#child abuse whump

[defire]

Back to the Dregs Masterpost

Story summary:

A young detective thought he'd left his problems in his past, but when he's kidnapped as bait for his gangster brother, he has to find a way to escape. Before they figure out his brother hates him.

Overall Content Warnings: beatings, kidnapping, gangs, on-screen rape, nonconsensual nudity, forced to watch, memories of child abuse, flogging (of sorts), escape attempts

More specific CW's are tagged in the individual posts.

You can also get the paperback on amazon now btw!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Epilogue

Picrews

If you liked Back to the Dregs, it would mean so much if you leave it a review on Amazon

[defire]

The guards let him in easily enough, but when this got back around to his dad, he was in for hell.

Writers, reblog this with the last sentence you wrote from your WIP

[kittykatninja321]

The funniest thing about the fanon whump fics where Tim is getting locked alone in his house with no food by his parents or something is that a lot of the times they have Jason, a character who actually did experience neglect and starvation as a child be like “wow Timmy your childhood is so sad :(“ absvwjsbsa

[whomeidontknowthem]

Punishments

Content warning: discussion of past child abuse (physical and emotional), mentions of scars, starvation, punishments.

Caretaker saw the exact moment Whumpee's scarred hands relaxed, releasing the plate to its short attempt at flight. The shatter didn't even sound that loud with all the TV noise and running water in the background, but Caretaker felt his attention sharpen, focusing on the teen's face. Whumpee's expression was carefully neutral; only their eyes shined with something wild. Caretaker put the knife by the cutting board, turned the fire under the pan down and faced the kid.

"Okay," he said, keeping his voice level. "Why did you do that?"

Whumpee met his eyes with something like a challenge. "You have to punish me now," they stated, tone forcefully brave. Caretaker saw the way they shifted, moving their hands behind their back, hiding the way they had to shake.

He hummed, taking a moment to think the situation through. "I told you last time that I won't be punishing you."

"You said you wouldn't punish an accident," Whumpee corrected. "This isn't an accident. I did it on purpose. You saw it. You have to punish me now."

"I won't," Caretaker repeated. The kid stared at him, wide-eyed. He sighed, "I really did mean when I said it. There are no punishments here. I won't hurt you. We'll just clean up the glass together, and—"

"What if I refuse to clean," Whumpee demanded. Caretaker raised his brows before wrangling his expression back under control. It was nearly the first time Whumpee dared to interrupt — rude, definitely. It made them feel more like an actual teen. Teenagers just had to be bratty from time to time. It was healthy for them. Caretaker hadn't got to be a father to one, but he was sure of that.

"Well, then I'll have to clean it up by myself," He shrugged. He made sure to sound unbothered. "I'll have to do it before cooking, of course, so the dinner's gonna have to wait."

The kid seemed to freeze at that, their body going unnaturally still in a way that screamed Caretaker did something wrong. But before he could ask, Whumpee wondered, voice tight, "No dinner?"

Ah. "Of course not," Caretaker hurried to assure. Whumpee was still too thin, they'd been starved before. "There will be dinner, just slightly later without your help. You'll get to eat either way."

Caretaker smiled, hoping it would get the kid to relax. It didn't: their face only seemed to grow tenser. They stared at Caretaker, thinking about something. Then: "What if I break another plate?"

"Ah," Caretaker replied, lightly. "I would really rather you didn't? It would be rather inconvenient."

"What if I break two more?" The teen continued. "Three? All of them?" It sounded like a challenge. They moved their hand to where the clean plates stood in a nice careful stack, freshly washed and settled by the sink.

Caretaker took a deep breath. "I would really rather you didn't," he repeated. "Those cost money. We'll have to eat from the salad bowl and it won't be convenient, and then go to a shop to buy more."

"You'll have to punish me," Whumpee insisted.

"I won't hurt you, kid. No matter what you do—"

"What if I hurt you," they replied instantly and flinched, as if scared by their own forcefulness. Even then, they didn't back down. "What if I— if I punched you. You can't just let it go. What if I kick you or- or take the knife," they said and gestured to the counter, barely missing the cheerful cup with childish scribbles for a pattern perched at its edge.

Caretaker took a deep, deep breath and answered, weighing each word carefully, "if you attack me, I would have to stop you," he stated, as calmly as he could. The idea of having to fight the terrified kid with a knife was not an appealing one. He silently prayed it would not get to it. "I'd try to restrain you so you don't hurt me. I'd wait for you to calm down, and then we'd sit down to talk some more. I won't hurt you."

You're angry," Whumpee pointed.

Caretaker huffed, "I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm… Frustrated," he relented and sighed. He felt extremely unprepared for the conversation. "Look, kid. I know you expect me to be like that asshole. But I won't be. I'll try my damn hardest to make sure of that."

"You don't like this conversation," Whumpee stated, again.

Caretaker shook his head, "no."

"What if I make it continue? What if I anger you?"

"If you do anger me, I will leave the room until I calm down. I won't hurt you just because I don't like a conversation," Caretaker promised.

Whumpee stared at him, lips pressed tightly. They reached out and took the stack of plates.

Caretaker watched them closely. "Look, Whumpee…"

"You can't just let me act like this!" They yelled. Caretaker couldn't help their brows rising at the sudden shift in tone. As if the scream broke the dam, the other reactions poured out of them: the trembling fingers, the suddenly wet, shaky breaths, the need to blink and look up to hold back the tears. Caretaker shifted his weight, unsure if he should step closer or remain where he was. Even after months of living together, knowing whether the teen needed comfort or space at any given moment was beyond him.

He settled on continuing with the words, "Whumpee. Even if I disapprove of your actions, I will not hurt you for them. I'll talk to you, I'll ask you to help clean up afterwards, I'll try to help you find out what's wrong and how to make it better so you don't have to throw dishes around. I will not hurt you."

"But what if it doesn't make me learn? What if I don't follow the rules, and- and act like a brat and I don't listen to you and I never- I never stop? You'll have to punish me, you'll have to get rid of me, you can't just- you can't just let me do whatever! You can't just! How can I learn if there's no punishment!"

"You've learned how to wash dishes well enough," Caretaker pointed out.

"It's different!"

"How so?"

Whumpee stared at him, and seemed to come up with no answer. Their fingers slackened around the stack, and Caretaker mentally prepared to not react when all of the dishes inevitably touched the floor. Whumpee sucked in a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob and settled the plates back onto the counter. "I don't understand," they slumped above the dishes.

"It's okay," Caretaker assured them. "You don't have to understand for it to be true." He let out a tentative breath and stepped closer, carefully choosing empty spots between the broken glass, but didn't reach out to touch. By now, he knew well enough not to — he'd been witness to how even the most innocuous of actions could throw them off and straight into panic, especially when they were already agitated.

"It isn't," they didn't look at him. "It's not how it works. You can't possibly expect to raise a— you had a daughter, hadn't you?" Caretaker froze, glad that the teen couldn't see his face. She was not a topic either of them breached; Whumpee knew she'd died; they knew the thought was still upsetting for Caretaker and were careful to never bring it up despite how obvious the ghost of her existence was still around the house in every bright colored piece of wallpaper and childish drawing kept on the wall. They continued on, either ignorant to his reaction or choosing to ignore it. "Surely you didn't just allow her to do whatever! There need to be rules, need to be limitations and consequences!"

"Whatever was given to you as 'rules and consequences' wasn't that, kid," Caretaker leaned on the counter and studied the ceiling. "Discipline isn't an excuse for cruelty."

"You have to have punished her."

"I have," he admitted and turned to the teen only for his gaze to settle on the cheerful little cup. "I wasn't as good of a father as I hoped I'd be. Children are frustrating — they are meant to be. If I knew how little time we had — how precious she was even at her worst, — maybe I'd have acted differently. God knows I wish I have. Whether she'd lived for longer or, well..." he swallowed. Shook his head. "You deserve better, anyway, and so — I'm trying."

"...Whumper said he loved me. This was why he had to make sure I had motivation to learn to be better. To not be a brat. He wanted me to be good."

Caretaker studied the face of the teen — the lines around their eyes and mouth despite the calm voice. The way they gripped the edge of the countertop and didn't seem to see anything before them. He sighed, deeply, and stated, "He was a fool and an asshole."

