughts:

Steve: She's pretty.

Danny: What?

Steve: Amber. Can tell she really cares about you, too.

Danny: Yeah, I'll probably screw it up like I do everything else. Right? Not in my DNA to be happy.

Steve: I didn't mean that. That's not what I meant. (Earlier, Steve had said: "Danny, if she (Amber) was the same age as you, you would come up with a different excuse, whatever you need, because you can't be happy. It's impossible for you; it's not in your DNA.")

Danny: No, I'm officially agreeing with you. There is something wrong with the way that I am built. I.. I can't, uh I can't just enjoy happiness like regular people, you know?

Steve: You don't think you're being a little hard on yourself?

Danny: No, I don't. When I was a kid, my parents would go out to eat dinner. And if they were late coming home, I used to imagine that they died in a car wreck, just 'cause they were 15 minutes late. And I used to talk to God and beg him. I said, "Please just take my dad, not my mom." 'Cause I couldn't live without my mom. I mean, every time something good happens in my life, I... I just I think of when it's gonna end. That's all I can think about.

Steve: (seriously concerned) You for real?

Danny: Yeah.

Steve: That's not normal.

Danny: I know it's not normal. Listen to this. On my wedding day, I'm looking at Rachel, just about to say "I do." And all I can see is the day she's gonna serve me with divorce papers. No joke. And I... I don't know, man. The only sustained happiness I ever felt in my life so far is Grace. And, you know, it's just a matter of time before she turns 18, and then she's out the door and she marries some schmuck. I don't know.

Steve: (serious) You got to change, man. You can't live like that.

Danny: Well, I'd like very much to change. It's just not so simple, you know?

-- after losing Billy, Rick(kinda), Grace, Meka, Matt, all the stuff with Rachel and her mother, Gracie being taken away from him almost 3? times, being used as spare parts for Charlie -because if he hadn't been sick, Danny would have never known Charlie was his son and wow if that isn't a punch to the gut-, being there for his mother and sisters when they need something and then they just go 'kay thnx bye' and disappear, all the brushes with death Steve's had, plus his own, plus the stress of worrying about everyone, plus being kidnapped tortured shot and afterwards being basically abandoned by his best friend while barely out of hospital unable to walk unassisted I'm also mad Steve didn't answer his text or his last words wtf Steve?! , not to mention the casual way Danny talks about killing himself through the seasons... and I'm pretty sure I'm forgetting some stuff! man, Danny needs therapy ;_; (and I need to rewatch :D)

EDIT: HOLY SHIT I forgot about Reyes and Colombia, what did all that go - they beat the sht out of him and the guilt he had (and boy if that's not a nice starter for Danny whump... they could have probably done something else and not just beat him up...)

I have lost count also of how many people spell it Columbia and not Colombia in fanfics; un saludo pa' mis hermanos latinoamericanos.

[oliversrarebooks]

a good grade in being brainwashed: the perfect pet

tw: pet whump, bbu, dehumanization, brainwashing, memory wipe

Previous > Masterlist

"You need more than good looks to get the lead part, you know," said Toby, casually coming up behind Vinay and leaning against his chair. "That's why they'll undoubtedly go with me. No hard feelings. If you're very lucky, though, you'll get to play a supporting role in helping my star shine that much brighter."

Vinay suppressed the urge to point out that it was Toby who convinced him to sign up for theater in the first place, knowing full well that he was the idiot who let Toby talk him into things. "I'll have you know I've been practicing for this audition all week. You shouldn't assume it will be easy."

Toby sighed and rolled his eyes. "You've been practicing all week and yet you're still so stiff. Stiff as a board!" He shook Vinay lightly as if to make a point. "The lead role isn't stiff. He's adventurous. Dashing! Charismatic! And right now you look like a tired accountant three years from retiring, whose idea of adventure is to buy medium salsa instead of mild."

He scowled, because unfortunately Toby was probably right. He wasn't sure he was cut out for acting at all, and the thought of going up on the stage and delivering his monologue before a judging panel… "What do you suggest, then?"

"Here, I've got it." Toby circled around behind him and put his hands on Vinay's shoulders. "You have to let your muscles relax."

"What are you doing?" said Vinay with considerable alarm.

"I'm helping with your stiffness, obviously." Toby was kneading at his shoulders, and unfortunately for Vinay's resolve, it felt amazing.

"You're just trying to get a rise out of me."

"And even though you know that, it's still working."

Of course it was. Vinay never knew what Toby was thinking, giving him a massage in front of everyone gathered for the audition, not that anyone was really noticing.

Actually, no. Vinay knew exactly what Toby was thinking, because it was what Toby was always thinking. He wanted attention, and as usual, Vinay was a convenient source for it.

"Let all that tension out of those muscles," said Toby in a tone that might have been soothing if it weren't Toby. "Just let your mind go blank. And think about what it would be like if you weren't terminally boring."

"Thanks," said Vinay, dripping with sarcasm. "I'll do my best."

"You're so very welcome. I'm always happy to help a fellow thespian!"

Vinay knew he had to do something to take his mind off of warm hands on his shoulders, lest he start to get uncomfortable feelings for his irritating roommate. "I wanted to ask you, have you studied for organic chem yet?"

