#child of whumper

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I Can't Cross O'er: An Interlude

CW: Captivity, child of whumper POV, blood, referenced whipping, magical whumpee, siren whump. For @amonthofwhump Tropeathon Day 4: Monster! Monster!

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

-

Six years ago

A door shut, clicking into place, just down the hall. Carefully hidden inside one of the seven bedrooms in this wing of the house, Ford and his sister Nathalie waited, listening, as the man in the hallway took a deep breath. “By God,” The man muttered. “What a voice he has.”

Nathalie tried to peek around Ford's arm. “Is he-”

“Sssshhh.” Ford swatted at Nathalie without looking at her, and she swatted back.

“Like an angel…” The man continued, not realizing he had an audience - if currently a distracted one. “An absolute angel. The way he sings..."

Nathalie poked Ford right in his ticklish side with one finger, jabbing roughly. "Ford-"

"I said sssshh!"

"Don’t you dare tell me to shush, Guilford,” Nathalie hissed.

Ford looked at her, and whatever she saw on his face made the momentary triumph of mocking him with his hated full first name drain from hers. She laid a hand on his arm, then, awkwardly patting, whispering, “I’m sorry. I'm so sorry, Ford, I didn't mean it-"

“Don’t ever call me his name,” Ford said, but his voice was weak. Like always since his mother died, he felt tears rise unbidden and had to fight them back below. “Please, please don’t.”

“I didn’t mean it,” Nathalie whispered. Her eyes were huge and sad in the light that filtered in through the gauzy curtains across the room. “I really didn’t. I’m sorry, Ford. You’re not like him at all. I promise you're not."

He found a smile for her, just to watch the way her shoulders, which had hunched up, relaxed again. “It’s… it’s all right.” There was another sound, and Ford turned back, trying to peek through a crack in the door they were hidden just behind again. He couldn’t quite see the man, but he could hear him still muttering to himself. Thankfully, the Lord Fellswooth spoke to himself loudly enough that he hadn’t overheard them and realized he was being spied on by two of Lord Wentworth’s children. 

Or grandchildren.

Or... prisoners.

Whoever they really were to him.

Seconds passed, and Ford could see in his mind the way the tall, strikingly thin Lord Fellswooth must be patting down his shirt, checking for wrinkles or any detail out of place. He’d been a fussy one at supper earlier, the sort to surreptitiously check the tines of his fork over before taking a single bite, as if checking for a smudge or a bit of tarnish he might make a barbed comment about. He was probably running quick fingers through his hair to get the little curl of salt-and-pepper over his forehead just so - he’d done that over and over since he’d come to meet with Lord Wentworth, as if it were some sort of compulsion rather than simple vanity. 

Ford’s teeth worried at his lower lip as he listened to Fellswooth take a deep breath, murmur it was only a business call, of course, Theresa, that’s all, as if he were rehearsing his lines for a play, before he turned to leave. The two children eased back and away so no hint of them might be seen as he went past them - Ford's eyebrows knitted in confusion at a spot of bright red he saw on the Lord's cheek, smeared like he'd rubbed open a wound. The Lord's steps were nearly soundless thanks to the plush gold-threaded rug that ran the length of the hall all the way to the grand staircase that would take him right out the front door.

The butler met him there. 

Mr. Keller was chilly sometimes but Ford mostly found him kind. His voice filtered up the stairs as he let Lord Fellswooth know his horse was saddled and waiting for him just outside. Mr. Keller had been around forever, he was very old and soon to retire, Father- the man who made them call him Father, anyway - said. He’d made mistakes, sometimes… more often lately.

There had been some sort of trouble with Mr. Keller writing letters that made no sense, begging for rescue from employment, that had led to some distant relations coming to the door last month, worried for his health. 

Father had assured them all was well, and after speaking to Mr. Keller over a few days, the cousins or whoever had gone away again. Mr. Keller had been... different, ever since, but still mostly kind to the children.

Ford’s father read all Mr. Keller’s letters now before he sent them, and he’d put out an advert and told his very important friends he was looking for a new butler, that Mr. Keller was ready to step down and have a well-earned rest. 

If he didn't just get thrown in the pond with the monster, like Ford's real father had been. 

Once Fellswooth was safely gone, Ford eased out into the hall, the well-oiled hinges moving in perfect silence as he swung open the door. Nathalie was on his heels, creeping just behind him. They made their silent way towards the door that the fussy Lord had just come out of.

Ford paused just a foot away and turned to look at his sister over his shoulder, putting a finger to his lips.

Nathalie nodded, solemnly. Like Ford, she still wore a black armband, the sign of mourning after their mother’s death the year before. At ten, her face was losing the child’s roundness and thinning out. She looked like their mother had, more every year, and sometimes it hurt Ford to look at her at all. It would be six more years before their father would want to start looking into marrying her off, which meant only four years until marriage might happen for Ford.

The thought terrified him.