Whumpee didn't answer that, only tightened the grip. Caretaker had never heard them say a single bad word about Whumper. Despite the scars and the panic attacks, they seemed determined to never acknowledge the harm they had suffered; whether the kid genuinely didn't blame him or just kept their thoughts to themself, Caretaker couldn't know.

He hoped the latter was the case. Whumpee deserved to know that the way they were treated was not right.

"He wanted a perfect child that would never misbehave or bother him, and it's not possible. Hell, even an adult can't just never bother anyone else. We are all nuisances to each other. He demanded you weren't and punished you for not achieving the impossible all the time. It's on him, not on you."

The teen listened, Caretaker could tell, thought about it, seriously considered the idea for a while.

"Nobody would want a child who doesn't behave," they stated finally.

Caretaker huffed, frustrated. "If someone only wants a perfect child, they shouldn't be a parent to begin with."

"You wanted your daughter to—"

"I did not!"

They froze after that, both of them.

Caretaker slowly breathed out and unclenched his fists. He shouldn't be angry, he reminded himself. He shouldn't — the kid needed him to be calm and comforting. The memories of his daughter, taken from him so young, too young, by an illness he noticed too late, clung to his mind, too close and too real and too painful. He rubbed his eyes.

"Sorry, kid, I didn't mean to yell," he turned to Whumpee. They were still unmoving, still tense, as if waiting for a strike. Caretaker felt a wave of guilt wash over him. This child needed him to be much, much better. At moments as such he wondered how anyone could think that he could do this. How anyone could trust him with a kid at all, after he'd already failed once. There had to be someone better, he thought. There had to be.

"Let's just finish dinner together and go watch some movie, what do you think?" he proposed, keeping the tone light. If Whumpee heard how forced it sounded, they didn't show it.

The teen turned, slowly, avoiding looking at Caretaker. He kept the smile on his lips, hands relaxed where Whumpee could see them. That was it. They would go watch a movie and spend time together and talk later, when both have calmed down somewhat.

Whumpee put their hand atop the counter. Before Caretaker could react, they jerked it. Before Caretaker could react, his favorite cup, the one his daughter took such pleasure decorating, was already flying towards the floor. It shatter sounded like thunder in his ears.

Caretaker breathed in. Counted to ten. Breathed out. Repeated, over and over, eyes focused on the colorful shards, until he was certain he could keep his tone calm.

"This," he didn't raise his head but heard the teen step away, "was a jerk move."

"I'm so—" they stopped themself before the apology was out and gritted their teeth. Caretaker breathed, and then breathed some more, and even longer still, pushing down every bit of irritation and anger. Teens were meant to be bratty. Children were meant to be a bothersome nuisance that tested the patience of every adult stuck to be responsible for them.

Whumpee needed him to be calm. Needed to learn they were safe even if they misbehaved.

"Will you help me pick up the glass?" He finally raised his gaze. Whumpee was pale, eyes wide and lips tightly pressed in a scared line. They held his gaze and shook their head even as they stepped backwards, determination mixed with panic.

"It's okay," Caretaker kept his voice calm. "If you don't want to help, go watch some TV, will you? I'll call you when dinner is ready."

Whumpee stepped backwards again, flickering their gaze towards the living room before settling on watching his movements again. He raised his hands slowly and didn't move any closer.

"I'm still not going to hurt you." They didn't look like they believed, so he added, "I'm mad. You knew it was important to me and you knew it'd... hurt me." He relaxed his face as it contorted into a grimace. "I hope you don't do anything like this again. You're not getting punished. The dinner will be ready in an hour. I would appreciate some space until then. But if you need something, you can still come to me."

They watched him for long moments before slowly backing out of the kitchen. They didn't look away until they were behind the corner, and only they did Caretaker release a heavy, frustrated sigh.

Teenagers. Dealing with a teenager, especially such a traumatized one, was definitely far beyond what he was ever prepared to do.

He picked up the glass — both the plate and the cup combined — one little piece after the other, careful of the sharp edges. The cup had shattered into six bigger pieces, the silly snake with google eyes around the handle left unharmed while Caretaker had to try to put together the stick figures holding hands under a tree. There were still parts missing, the pieces so small he had little hope of finding them.

He sighed. Threw all of the glass in the trash bin. Vacuumed the spot quickly. Continued chopping the vegetables.

When he called Whumpee for dinner, they didn't respond. Caretaker could hear the TV still speaking in the living room but no sound from the teenager. It was normal, though, they were often awfully quiet.

He found them, huddled in a blanket and staring at the screen with unseeing eyes, when he brought two plates to the couch. They jerked when the cushion shifted under his weight and eyed Caretaker warily.

"You should eat," he pushed a plate across the coffee table, and they picked it up after a few bits of hesitation.

The dinner passed in silence, as did the rest of the evening. Caretaker put the plates away himself, ignoring the way the kid tensed when he moved closer to them, then returned to the couch, settling at the far corner. When he noticed Whumpee glance towards him, he patted the cushion at his side and put an arm over the sofa's back, but didn't insist when the kid quickly looked away.

They watched the TV in silence. It took the teen half an hour to move slightly closer, and even longer before they were sitting truly by his side. Caretaker kept his eyes on the screen as he dropped his arm over their shoulders in a semblance of a hug. They tensed immediately, breath hitching like an animal caught in a trap, and the man wondered if it was a mistake. If he'd overstepped and the kid needed something else from him. He debated pulling away and apologizing, but Whumpee beat him to it. He let them go the moment they moved away.

They returned a few minutes later, and only moved closer when he hugged them this time. They were choosing to come and were allowed to be as close or as distant as they needed, Caretaker tried to convey, keeping their arms loose. They were welcomed anyway, he tried to say through the gentle long strokes down their back as Whumpee pressed close to him.

They fought very hard to keep their sobs silent despite the shaking shoulders. Caretaker didn't comment on the growing wet patch on his chest, only kept them close and safe in his arms as the precious, bothersome and loved despite that kid they were.

When three days later he came from work to the sight of a cheerful cup at the table, he didn't recognize it for what it was the first few minutes. It was too familiar, had been a constant of his life for years, and as much as he'd missed it before it wasn't until he reached out to pour hot coffee in it that his brain caught up with it being back.

He stared at the snake's googly eyes and the uneven glue lines keeping the glass together.

It was hideous, truly. The scribbles had never been the pinnacle of artistry to begin with, and it was obvious the teen had never had to glue anything together in their whole life, and they definitely didn't think about polishing it or even just flattening the glue chunks. And it certainly wasn't usable anymore. Caretaker would not risk neither poisoning nor it falling apart in his hands from the boiling water.

It was absolutely perfect.

A work of his two kids, coming together despite the time and never having met.

He grinned as he put it as a centerpiece on a shelf where everyone could see it.

Maybe he was doing something right, after all.

[totallynotashieldagent]

dick grayson who can't stand being called "pretty boy"

dick grayson who was thrusted into gotham high society that is full of creeps and pedos at the age of 8 and was labelled a "pretty boy"

dick grayson who had his cheeks pinched by old ladies and told he'd be a real heartbreaker once he was old enough and how pretty he already was

dick grayson who had old men clapping his back and rubbing his shoulders and grinning at him how he had such a pretty face

dick grayson who couldn't be protected by bruce wayne because he grew up in this same horrid place and thought this was normal

dick grayson who had the gotham gazette counting down to his 18th birthday and the entire city was drooling for him to be legal

dick grayson whose picture was on every tabloid for weeks around his birthday month with labels of pretty boy of gotham turns 18

dick grayson who wants to called intelligent, athletic, brilliant, smart, but never "pretty"

dick grayson who would feel bile rise up his throat whenever someone comments on his beauty before his brain or strength

dick grayson who loves his titans because they praise him for being a good leader, a brilliant strategist and an amazing mentor

dick grayson who made sure that none of his siblings had to deal with what he did

dick grayson who made sure no one touched his siblings the way he was

dick grayson who can't stand being called pretty boy

Drabble Master List.

[the-bar-sinister]

minor whump prompts:

Whumper taking away whumpee's comfort items like plushies, or blankets.

Whumpee being told about, or shown evidence of, harm happening to their parents or siblings.

Whumpee being drugged or poisoned with candy or treats.