"Eh, nah. I don't need to. I see organic chem as more of an art than a science really."

"…It's very literally a science."

"So I can probably intuit all the answers. I'll be fine."

That's right, Vinay needed this reminder of how absolutely infuriating Toby could be. He didn't take anything seriously but acting and inflating his ego -- although Vinay suspected there was more going on there, a lot more.

Ever since the very first day they'd been paired together in the dorms, he had an uncanny knack for getting on Vinay's nerves. He seemed to have a supernatural ability for pushing Vinay's buttons just enough to drive him up the wall, but never quite enough that Vinay could truly dislike him. Whenever Vinay wanted peace and quiet, there he'd be, demanding attention. And whenever Vinay was lonely… well, he'd usually be there too. And perhaps that wasn't so terrible.

"You should really study after this. I'll help you."

"Hmm… I suppose I could help you study, if you really want me to. But only if we order Chinese. I can't study on an empty stomach, you know."

"Fine. Deal."

The auditorium went quiet as the director got up on stage. "All right, we're going to begin auditions. Everyone auditioning for the male lead, please head backstage now. When your name is called, you'll have five minutes to deliver your monologue."

"Oh, here we go!" said Toby, cracking his knuckles and grinning. "Time to shine!"

"Right." Vinay tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach as he followed Toby backstage. He probably wasn't going first, so at least he'd have five minutes to take some deep breaths and calm down before --

"Vinay? You're up first."

Shit.

"Knock 'em dead," said Toby, clapping him on the back. "Break a leg. Break both your legs."

"What?"

"Shatter your collarbone. Suffer third degree burns to over sixty percent of your body."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Well, if breaking your leg is lucky, more injuries must be extra luck."

Vinay groaned and brushed Toby off as he walked out onto stage with a stride he hoped was confident. He turned to the front and looked at the director.

And his mind went immediately blank.

---

Vinay's mind went immediately blank when he saw the discount pet in the case in the corner, B211.

Toby. It was Toby. But that wasn't possible.

He looked so different from the last time Vinay had seen him. His hair was neatly done and he was wearing a tailored uniform, nothing at all like the tousled hair and loud colors he'd normally preferred. But the most striking thing about him was the smile. It was no longer that cocky grin he always wore when he'd gotten your attention. It was a customer service smile, a meek and submissive smile, a smile tinged with desperation.

But it was Toby. Even though that didn't seem possible, there was no mistake.

"Oh, I wouldn't recommend that one," said the salesman. "He's a bit more high maintenance than our other Romantics, and you're looking for a pet that's very independent, right?"

Vinay nodded and let the salesman lead him away to a different pet on display, but his mind remained behind.

How the hell did Toby end up as a pet? Vinay had spent so much time with him in college and never suspected that he might be a pet. Sure, he struggled with his grades, and was a bit on the unstable side, but surely that didn't mean he was a pet. Had he signed up voluntarily? Had he gotten himself in trouble, the sort of trouble that got him designated a risk to himself? Did he have a nervous breakdown?

And did he remember Vinay? No, he couldn't possibly. Pets all had their former memories erased through what was said to be a very humane process, to ease their transition into a better life. Toby likely didn't remember anything at all about him.

And that thought made him slightly ill.

"I can tell this one's not to your liking," said the salesman, and Vinay realized he'd been making a disgusted look in the vague direction of the pet the salesman was showing off. "Well, I think you're going to like this pet. He's low maintenance and is trained to cook…"

"That sounds interesting," said Vinay, trying to regain his focus.

He'd come here to find a companion pet on the recommendation of his therapist. His job left him with plenty of money but even more stress, he'd had little luck with making friends or dating, and he'd been getting desperately lonely and touch-starved. His therapist quite reasonably pointed out that that was one of the primary functions of pets, to ease loneliness.

Vinay had never considered it before. He'd never been fond of his family's Domestics. His father had preferred them unseen and unheard, so they tended to flit around the house like ghosts. Vinay certainly didn't want a pet like that. He wanted a pet with some personality, who could brighten his days and give him something to do other than work and sleep.

And he absolutely could not buy Toby, not that he would even consider it. However Toby had ended up as a pet, it was not his business, and Vinay was a stranger to him now anyway. Even if he didn't have his memory cleaned, Toby would no doubt hate being stuck with Vinay again. Most importantly, there was a rule in the Pet Owners' Handbook warning against keeping pets that the owner knew before they were pets. After all, pets had their memories erased so that their training would take well and so they wouldn't experience any unnecessary duress. Digging up those memories could cause psychological harm.

There was another customer in front of Toby now. Vinay had no reason to worry about him - he probably made a great pet, and would be bought up quickly.

That thought didn't make Vinay feel better at all.

The salesman directed him to the largest case at the end of the show floor. "And I've saved the best for last. This is a premium model, one of the finest we've had in this showroom. He does it all, and does it in style."