Ford had become a part of his father’s grasping ambitions only a month after Mother died, when she could no longer protect her children from Lord Wentworth’s plans for his family. Ever since, he’d been subjected to endless lectures on business ventures he didn’t care about overseas, tutored for hours every day on how to convince other nobles to speak to his father about those business ventures, or selling land, or… whatever it was that Guilford Wentworth wanted from them. All those lessons, in the end, centered around learning how to lie - or how to bring the aristocrats and royalty to meet with his father and his father’s awful creature.

Alongside all that unwanted education had been a rise in the careless, constant violence that had already dogged him all his life. He was not good enough at the skills Lord Wentworth wanted him to learn. He did not lie so easily, he did not care about colonies and copper mines a thousand miles across the sea. And he paid for not caring with bruises like the ones he wore even now, always and only in places that his clothing might hide.

Nathalie, though, wore no bruises, and neither did the twins. He’d done what he could to protect them all the way his mother had once tried to protect him. If he were married, though, especially if he were married to someone with more money or land and he had to go live with her family, he couldn’t keep Guilford’s anger on him any longer. 

It would turn on his sister, until she was found a husband - and then it would finally turn on the twins, who had never known violence and would have no one to keep them safe any longer

What if whoever was picked for his sister’s husband was cruel, too? What if his own wife turned out to be some terrible witch, like Guilford Wentworth, just with hair ribbons? He’d rather die than be married, but he knew enough about his father’s monster by now to know that it wouldn’t matter what he wanted, when the time came.

He’d want whatever he was told to want, once the monster sang its hideous song. He'd be a dutiful, loving husband, or he'd be a dutiful loving son, or he'd have his throat torn open and turn to bones in the bottom of the pond in the garden, just like his real father.

Ford closed his fingers slowly around the doorknob, turning it as quietly as he could before he gently pushed the door open so he and Nathalie could peek inside.

They had come to peek at the monster. 

The awful thing looked handsome and harmless. It perched along the edge of a heavy mahogany desk, leaning against it and looking away, towards the window, one hand over its mouth. Jet-black hair fell wavy, as if it had only just dried after a swim in the ocean, over beautiful eyes and curled around its ears. Its hair was all mussed up, as if it’d been grabbed at and pulled on, but the creature didn’t seem to notice. 

It looked, with the last of the sunset’s yellowed light shining on its warm brown skin, like a sort of perfectly sculptured mockery of a human man, the most beautiful one Ford had ever seen in his life. It was only a trick, of course - it was more of a demon.

Ford had seen its real face when it killed his real father, a mouth that opened too wide and was full of hideous sharp teeth.

It wore some sort of loose robe that fell off one shoulder. It was covered in embroidered flowers in white against the shining pale blue fabric and tied at the waist. Its arms were crossed in front of itself and it hunched over, just slightly. The markings like tattoos that began just under his jaw on one side disappeared into the neckline where it lay over the thing’s collarbone and then reappeared along one delicately formed wrist, running all the way into its palm and over its long, elegant fingers. One of its legs was marked, too. When Ford looked at the monster’s feet, he could see one was covered in the same markings all the way to the very end of its toes. 

“It's done, for now,” The monster said to no one, its voice soft. It spoke like a melody, a rumbling bass that could just as easily soar to tenor. Ford had taken singing lessons, for a while. He was hopelessly rubbish at it. 

The twins, though, were good. And the monster sang like heaven. 

There was a pause. 

“Done,” It repeated, dropping to a whisper. Its voice cracked and broke this time, rasping. There was a horrible sorrow and anger in the lines of its beautiful face. “For now." Its voice rasped, suddenly, went rough-edged like it was talking around something blocking its throat. "Until the next, and the next, and the next…” 

When it looked to the window, towards the sunset, the light glimmered along trails of shimmering wetness that ran down its cheek. Its body shook, and it dropped its head into its hands, letting out a wretched, shuddering sob.

He’d seen this thing murder his real father, sing him into the pond in the garden and then rip out his throat and stain the water red while Ford had watched, unseen, his own hands clamped tight over his mouth beneath his wide, nearly bulging eyes. He had been screaming, desperately muffling the sound, until he’d run for his mother, and discovered that she… she wasn’t the same either, anymore.

She hadn't died for years after, but really she had been mostly dead already, as soon as his real father was. 

Once the monster sang to you, he took whatever he wanted of you away, and only left what was useful for the family. Which just meant useful for Lord Wentworth, which Ford’s real father hadn't been any longer.

The monster had taken from Ford’s mother even the memory of his true father. No one had cared enough to bother to take it from Ford, or Nathalie. No one listened when they insisted their father was someone else, someone no one in the house even knew had ever existed any longer. The twins had only been babies, and they wouldn’t remember anyway.

Weeping or not, it wasn’t a person, and Ford steeled himself against how much it hurt to watch the thing cry. It might weep like a man, and look like one, but Ford had seen it kill on command.