Whumper using threats of abandonment to control whumpee.

Whumper forcing whumpee to wear clothes that whumpee finds uncomfortable or unpleasant.

Whumper forcibly cutting whumpee's hair.

Whumpee being told that their parents agreed to give them to whumper.

Whumper telling whumpee that everything's being done for their own good.

Whumper making promises of comforts to whumpee to ensure their cooperation, and then going back on their words.

Whumper destroying comfort items in front of whumpee.

Whumpee only being allowed to go to the bathroom at specific times, or watched by whumper when they're going to the bathroom.

[shreddeddescent]

raph is in an extremely fucked up place and equates all his problems with each other and blows up at leo about it.

⚠️ content warning: mentions of internalized transphobia, dubious consent, child abuse/incest (but not how you think) ⚠️

it might be a bit soon for this drama bomb for you guys, it might be a little out of order for how i wanna present anything in this story ive got going, but honestly... fuck it. lets just get that out of the way. tired of having it hanging over my head.

[defire]

Dance of Death masterlist

I'm so excited, I just released this on Amazon as well!

It's a dark gaslamp fantasy with a gradually building whump plot, in short--When an impudent young noble tries to protect her friends, her enemies come together to take her down. But she has no idea exactly how far they'll go to erase her sense of self.

Due to Tumblr's content guidelines, this version will be non-NSFW because the protagonist is a teenager. For the canon version:

You can find Dance of Death on Amazon for $0.99 :) and AO3 for the chapter-by chapter canon.

Let me know if you want to be tagged as I upload chapters!

Content warnings for this book are:

Institutionalized slavery, fantasy racism, child abuse, intimate whumper, humiliation, whipping, caning, ptsd, magical torture, suicide, more specific content warnings per chapter

Chapter 1: Low Expectations

Chapter 2: Oh You Shouldn't Have

Chapter 3: So Cozy

Chapter 4: The Stiletto

Chapter 5: She Said What

Chapter 6: A Bit of a Temper

Chapter 7: Totally Not Blackmail

Chapter 8: I Smell a Lawsuit

Chapter 9: We All Fall Down

Chapter 10: Horizons

Chapter 11: Druid Justice

Chapter 12: Warren Raizden

Chapter 13: Ostensibly Torture

Chapter 14: Generous Accommodations

Chapter 15: What Choice Do We Have

Chapter 16: You Lost Him

Chapter 17: What a Fucking Morning

Chapter 18: Hurt feelings

Chapter 19: Unskilled Labor

Chapter 20: Solutions to Slavery

Chapter 21: My Crimes

Chapter 22: Secrets

Chapter 23: A Bad Feeling

Chapter 24: Trickery By Capitulation

Chapter 25: Slavery Is Getting Old

Chapter 26: Slavery Is Wrong

[in case you're wondering, these chapter titles are what Nife would sarcastically name them]

Chapter 27: Clever Lies

Chapter 28: Striker Being Very Impolite

Chapter 29: Fun Times

Chapter 30: A Rather Unpleasant Night

Chapter 31: The Rare Gift of Literacy

Chapter 32: Striker's Other Other Psychopathic Side and Other Problems

Chapter 33: I Feel So Wanted

Chapter 34: The Worst Day of my Life

Chapter 35: Breakdancing and Other Fun

Chapter 36: The Finger of Death

Epilogue

Taglist: @tildeathiwillwrite @mimostic @fleur-a-whump @a-n-j-a-maria

[paingoes]

Rubies - Trial III

the prosecution makes its argument

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past trauma, referenced child abuse, referenced caning, past emotional abuse, war, guilt, parental death mention, child death mention, emotional whump, crying, angst, comfort)

In the Emperor’s quarters, the dead far outnumbered the living. Delta knelt upon the bearskin run and ran his fingers through its thick white fur. He wanted to reach for the mouth of it, to feel the teeth, but he dared not move without permission. The fresh cane marks along his calves made sure of that.

“Here, boy.”

The Emperor had taken to calling him boy, which he found strange and overfamiliar. To his handlers, he had always been One-Oh-Seven. More and more, it has simply been Delta. There was no need for numeration when there were no others.

He rose up off of the carpet, taking silent steps until he stood in front of the weary form of the old man. 

The doctor was nowhere to be seen. For this, he was grateful.

A hand heavy with time and with rings pressed against his forehead. Did he look sick? He didn’t mean to. The Emperor would find no fever there, at any rate. Delta ran cold.

“Are the stars all in alignment tonight, poppet?” He withdrew his hand. “Will today be a good day?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

There was no gap in between their words. There was no hesitation. He would be punished for lying just as quickly as for failing, so he was careful not to lie. Of course today would be a good day. 

Delta was excellent.

But the Emperor still searched him. It was not illness he had sensed. 

“Is everything alright?”

The concern in his voice only made the sting worse. Delta looked down in shame.

It was sullenness. That was all. He was cold all over, soaked with shame. It was bad, he knew. He was supposed to take all punishment without complaint, but Delta so seldom needed correction. It hurt all the more when it did come. He couldn’t get the chill of it to leave him. He’d been torn into. 

Unfit, the doctor had said. Unworthy of the privilege. Disgraceful.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Delta responded, the shame of it deepening. He hadn’t meant to sulk about it. He was only proving their point.

There was nothing wrong with his ability to perform, which is all the Emperor had really been asking. A little emotional hurt had never impacted his powers before — thank god for that. Today would be no exception.

With that, the Emperor rose up. Delta followed a half-step behind him. He was getting on in age. It was never hard to keep up.

They walked all the way past the war room, out onto the deck of the ship. The air was thin in the upper atmosphere, but it was getting more bearable upon the descent. There were a collection of advisors and generals gathered about by the railing. Delta kept his head bowed respectfully, careful not to look them dead on. With the Emperor there, he knew they wouldn’t dare touch him. But it was a deeply ingrained habit and one he saw no reason to break.

There was a pressure at his shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring, but it only scared him worse. He could see the target below. Its perimeter was painted in a pale orange color.

They wanted showy this time.

Space was made around him as they clicked the collar off of his neck. He closed his eyes. The light was painful. All the hearts beating so close were distracting. 

Disgraceful. He felt the sting of fear in his chest and prickling at his eyes. It was going to hurt. He was getting frigid in a way he hadn’t before. He didn’t want to be hurt.

He zeroed in on the target anyway, visualizing its delimitation among the pale. He wished they’d given him something to hold onto. All he had now were his own hands and his nails cutting indents into the palms. Showy. The world snapped as the target was turned to dust.

The collar clicked back on. Blood was already pooling in his throat and in his sinuses. The migraine aura descended. He swayed, but not fall. The Emperor’s hand steadied him there. It moved calming circles into his back. He heard the applause, but to him it sounded miles away.

“Incredible.” The Emperor had whispered into his ear. “You were wonderful.”