The premium pet was perfectly coiffed and very handsome. His smile looked much more natural than some of the other pets', warm and inviting, as though he truly wanted to be your companion. The salesman eagerly listed his attributes: independent, intelligent, capable of being a personal assistant, eager to please…

This one was everything he had wanted in a pet, just the sort of thing he'd been looking for. The pet was expensive, but Vinay could easily afford this indulgence. He'd be the perfect addition to Vinay's lonely condo, one he'd be proud to have.

"If this pet is within your budget, I think he'd be best suited to your needs, sir."

"He does seem like an ideal fit…" said Vinay with a lack of enthusiasm that surprised even him. After all, wasn't this exactly what he wanted? An ideal pet, perfectly trained, quiet, obedient, affectionate.

Just the right boring, corporate addition to his boring, corporate life.

"Would you like to spend a little time with him? I'm sure once you do, you won't be leaving this showroom alone."

Who was this premium pet before he was a pet? He wasn't meant to worry about that. They were all supposed to be volunteers or those who otherwise couldn't live a normal life, and the pet process was supposed to be humane and gentle. It was good for them, and good for pet owners.

But when he glanced over at Toby's blank and docile face…

"Maybe, but I'm still interested in that one. The one I saw when I first came in."

What was he doing? He couldn't buy Toby. That pet wasn't even Toby any more. He wasn't the roommate that drove Vinay up the wall at every given opportunity. He no longer knew any of Vinay's secrets, shared with him in late night conversations. He was a pet, now, and this premium pet was much better suited to Vinay's needs, just like the salesman said.

His needs. How often did he really think about his needs? What were they? Was a premium pet really what he needed?

Every rational part of his mind was screaming "bad idea" as he walked back to Toby's case. As he approached, a tiny spark of light appeared in Toby's dull eyes, and Vinay knew, against all of his sensible judgement, that he wasn't going to leave here without his old frenemy.

It had to be delusional, leftover feelings from his college years, all the time spent tutoring Toby and trying to get him to take his work seriously, all those times they'd spent laughing and talking about subjects both deep and ridiculous…

Vinay didn't really know what he needed, but he couldn't help but feel that Toby needed him.

"Are you sure?" said the salesman, clearly confused as to why Vinay had gone back here after being shown the premium model. "This one's a refurb. That's why he's on a discount."

A refurb. Someone had previously owned and sold Toby. He'd had his memories wiped at least twice now.

"Do you know why he was returned?"

"Ah, his original owner simply found a new relationship, and was displeased with the amount of attention this Romantic required. He's been wiped of those memories, and we've done our best to train out his unfortunate need for attention, of course…"

Vinay made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a choke. Of course Toby was attention-seeking as a pet. If there was one thing Toby couldn't stand, it was being ignored or bored.

And his previous owner hadn't appreciated that. He could imagine Toby's desperation as his bids for affection were rebuked by a busy owner. Lonely. Rejected. They surely didn't know how to handle him. Vinay knew, though. He always had.

"I want to buy this one."

The salesman was as surprised as Vinay was, going on about how they don't accept returns on refurbished pets. That hardly mattered. Vinay wasn't going to be returning him.

He was actually going to go through with this. He was going to own Toby.

No, he was going to own the pet that was once Toby. He wasn't the same, and Vinay couldn't treat him that way, lest he damage his new pet.

It would be fine. He'd stick to the rules in the Pet Owners' Handbook, the thick tome he'd already read half a dozen times, and it would be fine. He wouldn't bring up old memories. He'd give this pet a good life and all of the attention he deserved, at least when he was off work. It'd be fine.

And so he'd ended up in the sales office, signing mountains of paperwork to make him the legal owner of B211.

"We'd be happy to offer you any of our very affordable add-on packages," said the salesman. "We have additional skill training, discipline courses, and a wide variety of modifications we can make to your new pet before he goes home with you. For this particular pet, I would strongly recommend additional obedience and docility courses, to make sure he's well suited to your busy lifestyle."

"No, that won't be necessary," said Vinay, thinking of Toby's -- no, B211's -- eyes. Vinay had never seen him so quiet and docile. More obedience training seemed like the last thing he needed.

"Very well. If you change your mind, you can always give him discipline and obedience refreshers as necessary, although it might be more difficult for the pet once he becomes attached to you."

"I understand," said Vinay, signing another packet of papers. His brain was already swimming with how best he should welcome his new pet into his home. He'd planned for it extensively, read all the books, and of course Toby -- no, no, B211, damn it -- had to throw a wrench in his plans.

He was sure of one thing, though. B112 would be safe and happy with him if it was the last thing he did.

Previous > Masterlist

I'm sure this will go well.

@there-will-always-be-blood @kisa-writes @andithewhumper @handsinmotion @whumperhive

@eventide-triptych @pumpkinsncoffee

[deluxewhump]

was carlo ever punished for breaking those plates?

referencing this chapter

@doumidas-whumps the rice sorting in your recent piece made me rethink what au max would actually do or want!

Max Holstrom AU (the one where he is Erik's nephew and Carlo was a gift to him)

CW: pet/slave whump, casual talk of ownership, affectionate touching (that is enjoyed),gentle but firm carewhumper master.

In the days following the holiday break, Carlo gathered his courage and approached Max in the front living room.