And like that, he was glowing. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t supposed to feel a thing, but the warmth of the praise made itself at home in him. It was the only time he let himself feel anything close to pride — and he could have lived in its light. It was almost worth it. He felt sick enough to die and it was almost worth it.

~~~~~~

Silas placed the blank sheet of paper down onto the desk and slid it towards him. His expression was grim.

“I want you to write down every target you can remember hitting. Names and dates. It doesn’t have to be exact.”

The room was small and dark, not much bigger than a broom closet. Maryam sat beside him at the table. He had a legal right to keep her there — and thought he had not asked her to, she volunteered to accompany him. 

Delta rocked his leg a little as he felt at the rough graphite of the pencil.

He took the order for what it was. He had a good sense for it. There were some things he struggled to remember, but in general, his memory was better than most. He had been allowed no distractions. He’d had no choice but to focus in.

He started with the earlier days of his imperial career — the battleship he’d crushed on the water, the first show of strength before the purchase was made. And then there was all that came after. He was never told until the day of what he would be after, but he remembered them all the same.

Marisol

Pyrha

Holliday

Basalt

Clover

Killian

Versus

He wrote mechanically, appending the dates as best as he could. He’d already made up this list in his mind several times. He’d have offered it to Levon if things had gone differently, but as it stood, he’d never been given the chance.

Regina

Ursa

Deidra

Anatol

Timber

Jocobe

Weissan

He soon ran out of space on the page. He write in a smaller script around the margins.

“That’s enough,” Maryam said, eyeing the prosecutor nervously. Delta kept writing.

“You can stop now,” Silas agreed, reaching to take the paper back.

“I’m not done,” Delta snapped. 

He recoiled just as soon as he’d said it. He didn’t know where he’d gotten the nerve to speak like that, to talk back at all, and especially not to them. He dropped the pencil and drew back into the chair, fully expecting to get smacked in the mouth, bare minimum. 

The hit didn’t come. Silas took the paper and examined it without much reaction. It was a long list — and that was only with the Emperor. He hadn’t even gotten to Paris yet.

“Can I ask you something? For my own curiosity?” Silas said.

Delta looked up at him.

“About how far away from the target are you when activated?”

“…A mile, sir.” Delta tapped at the chair.

He nodded. “What’s the closest you’ve ever been to someone you’ve killed?”

He heard Maryam scoff beside him, but he thought it was a fair question, if an abrupt one. He had to think about it for a second. As the answer came to him, he felt the shock of ocean water, stealing just as much breath from him as it had the first time.

He held his hands up to demonstrate, having no other way to quantify the distance. Right up against his body. He’d garroted him, wrapped the chains around his neck and held him there. The water had done the rest. He hadn’t even used his powers.

“Daniel Martino,” he answered quietly, “The same night I got picked up.”

It was his most recent kill  — and if Levon’s word was anything to believe in, it would be the last. 

He hadn’t told anyone about it until now.

“Your handler?” Silas asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Silas and Maryam exchanged a look he could not read.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t fault you for that.” Silas folded the paper into his pocket.

The clemency caught him off guard. Delta looked down, embarrassed all the same.

~

The shades were drawn in the conference room. It was a stormy day outside — Delta could imagine how the static might’ve felt on his skin had he been out there. For now, all he could do was imagine it.

“Delta,” the prosecutor drew his attention back, “I asked you a question.”

Silas was sharper with him when there was a crowd. He was familiar with this tactic. It didn’t register to him as a surprise, only as a kind of dull pain.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Delta said weakly, but sincerely. “…Could you repeat it, please?”

He usually would not have been bold enough to make requests, but then he usually wouldn’t have zoned out in the first place.

“Were the accounts of lateral violence within the Institute true?” He asked, then clarified: “Were the students there encouraged to hurt one another?” 

“Yes, sir.” Delta closed his eyes. He did not need to guess the next question.

“Did you ever use your powers to injure the other students?”

Not because he wanted to. He didn’t know if he was allowed to answer with that. It had been a yes-or-no question — and his handlers had gotten mad whenever he tried to explain himself around it. He didn’t know if the same rules would apply here.

“Yes, sir.”

He caught the concerned looks of the others at the conference table. The council members had shown him no scorn so far, in spite of everything. He dreaded losing it. But in his mind, it was an inevitability. He couldn’t make himself look back.

“Did you ever kill any of them?”

It wasn’t the same as injuring. The administration had loved to use him as a threat long before he was in the imperial service. He’d always be the first they brought out they sent to scare the others into submission. After the first few times — cracked ribs, broken arms, and painful shocks — any actual violence wasn’t needed. The threat alone was enough.

That wasn’t the same as killing. While the punishment had been painful, the kills were quick. Those were for safety alone. Nobody ever died as a punishment. They died because they were about to kill everyone else.

It’d been a yes-or-no question. The answer was yes, obviously.

“Yes, sir.” 

He kept his eyes down. Kitty shifted a bit to his left. He didn’t want to see the way her face changed when she found out.

Silas ended his line of questioning. The lights dimmed further as the video began to play.

PYRHA 08

SOL 07

The caption showed against the grainy white backdrop. He could see the town in his mind before it was shown on the screen. It was before the disaster. Jade was pushed up into the edges of the home. All their streets were still cobblestone. From above, as he had seen it, the town looked to be built into a crescent moon shape. The blue tops of buildings stood out against the pale sand.

“…There was this burning, endless light…”

The voiceover played over still frames of the cloud. The images clipped together in animation. He saw the tip of the airship approaching the edge of the sky.

Whoever had produced the documentary had no knowledge of the cause. How could they? It was a superweapon, they were sure, but how could they have known what? 

All they could do was to quantify it. The ground temperature had reached the same peak as the sun. The duration lasted ten to fifteen seconds — 12.945 seconds, Delta corrected in his mind. There’d been no warning. 2,031 people had died. About five hundred families.

The focus was the math — and more than that, the footage. Few of his attacks had ever been so well documented. But almost as an aside, they had spoken to some of the eye witnesses.

A girl with chestnut brown hair smiled sadly into the camera as she held up the picture. The image quality changed again as a video from inside her house began to play. He could not tell if she was the infant or the child holding onto it inside the cedar living room. The camera shifted angles to capture their mother grinning on the couch, clapping along to the silent song. 

There was some primordial ache in him that would not sleep. It’d always burned too hot. After the first few times, he’d learned not to touch it.

He felt it burning now, pressed up against his skin with no escape.

“And my friends always made fun of me for being such a townie, because I had to ride the bus two hours just to get to school,” the girl chirped softly, “And I remember that morning, my mom telling me not to stay too long after classes. She wanted me to come straight home that day because-“

Her voice broke. 

“Because we were going to go out as a family.”

The clip cut away to the moment the sky tore open.

Delta stood up before he knew what he was doing. He stumbled blindly away from the table, pushing out into the hall.

He’d taken her parents from her. Ripped her away from them, the same way he’d been ripped away from his own. The loss cut through him sharper than he could ever remember. 

He was crying. He couldn’t stop it. The sorrow and fear enveloped him in equal measures. He’d walked out. He hadn’t been dismissed, he’d never walked out like that in all his life. But he couldn’t stand to hear anymore. He didn’t want them to see him cry.

He wanted his mom. It was silly. He didn’t even know what she looked like. She clearly hadn’t wanted him.

“Delta?” Levon called after him. He stopped dead. He was recall trained — he wouldn’t dare move farther. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn around. He didn’t think he could.

He sank to the floor instead. He tried to hide his tears, but his body shook from the effort. He was still good about being quiet when he was hurt. He was trying very hard to be good about it.

A soft sob escaped him anyway. Levon bent down onto the floor beside him.

“That was too far. I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.” Levon placed one hand lightly onto his shoulderblade. His thumb worked over the knots that had formed there, so bound up and painful.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said. It was always the first thing to come out of his mouth these days, no matter how much they tried to correct it. 

He remembered how young he was at the time. He remembered how proud he’d been.

“I didn’t know,” Delta said through tears, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know, baby,” Levon’s voice got quiet. It didn’t echo. No one else could have heard. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Then, even quieter, the admission: “It’s not your fault.”

Delta sobbed into his sleeve, leaning over so that his face almost touched the ground. He wished he could stop it. It was taking everything out of him.

He felt a gentle tug at his sleeve. It was an invitation. He accepted it before he could stop himself, too desperate for any semblance of comfort. Levon pulled him into the hug. His cries grew muffled as he hid his face in the fabric of the shirt.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Levon said, the pain audible in his voice. He carded his hands through the boy’s hair, doing all he could to soothe him.

“I didn’t mean to,” came the soft whine in response.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

@lordcatwich @human-123-person @paperprinxe @whomeidontknowthem @chiswhumpcorner

@bacillusinfection @dietofwormsofficial @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

@jumpywhumpywriter

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Why Not Us?

Bleeding in Moonlight: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six |

CW: Memories of mass murder, some internalized dehumanization, survivor’s guilt

-

Misae made it to the little bedroom before the moon rose, thankfully. He nearly tripped over the strange mattress on the floor, the one they’d blown up with air and then thrown blankets and pillows on. It was meant to be his bed, he thought, which made sense.

Anaya might let him on the real bed, but not to sleep. Wolves, like dogs, slept on the floor. It would be lonely, but it would make sense. Almost nothing did, now. Sitting in chairs, eating pizza instead of having to shift to eat the raw meat thrown into the kennels, wearing clothes and being asked if he would like something to drink… they didn’t seem to know what he was, to understand. 

He could hear them now, Eden, Anaya, and Vanessa, from down the hall. They talked and laughed, and Misae felt hollowed out at the sound, wishing he could be there with them.

Maybe there would be more pizza.

He laid one hand on his stomach. It felt… almost rounded. He’d never eaten so much or so well, not in all the life he had lived. He hadn’t had to fight over any of it, either. There hadn’t been the need to snarl and posture, or crawl on his belly and lick at an older wolf’s mouth, hoping they’d give him a few scraps out of pity or some dim affection.

The moon’s slow rise made him restless, bouncing on his toes as he tried to decide where he could safely change. The room was small, but he could fit under the big bed if he was smart about it. 

But then the humans would get into the bed, and if the mattress dipped low it might force him back out.

The call to shift prickled under his skin, and Misae stripped his shirt and pants off before it could take hold and leave him confused and trapped in the cloth. He tossed the sweatpants and shirt onto the bed just as he felt his spine begin to bend.

It always felt so good, when the shift started. Like waking up after a good sleep, coming back to where you belonged. He had always been meant to walk on four legs, and the human side was only what he was allowed for good behavior.

He leaned over, a sensation like goosebumps running up and down his arms and legs, setting his hair on end. The healing wound in his leg throbbed but some of the pain felt more distant as he changed.

It wasn’t that the wound disappeared, it was only that his wolf body knew how it felt to be injured with silver far better than his human body did. It knew how to ignore the pain, how to keep moving, because to let the pain take you was to be singled out to die. Wolves who were too hurt to keep going were wolves that starved, his instincts knew it. Wolves who starved died.

Everyone died anyway. It hadn't mattered how good they were when Bill didn't want them any longer.

He shuddered and shoved that thought aside. He couldn’t think about his family, not now. It would overtake him and he’d just be trapped in the grave in his mind, even if his body was here still breathing.

He couldn’t think about dozens of flat blank eyes, frozen in mute horror. He couldn’t think about the warmth still lingering in the stiffening bodies pressed all around him, about how Nina had tried to cover him and hide him from the shots even as she had been bleeding to death herself. 

Had Nina been his real mother?

It was possible. Their fur was the same, their eyes were the same. But some of the other wolves had fur and eyes like his, too. But... maybe Nina had been his mother.

Maybe she had known it, if only at the end, and tried to save the one pup she could.

The humans had tried to ruin them to each other, make them hurtful and hateful, but the wolves had found a way to love, anyway. In secret, when it was safe, and at the end when nothing was safe and it didn’t matter any longer there was one more way to love that Bill couldn't take from them.

It made no difference if you loved when you would lose each other anyway. In the end, the werewolves had loved each other, and it hadn’t saved any of them.

Except him.

Misae closed his eyes, stretching his shifting muscles and forcing himself to leave the dead behind, for now anyway. For as long as he could. 

Bones cracked and broke beneath his skin, painlessly reforming. Misae dropped to a crouch and leaned his weight forward on his hands, feeling bare, vulnerable fingers change to rougher paw pads and clicking nails. He stretched his front legs until the muscles stretched and burned and sighed, contented by the feeling.

Canine teeth lengthened and his ears grew. He twitched one just to feel it, exhaling a rough sigh as his tongue briefly lolled out. Fur spread over skin like a blanket, a little patchy but still warming his chilly body, and the bed on the floor called to him. He was tired, and the killing back at Bill’s house kept trying to worm its way past his moments of comfort and warmth in this new place, with these new people.

If he laid still, it would catch up with him, and he didn’t want Anaya or Eden to hear how wolves mourned, how they cried. He didn’t know if they would still comfort him then, or if they would turn angry at the sounds, or learn to hate him. Bill’s family hated the sound of the mourning wolves, beat them for their weeping in human form or for their howls as wolves. 

Who knew what regular humans would do? 

Misae only knew that Anaya and Eden had been kind, so far. But so had Aaron, sometimes - Bill’s youngest son had been known to scratch behind a wolf’s ears when none of the other humans were looking. Even Austin had once bandaged Misae’s leg after he’d gotten it caught in a fence and bled.

That didn’t make them any kinder when the werewolves broke the rules, rules no one ever said out loud but simply expected the wolves to learn by being beaten when they were broken until they figured them out. It had never stopped Austin from calling them all names, or laughing when they fought.

Human kindness always had limits. 

Always.

Even as he became the first form he ever knew, the stalking werewolf that Bill had never been able to separate from the boy whose body the wolf shared, Misae knew he had to hide. Not from Anaya or Eden, who had already seen him as a wolf. Not because he feared them.

He had to hide because they didn’t know to fear him.

Misae’s nose turned black and scents exploded into the world around him. What had before been just the light smell of cleaning products and maybe a pumpkin-scented candle was now a collection of stories he could read in the air and along the ground. Vanessa had walked in here to set up the mattress, having forgotten to take her shoes off after getting the mail. Misae could smell the grass she had stepped on, scent the slight shift in her smell of frustration when it took a long time to get the air pump working to set up the mattress. He could smell, on the mattress, long months spent idle with no need to be used. The faintest smell of a camping trip, some time in the past - the last time the air mattress had been needed.

The way his sense of smell changed was always what gave away when it was time to find somewhere to hide, before the silver light could touch his fur and call to him. It would make him want to run, to howl and see if any other wolves were nearby to answer.

What would he do if they were?

He had known only his own family. He’d never seen any werewolves that didn’t huddle together in the kennels, fighting over the barest hints of kindness shown to them by Bill and his family. If he met a free wolf, he might simply lay down, show his belly, and wait for them to tear out his throat when they smelled the kennels on him. 

Misae paced restlessly around the small room, limping and trying to keep weight off his injured leg, snuffling against the ground, tracing the hints of Eden and Anaya in here and then following the softer smell of Vanessa until he found the closet door was cracked open.

Perfect. Like a den.

He had to paw at it, whining softly with his ears flat against his head, looking nervously at the patch of moonlight that seemed to head inexorably in his direction. His heart raced beneath his fur at the sight. 

Bill had always said, over and over again, never let the moonlight touch you. It was the only rule the humans told the werewolves, and taught to the pups before they were put into the main kennels. During the full moon, for three nights, they would huddle together inside big wooden boxes that formed a kind of den. Anyone caught outside the den, by Bill or by the cameras, would be punished.

It was the first thing Misae remembered learning, while still toddling around on four short legs, a few weeks after birth. Never let the moonlight touch you. He'd broken the rule running from the guns, from the grave of his family. He'd broken the rule running from Austin. But… that had been different, hadn’t it?