“I just wanted to ask you when you thought you might…” he trailed off, face growing warm, hoping the youngest Holstrom wasn’t going to make him finish his sentence. 

Max waited expectantly. Unable, it seemed, to read his pet’s mind like his uncle Erik was uncannily good at. 

“At Christmas,” Carlo tried instead, hoping context might help. “When the plates got broken..." Erik’s calm, dangerous voice played like a tape in his head. Take responsibility, Carlo, one would think you’re afraid of the words I and me. "When I broke those plates," he corrected.

Still, Max was patiently waiting for the rest of the sentence. He wondered if it was just to torture him, but immediately doubted it. Max was many things, he was discovering, but he was almost never insincere. 

“You said you would work something out for it later. For me."

Recognition finally crossed Max’s eyes, grey like his mothers. He set down his phone, giving Carlo his full attention. “Right. I did.”

“That was three days ago,” Carlo all but whispered.

“Have you been waiting?” asked Max. 

He didn’t know the right answer to that. And what was worse, he suspected there wasn’t one. He shrugged his right shoulder so quickly it was as noncommittal as if he hadn’t done it at all. 

“I didn’t mean to leave you in suspense,” Max grinned, leaning forward with his head tilted low to try and gain Carlo's eye contact. When he wasn’t granted it, he sat back up straighter. “I really wasn’t trying to leave you hanging,” he said, with much less teasing in his voice this time. “I forgot all about the dishes.”

Carlo was learning that Max’s teasing was apparently harmless, and just beneath it was a vein of warm affection. Still, he was wary with a tone like that. He was more used to it concealing vast coldness, like a thin layer of ice on a black lake.

He gave Max the eye contact he’d denied him moments before. “I bet your mother didn’t forget about them.”

“And she never will, but that’s not your problem. You’re not hers any more than you’re my uncle’s, now. That’s the thing about inheriting something from family, they will forever act like it’s not entirely yours. If that china meant so much to her, she should’ve taken it with her ten years ago when she moved out and gave me the house. And my uncle should not have hit you.”

Carlo’s gaze had wandered but shot back up to his master’s. Max had not addressed the slap in the face Erik had given him that day. He wasn't even sure he was aware of it until now.

“But that’s not your problem either,” said Max. “That one’s mine. I’ll talk to him.”

He was lightheaded at the mere idea of anyone talking to Erik Holstrom in such a manner. And Max still hadn’t answered his question.

He lowered himself to the Persian carpet, kneeling next to Max and letting his chin rest on the chair next to his knee. Max answered the entreating gesture with a hand in his hair, petting softly. “What is it?”

“So...what will my punishment be?”

“I’d forget altogether if you didn’t keep reminding me,” he laughed softly. “I have to take into consideration that it was an accident, that it was partially a dog’s fault, and that you’ve reminded me twice to punish you for it.” He slid his fingers into the hair at the back of Carlo’s head and gave a gentle squeeze. Carlo exhaled in pleasure and thought he felt his blood pressure drop, his eyes immediately growing heavy.

Max was by far the most physically affectionate as well as the most forgiving of the Holstrom men. But for a pet that had been given affectionate touch only ever as a reward, he did not mind. In fact, he craved it constantly from this younger, better natured master, and only realized how much he’d been hoping for it once he’d gotten it.

“I want you to help me with something for my work. It’s tedious, and I don’t really have time for it.”

Carlo pulled back from the heavenly touch, taken aback. He looked up at Max from his knee, imagining unfamiliar computer software and dreadfully important figures on a screen. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do any of that." 

“It’s not hard. I’ll have to teach you what I want you to do, but after that you just need to be patient and careful so you don’t miss anything. I'm not kidding when I say it's tedious work. Can you be patient and careful?” he asked, gliding his thumb over Carlo’s throat ever so slightly, like he was enjoying the softness of the skin.

“Yes,” he said, about to argue. “But…”

“Hey,” Max stopped him, more serious than he’d been before. “This is what I want you to do. It would actually help me. Starving you or beating you with a switch or whatever is really no use to me, and I don't care about it. The plates were my great grandmother’s, yes. But it happens. It doesn't upset me. What will piss me off is if you give me any more pushback on the way I’m choosing to do things with you.”

He swallowed, feeling the light outline of Max’s hand lying so nonchalant on his neck. It was alarming to be chastised by him. He didn't like it half as well as his approval, though it made him tingle in a unique shame that was different from outright fear. “Yes, sir.”

“You mean it?”

He did.

Max, still too gentle to do anything as suggestive as squeezing his neck, lifted two fingers to his ear and pinched the skin of his earlobe so he flinched in surprise but not pain. “Good.”

[whumpandothercomfort]

I love the pet whump

Any ideas for someone who was publicly a pet of rich/famous whumper

There's a couple different possible setups... love imagining the logistics of a world with casual, accepted human/android/anthro/etc pets. Are celebrities bringing them leashed on the runway like purse dogs? Are they included in "no pet" signs outside establishments?

My first thought for this ask was Whumpee as the pet of a popular Youtuber/livestreamer. Like. Take every horrible thing that's ever proliferated from prank channels and "funny animal" channels.