Hadn’t it?

Misae clambered clumsily over a pile of cardboard boxes, blowing harshly through his nose as things packed inside clattered around. He pushed at them with his snout until he had made for himself a sort of barrier, protecting him from the world outside this tiny space. He turned in a circle and then laid down, ears flat, shimmering amber-brown eyes watching the silvery light that cut across the bed through the open doorway.

Beneath his nose, soaked into the floorboards years ago, he could smell a hint of a rose perfume. Left by some other person, long before any of the familiar smells of Vanessa's life had entered this place.  

The scent made him shudder, heart going cold.

Bill's wife Ada wore rose perfume. 

The smell of roses, for the children in the puppy kennels, meant one of you might vanish that day. Ada sometimes took them, luring them out with treats and soft words until she could get the loop around their necks to pull tight, leading them on the leash inside.

She mostly brought them back, after sticking needles to take blood or give what she called 'medicine' that put the puppies to deep sleep and left them groggy and confused upon waking. She mostly brought them back.

But not always.

Rose perfume drifting on the air was sometimes all the warning they got before a pup disappeared. 

The memories made him tremble and he whined softly, but quieted the sound as fast as he could. It was something all of them learned, not just how to hide from the moonlight but also how to be so quiet that none of the men and women inside the house could hear and think of them.

They all learned how to be, if only temporarily, forgotten.

Now Misae was the only left for Bill and his family to remember. He wondered if Bill would come for him, still. Try to find him. Or if, now that he'd outrun Austin, he'd let Misae go into a world where nobody was left to even love him in secret any longer.

It was Eden and Anaya he needed to hide from now. Not because they might hurt him, but because he might hurt them. Wolves were most dangerous when the moon was full, calling on their nonhuman blood. 

It made them monsters - hungry, mindless killers. 

Everyone knew that.

Bill made sure everyone knew that. 

He watched the moonlight’s slow crawl along the small room until his eyes drifted shut and he dozed off, his tail flicking occasionally. Once the moon began to set in the morning, just as the sun rose, he’d be able to be a boy again. Until then, he could relax into the form he was far more comfortable in even if he had been painstakingly taught to fear what it was capable of.

He slept deeply enough to have fuzzy, formless dreams. He was beneath all of his family, trying to crawl out from under them. They called for him, cried for help, whined and whimpered and shouted and cursed. 

The air was being slowly crushed out of him, and he desperately tried to get out from beneath the weight of their deaths, their memories.

He looked up to see straight down the barrel of Austin’s shotgun, the black within the metal circle, holding his death.

Found you, Austin said, softly. Time to go, Rusty.

Fingers touched the top of his head.

Misae?

He jolted awake and snapped out of sheer instinct, ears flat in a flash and teeth clicking together. He didn’t quite catch anything, but as his eyes opened, he saw Anaya looking down at him, eyes wide, her hand jerked back against her chest. 

“Misae?” She repeated, voice a little shakier this time. She was wearing sleeping clothes, and Eden was just behind her, wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants that had Misae looking in jealousy at skin only scarred along the underside of his chest, two odd half-circle shapes that didn’t mean anything to Misae’s mind. “Holy shit.”

“DId he bite you?” Eden asked, an edge to his voice. “Anaya, if he bit you-... isn’t that how it-... it spreads?”

Misae curled up tighter, whimpering, his heart picking back up into a pounding race that made him dizzy. He tucked his tail as tightly as he could and looked up with his chin pressed against the floor, licking at his chops nervously.

 “Naya? Did he-”

“No, he didn’t,” Anaya replied, frowning back at Eden, before dropping into a crouch. “And we don’t know that that's how it spreads, or whatever. Or even if it does spread. Who even knows what’s real and what isn’t about werewolves?”

“Before yesterday, I would have told you nothing is real about werewolves,” Eden said, hovering behind her. 

“And you would have been wrong, wouldn't you. Besides, he was asleep. I woke him up, that’s on me, not him. Hey, Misae. Hey there, honey.” Her voice softened, and she shoved some of Misae’s barrier of boxes aside, until she could hold out her hand and lay it down with knuckles on floor and palm facing up, between them. “It’s okay, honey. It’s just me. Are you good? We were worried when we didn’t see where you’d gone. You were making some noise in here, I thought maybe something was wrong.”

Misae’s nose twitched. He eased forward, belly to the ground, until he could slowly lay his chin in her palm. She let one finger gently scratch at the soft fur there and he whined. 

“He’s okay,” Anaya whispered. “I scared you, huh? You were having bad dreams, I bet. Don't blame you, this has been a really weird day. Just... the weirdest. Can I ask why you're here in the closet?”

“There’s a joke about being a closeted werewolf in there somewhere, but I’m honestly not awake enough to make it,” Eden said, but he moved back until he could sit on the bed. He didn’t quite relax, not yet, but the space helped Misae to feel a little safer. Eden didn’t look - or smell - angry. 

“Oh, shut up,” Anaya said, rolling her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a smile. She wasn’t angry, either. “And don’t spend all night coming up with it, either. I don’t want to hear it when we wake up.”

“Well, now I have to come up with something. I have to come up with something and have it be the literal first thing I say to you when we wake up,” Eden teased, flopping himself backwards onto the bed and wriggling under the blankets, sighing happily when he was covered up. “Oh, this comforter weighs a ton. Perfect.”

“For someone who likes to sleep in the absolute wilderness like a caveman, you sure love a weighted blanket.” Anaya snorted.

"If I'm a caveman, that means you like a caveman." Eden grinned. "Ha ha, you're in love with a Neanderthal," He sing-songed. Anaya threw up a middle finger over her shoulder in his general direction, and Eden's smile only widened.

Misae wondered what a Nee-ander-tal was as his eyes flicked to the side, taking in the window, looking for the moonlight. To his relief, the curtains were closed.

The room was dark, now, except for a small lamp they’d turned on by the bed. There was no chance of the moon catching at his fur, calling him to hunt, to rip and tear and rend. 

Misae pushed himself slowly onto his feet, ignoring his throbbing back leg. Anaya smiled at him, and it felt like a reward. His heart beat faster for new reasons, and he followed her as she eased back and away from the closet, pushing past the boxes. 

When Anaya sat on the air mattress on the floor, Misae moved slowly onto it as well until he could lick at the corners of her mouth with his tail tucked underneath him. She laughed and pushed lightly at him, and he moved to lay on his side, paws curled to show her his stomach, baring his vulnerable throat.

“He likes you,” Eden commented idly from up on the bed. “Pretty sure that’s wolf for ‘you’re cool, let’s be buds.’ Also I think it means he thinks you're in charge."

"I am in charge," Anaya said, voice haughty, but there was laughter lining every word. "It's good that both you boys know it."

Misae shifted back onto his stomach and curled back up until his tail covered his nose. Anaya smiled at the sight, reaching out to scratch the top of his head. Misae sighed, eyes drifting closed again. He relaxed under the gentle affection. “There you go. All right, what matters is that you're okay. Let’s try to get some sleep, yeah? All three of us.”

He watched her stand up, ears drooping as she climbed into the real bed, next to Eden. He watched her get under the blanket, laying next to Eden. He laid on the floor where wolves belonged, missing the warmth of his family. Missing the den. Alone, here, on the ground. Werewolves weren't meant to be alone - he knew that, not from Bill or Austin but from how perfect it had felt in the den, in the kennels, when they were all together.

Anaya turned off the lamp, and darkness overtook the room.

The humans, he thought, would be blind in the dark. Misae could see everything, though. He could see the silvery moonlight held back by the curtains, could see Eden’s chest rise and fall, slowing as he slipped into sleep. He could see that Anaya stayed awake a while longer.

He listened to her breathing, holding back his whimpers until it slowed and deepened and he knew he wouldn't wake her. He could lay here, alone.

Well.

Not entirely alone. 

His family was here, even if they weren’t. They would never leave him, not fully, not all the way. Even now he could feel them nosing around him trying to find a comfortable spot. He knew the pressure of their bodies around him like he knew his own paws. He could feel their chill breath on his neck, the soft nuzzle of affection that he would never really feel again. He could sense snuffles and whines, jostles for position that sometimes ended with playful snarling and rumbling growls. He could feel Nina’s weight on top of him. Feel her body jerk with the shots she had taken that he hadn’t. He could hear them, in his heart, howling just outside the little house.

He could hear their cries, begging him to join them. He should have slept for the last time in the big grave with the rest of them. He had been meant to die with his family. He wasn't the fastest in his family, the smartest, the best hunter. He wasn't anything better than anyone else.

There was no reason for him to survive, no special ability or way of being he had that made him deserve this bed with its soft blankets when everyone he loved was quiet and cold in the ground, covered in dirt and decomposing now.

He hadn’t deserved to meet kind humans. He didn’t deserve to eat pizza until his stomach ached and sit in chairs. He didn't deserve hot water to clean the dirt and blood from his skin. Others in his pack had deserved it so much more, and they had been given silver bullets instead, and now...

Now Misae was the only one left who remembered them.

He closed his eyes against the way the darkness wanted to change shape, to make him see his dead family with all the blood and bullets. He listened to their wistful, spectral howls, just outside the window. Calling and calling and calling, crying to him and to each other.

Why you? Why not us, instead? Why not the little pups, why not the mothers, why not the older wolves who had been good for so long? You were never all that good. What about you deserved to live? Why not us?

Why was it you?

Anaya and Eden slept together.

Misae slept with ghosts.

-

@finder-of-rings  @burtlederp @deluxewhump @scoundrelwithboba @shrimpwritings 

@yassifiedinformation @wildfaewhump @whatwhump @honeycollectswhump @tundra-tiger

@dont-look-me-in-the-eye @there-will-always-be-blood @fangedcinnamonroll @pigeonwhumps @yassifiedinformation

[aceofwhump]

Avatar the Last Airbender (2024) 1x06 "Masks"

[whumpetywhump]

Begins ≠ Youth (2024)

Kim Joo An

01:

- Face cut and bruised after being beaten (he has some form of bruise or cut in most episodes, allegedly due to his father’s abuse)

02:

- Applying pain patches to his arms and back after overworking

04:

- Smacked to the ground by his father

- Hit in the head with a football, knocked to the ground, writhing in pain, temporarily unable to hear, panicking, examined in hospital, revealed to have lost hearing in his left ear due to his father’s abuse

- Emotional breakdown, lashing out at his friends, restrained, screaming, sobbing, comforted

09:

- Flashback: Cuts his hand on broken glass

- Bruised face, admits his father threw a photo frame at him

10:

- Flashback: Bloody scrapes on his knuckles

- Confronts his abusive father, crying, screaming

12:

- Shoved by his father, hits his head on a cabinet, ringing ears, temporarily deafened, stabs his father to save his mother and sister, in a state of shock, sobbing

Park Ha Ru

03:

- Suffering auditory hallucinations linked to PTSD, attending regular therapy sessions, flinching when touched

- Suffering flashbacks and hallucinations, sobbing, guilt-stricken, collapses to his knees, rocking back and forth, comforted

04:

- Still experiencing auditory hallucinations, clutching his head, rocking back and forth

- Admitted to a psych ward, still hallucinating

05:

- Still in the psych ward, tormented by another patient, traumatic flashbacks

06:

- Nightmare, rocking back and forth, flinching and yelping when touched

- Emotional breakdown, scratching at his own chest, tries to drown himself in the bath

07:

- Revealed to have scars and scratch marks on his arms and chest

- Hallucinating, declining in mental health

08:

- Still hallucinating

09:

- Finds out he was hallucinating his best friend, struggling to tell if his real friends are also hallucinations

- Traumatic flashback, panic attack, falls while trying to run, hallucinating

- Rushed to hospital after slitting his wrists, bleeding

10:

- Unconscious in hospital with his wrists bandaged after last episode, readmitted to the psych ward

- Flashback: Found unconscious in the bath, bleeding from the wrists

11:

- Still in the psych ward

- Thrown in the sea, shivering, accidentally reveals scars on his arms and shoulders

12:

- Locked back up in the psych ward, head bandaged after an attempt to self-harm

Kim Do Geon

01:

- Elbowed in the face trying to break up a fight, nosebleed

02:

- Applying pain patches to his arms and back after overworking

07:

- Feeling unwell, coughing

08:

- Still coughing from last episode, feverish, given medication, taken care of, collapses, wakes up in hospital, diagnosed with influenza, quarantined, discharges himself AMA, still sick, nosebleed

09:

- Still pale and sickly, emotional breakdown, sobbing, screaming

10:

- Hand bandaged and face scraped after a fall

12:

- Pain patches and cupping bruises on his back from overworking

- Motorcycle crash, lying in the road, emotional breakdown, sobbing on his knees

Jung Ho Su

01:

- Narcoleptic episode, collapses and passes out

02:

- Flashback: Found sitting outside in the snow, shivering, memory loss

- Wakes up in hospital after last episode, head bandaged from the fall

- Applying pain patches to his arms and back after overworking

06:

- Outed for not taking his narcolepsy medication

07:

- Recovering in the nurse’s office with his head bandaged after falling down the stairs during a narcoleptic episode

- Bandaging the blisters on his fingers

08:

- Admits to faking his narcolepsy out of desperation for affection, sobbing, comforted

09:

- Self-medicating, gagging, vomiting

10:

- In a state of shock, narcoleptic episode, collapses and passes out

12:

- Beaten up, face badly cut and bruised

- Overdoses, unconscious on the floor

Min Sae In

02:

- Flashback: Threatened with a knife, “I’m not afraid of dying”, almost collapses from shock afterwards

- Hallucinating his dead mother, crying

06:

- Discloses his past trauma, fighting tears

08:

- Provoked, loses control and attacks someone, fighting tears, collapses to his knees

09:

- Accidentally injures his friend, in a state of shock, guilt-stricken, sobbing

11:

- Revealed to have committed suicide

12:

- Flashback: Hand bandaged after breaking a window

- Flashback: Shuts himself in a burning building, dead body removed on a stretcher

Kim Hwan

01:

- Kicked in the chest, knocked to the ground, pinned down and punched repeatedly in the ribs

03:

- Pressured into drinking by his father, vomiting, dizzy, blurred vision, collapses and passes out

05:

- Smacked in the face by his father, bruised cheek, fighting tears

10:

- Almost hit by a car, falls, bloody scrapes on his hands, limping and clutching his leg

- Knocked to the ground in an explosion, cuts his face, tries to enter the fire, restrained, sobbing

11:

- Drunk, momentarily passes out, struggling to stay awake

- Grieving, crying

TW: Contains themes of child abuse, suicide and self-harm

[moonlight0934]

Nothing Else To Tell You

Damian is sitting at the table for breakfast when Bruce sits down next to him.

“Hey, Damian.”

“Hello, Father.”

“I was wondering if we could talk later. There’s something I wanted to discuss.”

“Of course, what is it?”

“I wanted to ask about your lifestyle before coming here. I want to make sure that you can adjust as easily as possible.”

Damian hums, nodding though he’s sure there’s some kind of ulterior motive.

“I would offer to do it now, but I have to leave for work in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s fine. We can talk later.”

“Ok, we’ll talk after you get back from school.” Bruce stands up, placing a gentle hand on Damian’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yes you will.”

Bruce smiles as he walks away. Damian finishes his breakfast, then gets ready for school.

I don’t understand why I have to do this, but at least I’m going to learn more about American etiquette.

“Make sure you’re on your best behavior,” Alfred says as he drives Damian to school.

Damian scoffs, looking out of the window with a frown. He heads into his class, sitting in his seat. His teacher makes him come up and introduce himself before class actually starts. He has to do that with every class that day, and he has no idea why. He doesn’t ask though since no one else seems to think it’s odd. Everything is fine until lunch. Damian walks outside to eat lunch, and he immediately notices five kids following him. Damian sets his lunch down, and turns around.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing, we were just curious about you, so we figured we could eat lunch together,” one of the girls in the front says.

Damian narrows his eyes. Then he hears Bruce’s words from the other day in his head.

You should try to make some friends when you start going to school, Damian. It’ll be good for you.

“Alright, were you wanting to head back inside?”

“No, we’re ok out here. Do you eat outside often?” the girl asks.

“Yes, I like nature. May I ask for your name?”

“Oh, sorry, I completely forgot to introduce myself. My name is Isabella, but you can call me Isa. It’s nice to meet you.”

Damian nods, and finds a spot to sit down. He opens his lunch box and pulls out his sandwich.

“What kind of food do you like?” Isa asks while the rest of her friends just stand in the background.

Damian glances at them, feeling on edge and confused. He ends up spending lunch talking to Isa, but he only feels more confused by the time Alfred comes to pick him up.

“You can head straight down to the cave. Master Wayne will come down when he gets home from work. He’ll want to talk to you before training today.”

Damian nods, but he does get changed into work out clothes before heading down there. Tim is wrapping up his hands, but he’s the only one down there. He glances at Damian as Damian walks over to him.

“Are you going to stab me again?” he asks.

Damian shakes his head. “I actually have to ask you something since you’re my only option.”

“Ok, shoot,” Tim says as Damian also starts wrapping up his hands.

“I had something odd happen today at school.” He explains what happened with Isa.

“That is a little odd. I don’t know why her friends wouldn’t have talked to you. Maybe she pressured them into going out there.”

“Isn’t it odd that she talked to me like that?”

“Um… like what? She seemed normal to me. That’s probably just the fact that you haven’t really interacted with many people your age.”