Pranking my pet GONE WRONG!! (Pet becomes genuinely terrified and has a panic attack on camera)

Pet's been acting out.... Twitch chat gets to vote on how I punish them! On camera! 💕

Twitch chat votes to be nice to pet. Whumper makes them say thank you to the camera.

Whumper takes brand sponsorships from companies that make "training" (torture) tools for pets.

But they also make rewards like treats and nice pillows! So it's fine!

Humiliating videos of pet learning a new skill or trick. It's very cute and endearing how gently they're being condescended to.

A couple other Youtubers raise concerns that Whumper is mistreating pet; Whumper responds with videos of pet curled up asleep in their lap like, "Would a bad owner do THIS??"

Pet is eventually rescued by or sold to a rights advocacy group, but lives in constant fear of being recognized.

Pet has a really, really hard time believing in kindness for the sake of kindness. Whenever Caretaker is gentle with them, they start automatically looking around for a camera or a hidden trap.

[cookies-and-coffee]

telepathic interrogation (1)

cw: telepathic/telekinetic whumper, sadistic whumper, team leader/defiant whumpee, team forced to watch, psychological torture, interrogation, mentions of broken bones

a/n: this was a prompt that kept me up at night, just because i found it so interesting. the telepathic/telekinetic whump was inspired by a scene at the very end of the book Empire of Storms, part of the Throne of Glass series. TOG as a whole as some really good whump, highly recommend!!

--

Whumper's power curled around Whumpee's very bones, keeping them still as death. Any shake or tremble from Whumpee, and their spine would shatter from the tension.

A lick of power slicked and snaked up Whumpee's back, wrapping around their throat in a noose. Whumpee gasped shallow breaths, the noose tightening.

Whumper strode in front of Whumpee, smiling wickedly at the team leader on their knees. Whumpee barely noticed their team watching in horror, unable to turn their head from the power threatening to snap bone.

"This is going to hurt," Whumper said with delight, and ripped into Whumpee's mind.

Whumpee tried to steel themselves against Whumper's mind invading theirs, but they still weren't able to wholly prepare when their consciousness became violated in the most intimate sense.

Whumper carved into Whumpee's consciousness, their presence like a serrated knife against Whumpee's thoughts, memories, emotions. Whumpee would scream if they had any breath.

I don't have to do this, you know, Whumper said soothingly, but the sound didn't come from their mouth. Instead, it echoed inside Whumpee's mind, the words reverberating against the walls of their head. Where is Caretaker?

Whumpee shut their eyes, trying to find peace in the darkness, but Whumper just laughed into Whumpee's mind. The sound was deafening, like hearing gunshots from the inside out.

Whumper spoke casually in Whumpee's head, like they weren't tearing a psyche to shreds.

I'm going to get what I want, one way or another.

It's up to you to decide how will be left of your mind when I'm finished.

How much will be left of you when I eventually bring in Caretaker?

They should be proud of how thoroughly broken you will be, knowing you protected them...

fruitlessly, of course.

Whumpee sobbed aloud, the sound secondary to the roaring in their ears from Whumper's violent will. Still, they retreated further into their mind, running from the ripping, scraping, clawing-

They didn't notice Whumper gritting their teeth in frustration, tearing deeper into Whumpee's head.

They cried out in pain when Whumper laid a hand on their forehead. The touch itself was gentle, but the skin seemed to be blistering, like Whumper was trying to burn through the flesh and sinew and bone and brain.

The team couldn't look away, their gaze transfixed on the horrible pain written on their team leader's face, the fists clenched at their sides, the sweat soaking through their shirt.

Whumper was the picture of amusement, save for that glimpse of impatience at Whumpee's determination.

"Does your team know how frightened you are?" Whumper cooed, their thumb and middle finger digging into Whumpee's temples. "That burden you carry... it weighs down every step, wears you to the bone... such delicious fear."

Whumpee whimpered, tears flowing freely, unending.

Whumper reached a wall in Whumpee's mind. "Ah, there it is."

"No," Whumpee croaked, squeezing their eyes shut. That tension rippling along their bones tightened, forcing a shriek of pain from their throat.

No?

Oh, Whumpee, you're so cute to think I'm not going to get what I want from you.

Give Caretaker up, now.

I'm not going to give you another chance.

"No!" Whumpee screamed, their tear-filled eyes snapping open. Whumper lurched back, pulling their hand from Whumpee's forehead.

The pressure in Whumpee's head lessened, but the force trapping their body remained.

Whumper was quiet for a moment, rage crossing their face.

Then the rage dissipated, became something else...

Glee.

Whumper laughed, the sound horrible and dreading. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun."

[whumpsoda]

Seeing Me in You - Delivery

Masterlist

Wrote this on a whim :3 pretty short but who caresssss… might write more??? Might also delete later

cw: pet whump, threat of recapture, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, institutionalized slavery

——————

He shouldn’t have opened the door. Checked the peephole at the very least, as if that would have done him any good.

He could never have escaped them.