“My upbringing wasn’t that odd. Yes, I know the murder and stuff is odd, but isn’t it normal to be worried about saying the wrong thing? Isn’t it normal to try to avoid messing something up by being more cautious, so you don’t get punished?”

“Well, people do tend to worry about saying the wrong thing. However, they don’t normally get punished if they do. I did, but she’s not from high society, is she? That’s why I was held to the standard that I was, and I quickly learned that not everyone had that standard.”

“No one is going to hit her if she does or says the wrong thing?”

“Hit her? That’s not punishment, that’s abuse.”

Damian hums as Bruce walks down the stairs.

Was all of that not normal? I don’t understand. Am I not supposed to tell them? Why couldn’t Omi have walked me through what I should and shouldn’t say before I got here?

“Damian, come here. Tim, we’re going to talk before we start training. Can you go do your warm up in the living room?”

Tim nods, giving Damian one last glance before heading up the stairs.

“So, you can start wherever you want,” Bruce says, sitting Damian down beside him.

Damian looks down at his hands.

What do I do? What should I say?

Damian starts to describe the way his schedule looked, then describes the softest parts of his training. He leaves out all of the punishments, and all of the hardest things his mother and grandfather had him do. He leaves out the details about the important stuff, and focuses more on other things. He talks about the way he likes to eat, and how he likes to keep his personal spaces. Bruce is watching him with a slight frown, but he doesn’t comment until Damian is done.

“So, is that it? Your training doesn’t sound as intense as you made it seem before.”

Damian nods.

“I have nothing else to tell you.”

“Ok, well, I guess that’s ok. I’ll have to rework your training schedule then. You can head back upstairs now, and send Tim down on your way up.”

Damian nods, his face red. He runs up the stairs.

“Drake, Father wishes to see you downstairs.”

Tim nods. “Are you alright? You look kind of embarrassed.”

“Leave me alone.”

Damian heads up the stairs to his room.

Omi is going to be angry that I made my training easier. I’m sure they’re talking about me. Does he know I’m lying? Is he going to call Omi?

Damian drops his head into his hands. “This is fine. I’ll figure this out.”

[mintflavouredwhump]

An eldest child whumpee who is always forced to be the 'role model' of their younger siblings while bearing the brunt of their parents' anger and expectations.

[the-bar-sinister]

What the hell is wrong with Kristoph Gavin?? (headcanons)

cptsd and potential bpd due to neglect, abuse and parentification by his parents

tyrannical, angry famous defense attorney father, dismissive, neglectful socialite mother

neglected as a young child and raised himself as an early reader. Straight As and "a joy to have in class. always polite" 

Polite due to terror of setting off his father's temper, well spoken due to voracious reading as escapism.

learned to manipulate people without asking directly for what he wants in order to get any kind of positive attention from his father or mother

parentified and put in charge of raising Klavier as soon as Klavier arrived.

golden child/scapegoat dynamic enforced by their parents which Kristoph hates. Tried unsuccessfully to protect Klavier from their parents' anger– by always pushing Klavier to do better to measure up to their expectations.

Constant attention seeking due to neglect as a child. 

Obsessed with keeping up appearances due to the fear as soon as people have a negative perception of you they'll leave or destroy you.

"the law is absolute" in that if you don't get caught, you haven't broken the law. Constantly had to evade and manipulate and loophole his father's tyrannical rules in order to avoid being punished for minor and abusive reasons.

[defire]

Introducing Ghost of Seattle

(This is my FIRST self-published book ok)

(As always this book is highly stylized per the main character, so this time it's terse, short, casual, and unemotional.)

Chapter 1

Content: Child abuse, forced to fight, death threats, parent abusing child

“We’ll bring back civilization, eventually.”

After  the bombing, Seattle had become a ripped, rubble-filled wasteland. That's what people said about it, anyway. To Chase, it was a jungle of rebar, cement blocks, and loot. It was getting close to dusk, and he skipped around patches of broken glass by hopping across the boulders that made piles leading up to the buildings they'd fallen from.

Chase was trying to get back before the pit fights. He lowered his head against the setting sun so the light wouldn’t hurt his sensitive eyes, allowing his white hair to drape over them. He set his jaw, jumping around  the familiar piece of rebar that stuck out here and tripped up the other people in his gang, the Guards.

In the pit fights, the Guards mostly just punched and beat on each other, till one gave up. Chase's dad, Merc, was the leader of the gang that held this chunk of buildings and land. They were the best-armed and toughest gang in Seattle. Chase was proud of Guard.

There were still ten more people waiting to fight for the extra rations that Merc put up for the winners. They trusted him to teach them to fight like a team, to arm and feed them, and so far they were right to.

Chase trotted into the main street of the compound in time.

He came up close with big eyes to look into the mud ring. Ron was getting the shit punched out of him again. Ouch. At least he was guarding his face this time.

Suddenly a familiar hand gripped him by the shoulder. Chase flinched.

"Chase." His father always growled his name. "You like it?"

Chase looked up at his dad. He didn't look mad, so Chase answered.

"They must be so tough."

"They're soldiers." Merc answered as Ron shouted surrender. "Soldiers get knives, rations, and respect."

"I'm going to be a soldier too." Chase added, repeating what his dad always told him.

"Yes," Merc said, gripping both Chase's shoulders tightly. "Starting today."

Chase's stomach dropped as his dad shoved him into the muddy ring. He slipped and fell forward onto his stomach, whacking his elbow.

"Ouch." He grunted, getting up hastily.

He looked up to see Braiden stepping over the grass-line. Braiden was a clumsy twenty-year-old with a slim build but huge fists. Chase liked him usually.

"Chase!" Braiden said, raising both fists in the air with a huge grin. "Finally!"

"Dad?" Chase backed away. No one had taught him how to fight, so the only thing he could do was duck under his arms, maybe even dodge. He knew that much from being around his dad.

Chase glanced back, to see a dark look on his dad's face, mixed with disgust. He shouldn't have fallen down. Chase swallowed and turned back to face Braiden.

Braiden came up and threw a big, predictable punch. Chase brought his elbows up to guard his face. Braiden's fist crashed into his forearm dully, knocking him sideways.

Chase was 9 years old and only 70 pounds; easy to throw around. Chase staggered sideways, caught his balance, and glanced back at his dad, then at Braiden.

He was surprised to see that Braiden had hesitated too.

I'm allowed to dodge, Chase reminded himself. I'm allowed to dodge!

This time when Braiden threw a punch, faster, Chase dodged. Two more haymakers, Chase dodged around them. Braiden, frustrated, punched twice fast, and the second one hit Chase square on the forearms and knocked him back onto his butt. That hurt his tailbone, and he rolled away instinctively, getting up to his hands and feet without balancing, staggering back.

Getting knocked down scared him. That was always when the bad part happened.

Someone caught him by the arm.

"No running away!" Dad yelled at him. He better not embarrass Dad.

"I'm not." Chase found his voice was just a whisper.

Braiden could see that he was scared and took a breath before striding toward him.

"You better defend yourself, Chase!" He said.

He was allowed to defend himself. He bared his teeth, dodged under the punch and grabbed Braiden's thigh. Then he bit him in the side of his torso.

"Aghh!" Braiden shouted, slapping Chase over and over in the head. Chase decided this was working, so he kept biting.

He felt Braiden shift and Chase felt a hard fist come down on the right side of his back. It was hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Braiden took the opportunity to shove Chase off of him and throw him to the ground.

Stomach acid came up into Chase's mouth with the grunt he let out when his back smacked into the scraped ground.

"Middle finger if you surrender, Chase!" Braiden shouted at him.

Chase gave him the finger, panting from the ground.

"I win!" Braiden shouted.

He reached out to give Chase a hand up. Chase was already getting to his feet, and noticed too late, but the gesture was unexpectedly kind. 

As he left the mud pit, he realized he was smiling. 

His father slapped him on the shoulder.

"You're a man now." He said. "I expect you in the morning roll call."

Chase hesitated.

"Does this--does this--"

"What? Spit it out." Merc snapped.

Chase felt his lips go cold.

"Does this mean I'm allowed to defend myself now?"

Merc snorted. 

"You're always--" He stopped short and turned to face Chase head-on. "The hell do you mean, kid?"

Chase cringed.

"In... in... out there... in fights?" He stammered.

Merc bent down in the middle of the group that was watching the next fight, maintaining eye contact with Chase. 

Chase stood frozen, staring into his dad's eyes in terror.

"You ever--" Merc glared as he spoke. "Ever try to turn on me... see how that goes. I'll kill you."

He straightened up, looking down on the tiny 9-year-old.

"What are you waiting for!" Merc shouted.

Chase flinched.

"Go! Do your chores!"

Chase nodded, then saluted--

"Yes sir!" And fled.

Please let me know if you want to be tagged for upcoming parts :)

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