August stared ahead into the corridor of his apartment building, jaw falling slack as his mouth went wide and eyes stuck agape. A lump formed quick in his throat, tightly wound with sick acid burning a hole through his neck. His organs flipped and churned over one another, brain filling with flooding nausea.

WRU employees. At his house. August was going to be sick.

Were they speaking? Their voices reduced to a muffle inside his mind, hearing going blank. An itching sensation flared over his arm, just the spot where his tattoo was carefully shielded by his sweater. He lifted a hand to scratch at his throat, the place where a cheap collar had once sat and rubbed around his neck. The memories stung, yet not worse than the sight of such specific uniforms.

No, this was much worse.

His pulse was quickening my the second, heart beating in and out of his chest. He couldn’t breath. Warm, thick bile was slithering it’s way up from his stomach, twisting his insides in contorted knots.

They found him. After so long of comfort and faux personhood, they had found him. Come for him even, to take him back as their property. To refurbish him. To sell him and beat him back into shape, and to train him yet again-

Before August could so much as collect his scattered, bleeding thoughts of past horrors and tortures, one of the employee’s lips parted. “Would you like us to bring it inside? Or leave it here?” He muttered, so casual August almost couldn’t digest his words.

August, body filling ever so carefully with disbelief and panic, trailed his vision down to his feet where his eyes stopped. A large, nearly-fit-for-a-human sized box sat at the workers’ feet. He knew that box well. Very well. He’d been inside that box.

They weren’t here for him.

August could have jumped and squealed from a mixture of terror and joy that he was still safe, never to be recaptured and refurbished. At least, not yet, anyway. But there was a boxie in the process of a delivery at his apartment doorstep.

How could that be? How? What disgustingly cruel, rich asshole’s boxie was sitting inches away from him? Just waiting to be claimed as his own? And why?

His mouth moved swift beyond his own accord, mind gradually catching up with his quivering lips. “You… um, you can leave them there.” August croaked out, voice meek and continuing to waver no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

“‘Kay.” He shrugged, and that was that.

They didn’t suspect a thing. No idea they dropped the order to the wrong person, let alone a former boxie. How impossibly lucky for the poor thing. August could barely believe it himself.

He watched with intense focus as the two employees calmly and quickly left, keeping an intense eye on them just until they finally turned the corner. As if at the last moment they would realize their mistake, and either take the boy back, or end up taking him as well.

Careful and terrified, as soon as he heard the pitter patter of their steps dissipate, he turned to the box.

August, still standing rigid in the doorway, with intense fascination trailed his vision over each and every little ridge of wood and nails, eager yet terrified to open it. He swallowed, thick and juicy saliva that rolled it’s way down his throat.

What just happened?

—————

Masterlist

Taglist- @softvampirewhump

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[donationwayne]

DONATIONWAYNE BUDDIE FIC MASTERPOST

Title: Miles and Miles Pairing: Buddie || Words: 6.6k || Chapters: 1/1 || Main Tropes & Tags: Seal!Buck, Returning Home From Deployment, Secret Relationship, Established Buddie, Married Buddie, Buck as Chris' Dad, Comedy, Fluff Synopsis: Three years after moving to LA Buck decides to surprise Chris and Eddie at the end of his final tour. Of course nothing goes according to plan. The 118 have a lot of thoughts about the mysterious Eddie Diaz.

_____ Title: Response Time Pairing: Buddie || Words: 2k || Chapters: 1/1 || Main Tropes & Tags: Established Buddie, Married Buddie, Secret Relationship, Buck & Eddie know each other before the 118, Buck as Chris' Dad, Comedy, Fluff

Synopsis: The 118 respond to a call, which isn’t unusual in itself. But it might explain a lot to Probational Firefighter Evan Buckley’s new crew. Eddie tries to burn the kitchen down.

_____

Title: Blame Me (For Mistakes You've Made But You Can't Own) Pairing: Buddie || Words: 4.5k || Chapters: 1/1 || Main Tropes & Tags: Sick!Buck, The 118 as Family, Pre-Relationship Buddie, Fluff, Comedy, Angst, Casual Mentions of Childhood Neglect & Trauma, Maddie Buckley as Evan Buckley's Parental Figure Synopsis: Buck goes into work sick and the 118 take care of him. We delve into Buck's complicated relationship with illness, due to his parents relationship with ill children.

_____

Title: I'm Alone In The City (And Nobodies Coming For Me) Pairing: Buddie, Bobby & Buck || Words: 18.1k || Chapters: 12/12 || Main Tropes & Tags: Bobby as Buck's Dad, Buck!Whump, Buck's Loft Burns Down, Discussion regarding Eddie's Will, Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Angst with a happy ending Synopsis: The one where I burn Buck's loft down with Buck inside! When Buck wakes up cold, scared, and alone all he wants is Bobby (his dad). Buck and Eddie finally get their shit together.

_____

Title: Feelin' Good (Could be Better) Pairing: Buddie || Words: 24.6k || Chapters: 10/10 || Main Tropes & Tags: Emotional Whump!Buck, Athena Grant and Bobby Nash are Evan "Buck" Buckley and Maddie Buckley's Parents, Angsty!Buck, Margaret Buckley is her own warning, angst with intermittent fluff, mutual pining, Protective Eddie Diaz, Outing, Margaret Buckley and Phillip Buckley Bashing

Synopsis: The Buckley parents arrive in LA, turning Buck's already shaky mental status from precarious to worse. Buck consents to join Maddie, Chimney, and his parents for dinner. Buck is super fine, he'll just bake about it. And think about kissing Eddie, obviously. Secrets are revealed, leaving the 118 reeling.

Authors note: **This fic deals with Margaret Buckley as a emotionally and physically abusive parent. (Trigger Warnings Available or msg me)

_____

Title: punch my face (do it because i like the pain) Pairing: Buddie || Words: 3.7k || Chapters: 1/1 || Main Tropes & Tags: Emo/Alternative Teenage Evan Buckley, Athena Grant and Bobby Nash are Evan "Buck" Buckley and Maddie Buckley's Parents, Evan "Buck" Buckley & May Grant are Siblings, Fluff, The 118 As Family, Mention of Eddie's Will,

Synopsis: When faced with a potentially abusive father on a call, Buck goads the man into punching him to keep the kids with their mother. The 118 learn a little bit about Buck as a teenager.

This is mostly fluff. Maddie and Buck make jokes at their own expense.

_____

Title: this could be a disaster Pairing: Buddie || Words: 15.9k || Chapters: 11/11 || Main Tropes & Tags: Wedding Fluff, Christopher Diaz is a Little Shit, Brief Tsunami Flashback, Canon Divergence, Clipboard!Evan Buckley, Groomzilla Evan Buckley, Everything That Could Go Wrong Does

Synopsis: Light hearted romcom about Buck and Eddie's wedding day, which was it turns out is a disaster. Nearly everything that could go wrong does go wrong. Chris is sarcastic about it. Maddie is going to kill them if they sneak off to see each other more time. Bobby and Athena are Buck's parents. The lesbians save the day. Business as usual.

_____

Title: obsessed with the things that you do, low-key I need you to move (in) Pairing: Buddie || Words: 27.8k || Chapters: 9/9 || Main Tropes & Tags: Teenage Chris, Canon Divergent Post-Season 6, Eddie Goes to Therapy, Eddie Adopts A Cat, Mutual Pining, Angst and Fluff, Coming Out, Gay Eddie Diaz, Bisexual Evan Buckley, Christopher Diaz is a little shit

Synopsis: Eddie adopts a cat while Chris is away summer camp. He goes to therapy and comes out to his parents. He continues navigating life post gay realization while being deeply and embarrassingly in love with his best friend.

Buck pines over Eddie.

Chris figures it only a matter of time before they finally get together.

_____

Title: come on, you can show yourself Pairing: Buddie || Words: 8.7k || Chapters: 1/1 || Main Tropes & Tags: Coming Out, Blow-Job Gone Wrong, Mutual Pining, Gay Eddie Diaz, Bisexual Evan Buckley, Eddie & HenRen bestieism, Getting Together, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Eddie tells HenRen about his Will, Eddie sees footage of Buck during the Well collapse

Synopsis: Eddie goes to a gay bar, says Buck's name during a hook up, curses Frank extensively, and comes out to Hen and Karen. They talk about the will and the well and the Buck of it all. Also Buck shows up.

_____

Title: Because Regardless Of How Soft The Touch, I Still Bruise Pairing: Pre-Relationship Buddie || Words: 3.3k || Chapters: 1/1 || Main Tropes & Tags:

Bobby Nash is Evan "Buck" Buckley's Parent, Worried Bobby Nash, Athena Grant is Evan "Buck" Buckley's Parent, Pre-Relationship Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz, past self-harm, Evan "Buck" Buckley Needs A Hug, Margaret Buckley and Phillip Buckley Bashing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Angst and Hurt/Comfort

Synopsis: After sustaining an injury on shift, Buck stays with Bobby and Athena while he recovers. They discover some hard truths about Buck's childhood.

_____

Title: Backtrack Pairing: Pre-Relationship Buddie || Words: 3.3k || Chapters: 1/1 || Main Tropes & Tags: 07x09 Spec, Implied Pre-Relationship Buddie, Worried Buck, Buck has a feeling realization, Angst, Divorce Era 2.0

Synopsis: Speculation about what could happen if Buck finds out about Kim (S7x09). Buck catches Eddie in public with Kim, he confronts Eddie about it. He also has some feelings about it.

[tildeathiwillwrite]

June of Doom Day 4

"Does that hurt?" / Impalement / Fracture / Punishment

Prompts List | Event Masterpost

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 950

Tag List:@juneofdoom @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion

@scaewolf

CW: captivity whump, chains, team whump, multiple whumpees, caretaker turned whumpee, impalement, blood, magic whump, healing whump, magical healing, screams, separation, implied death

----------

“You awake?”

Caretaker groaned and rolled over, chains clinking, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. “No.”

Whumpee chuckled weakly. “Wish I could say the same.”

“Mmph. How’re your bruises feeling?”

“Could be better… could also be worse.”

Caretaker cracked an eye open. Whumpee lay across from them on the other side of the cramped cell, staring at the ceiling. The bruises Whumper had given them on their last visit were still visible, even after Caretaker had used their magic to heal them. Caretaker now sported matching bruises, an unfortunate price for their healing magic. “D’you want me to… y’know…?”

Whumpee shook their head. “It’s as good as it’s gonna get. Try to regain your strength. We don’t know when Whumper’s gonna—”

Slam!

Both Whumpee and Caretaker jumped at the noise of the door to their cell block being shut with a force that shook the foundations. Whumpee sighed through their nose as footsteps approached. “Fucking jinxed it,” they mumbled, pushing themself into a sitting position.

Caretaker smiled despite the dread coiling in their stomach and followed suit. They pressed their back against the cell wall, crossed their legs, and rested their chained wrists on their knees. It was a small change, but the familiar posture grounded them as the footsteps stopped outside their door.

A key rattled in the lock, and Whumper stepped inside, arms folded. They scowled when their eyes landed on Caretaker’s face, no doubt noting the matching bruises on Whumpee. “I thought I made it quite clear that you weren't allowed to use your healing magic.”

Caretaker met their gaze, hoping that their fear wasn’t evident. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Whumper hissed through their teeth. “Knew I should’ve put you in isolation,” they muttered, eyes darting to Whumpee. Their scowl deepened, before being replaced by a thoughtful look, the expression of someone who had just come up with an idea.

They turned back to Caretaker. “No matter what I tell you, no matter what I threaten or do, you’re still going to disobey me. Is that correct?”

Caretaker’s jaw tightened, and they opened their mouth to say that yes, they would disobey, they didn’t care about Whumper’s orders, but Whumper’s attention was already back on Whumpee. 

“Healers like you are valuable,” they mused, “but you’re new at this. You don’t know the price, not really….”

Caretaker frowned. What did they mean by—?

Whumper pounced, yanking Whumpee up by the collar of their shirt in one hand. They thrust their other hand to the side, a black metal spear forming from nothing. Before Caretaker could register what was happening, before the pleas to stop could form, Whumper rammed the spear into Whumpee’s stomach, pinning them to the cell wall.

Caretaker cried out, tears of fear and horror spilling down their cheeks as Whumpee sagged, gasping, as blood welled out from around the spear and red dripped onto the hard floor. “Nononono!” They shouted incoherently, tugging at Whumper’s leg. “P—please! Please! Not them please!”

Whumper ignored them, dark eyes fixed on Whumpee. “Does that hurt?” Caretaker couldn’t see their face, but their tone was casual as if they were asking if Whumpee would like a cup of tea. The spear began to turn, twisting in Whumpee’s gut.

Whumpee’s breathing hitched, their mouth opened and closed as they struggled to form words. “I… yes….”

“Good.” Whumper kicked Caretaker away. They slammed against the wall, stars dancing in front of their eyes. They could only watch as Whumper yanked the spear out of their victim, as the blood began to flow freely from the gaping hole in Whumpee’s abdomen. Whumper unceremoniously dropped them to the floor, the spear dissolving back into nothing.

Caretaker didn’t wait for Whumper’s permission. They crawled across the floor, chains clattering, fully intent upon Whumpee. The blood was warm under their hands, a stark contrast to the chill stone floor.

“Whumpee! Whumpee can you hear me? Whumpee!” Their hands hovered over the wound, still pouring viscous scarlet liquid.

Whumpee groaned softly. “It… hurts….”

Caretaker’s vision blurred from more tears, but they stubbornly swiped them away and pressed their hands to Whumpee’s abdomen. Heal, they commanded, drawing deep into their well of magic.

Their hands began to glow a faint golden color. It was harder to summon so soon after the last healing, but Caretaker had no choice. Whumpee would die without them. 

Heal!

Whumpee’s wound began to close, the skin and internal organs knitting themselves back together. Caretaker closed their eyes, clenching their jaw in anticipation.

Even though they knew it was coming, the first wave of pain still caught them by surprise. Caretaker gasped as an invisible knife seemed to embed itself into their stomach, slicing and cutting and tearing and twisting, sending waves of fire across their entire nervous system. They slumped over Whumpee’s body, hands still over their wound.

H—

“That’s enough.”

Strong hands seized Caretaker’s shoulders, yanking them away from Whumpee. They cried out and tried to pull away, but weakened as they were, they were no match for Whumper. Caretaker barely noticed as the chains fell from their wrists.

“All magic has a price,” Whumper hissed in their ear, pulling them towards the door, “I hope this exercise has demonstrated that for you.”

“No…” Caretaker mumbled, struggling against Whumper’s grip, “Don’t leave them! They’ll die!”

Whumper barked a harsh laugh. “Oh, you think I care if they live? Let this be a lesson to you: you can’t save everyone. The sooner you learn that, the better healer you’ll be.”

The cell door slammed shut before Caretaker’s eyes with an air of finality. “No!” They screamed, a sob building in their throat as Whumper dragged them away. “Whumpee! No!"

The door to the cell block shut. Another barrier.

"...no…." Caretaker whimpered, sagging in Whumper's arms. "...please...."

Whumper gave no response.