The creature turned away toward the window, its back now to the children spying on it from the doorway. Ford and Nathalie both inhaled sharply as the robe it wore slipped a little, dipping low enough to show that it was bleeding.

Ford felt something cold and shivery-sick dip in his stomach as he saw stripes of torn-open skin smeared in a horrible too-bright red just above its shoulder blades and down its back, disappearing beneath the shining black satin, only to still show through in spots here and there that seemed to stick to its skin. The blue robe turned the blood soaking through it purple, a sickly color that made Ford think he might be sick all over the floor.

There was-

There was so much blood.

Ford’s throat suddenly felt like it might close all on its own, and he jerked in a hissed breath. He felt sick just looking at it, too bright and too red. His stomach flipped and twisted, his heart racing its way up his throat as if it might come flying out his mouth. 

There was blood on the floor, spattered on the wall by the window. It looked like a murder had been done, and yet Lord Fellswooth and the monster had been alone, and only the monster wore wounds.

What had Lord Fellswooth done to it? 

Fellswooth had lifted his upper lip in a sneer just looking at how dusty Ford had been when he’d returned from the afternoon ride on his favorite horse. He’d run fingers over the washbasin stand checking for specks of dust Mr. Keller and the other servants might have missed. He’d shuddered just walking in the front door when the stable boy’s wolfhound had tried to lick at his palm.

What sort of man who could be so fussy as all that could tear the monster’s back to shreds and simply leave his blood running down his body to drip to the floor as he stood by the window?

How badly must all those wounds hurt? 

Not that Ford cared, or anything. It was a murderous monster creature his false father used to enthrall and get what he wanted out of everyone who came near him. It wasn’t even human, it spent almost all its time in water hiding under the surface, coming out only when Lord Wentworth summoned it. Ford didn’t care about it at all.

But…

But that didn’t mean he thought it should bleed like that.

Even monstrous animals were only animals, after all, and this might be a creature of murder but did it need to suffer for that? For someone else's fun?

The monster, standing before the window staring out at the setting sun, began to sing to itself. Unlike the song they’d heard before when it was alone with Lord Fellswooth, this song was neither strident nor even very loud - it was a private song, one it sang only for itself. Its perfect voice did not swell or even rise much. Instead, each note seemed like a sidestep to the last, a winding staircase of melody that it wrapped around itself like a kind of blanket. 

Ford caught his breath, listening. He could almost hear where a harmony should be, if there had been more of those… things… singing at once. Maybe this had been a song it sang with its own family, if it had had one. 

Did monsters have mothers, like men did? They must. Everything living had a mother at one point or another, didn’t it? 

The song was his pain, Ford realized. Winding and circling itself, neverending, a river even monsters would drown in when they never found shore. It was the creature's way of crying, beyond human tears. It wept, by the window, in a way that stole Ford's breath and made him want to weep alongside it.

“He’s so pretty,” Nathalie breathed, just beside him, her own wide eyes shining with tears. Her voice was too loud but his own felt too caught in his throat to shush her again. “He’s so pretty, Ford, isn’t he?”

The monster’s voice cut off all at once.

It spun around to see the two children who had - without realizing it - leaned further and slid the door a little more open. Ford’s heart dropped to his knees as those fathomless dark eyes locked on his. He and Nathalie both gasped as they fell under the thing's direct regard.

“Oh, no,” He whispered. "Nathalie-"

The monster opened its mouth in a snarl as it pulled its robe so tightly around itself nearly none of its skin could be seen any longer. Ford and Nathalie both froze at the sight of row after row of razor-sharp pointed teeth as it bared them.

“Go!” It snapped, in a voice that was not human, that spoke the human tongue in a roar and with a mouth not made for it. “Go away from me! Now!"

Ford's heart was in his throat "We're-... w-we're sorry-"

"Fear the monster your father keeps more than death itself and get away from me!”

The last was a shrieking command, not a song but a singular deafening note. Ford felt himself turning before he could even breathe. The command took effortless hold and he grabbed Nathalie's hand.

Get away from me.

The children could never have done anything but obey.

They fled shouting their fear of the monster, half-falling down the stairs and racing outside until Mr. Keller, who had seen Fellswooth off, caught them in his arms. Both of them burst into tears, there, while the stableboy and the groomsman stared surreptitiously in confusion. Mr. Keller held them, and shushed them, and finally took them to the stables in the hopes that he could calm their tears before Lord Wentworth overheard.

Inside, Guilford Wentworth’s monster sagged and then sank to the floor, his knees simply giving way until they touched the rug beneath him. He bent over until his forehead brushed the fibrous cloth, and he wept again.

This time, he wept in silence. 

-

Taglist: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee@angelsproject

[distracted-obsessions]

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

"Did you find them?"

"Find who?"

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

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

[rosieposey-torturedpoet]

Okay, so this is really random: but I see a lot of like 'inexperienced' Whumpees who are the weakest/youngest out of the group

But like what if the youngest is the one everyone fears, I mean they're in the group for a reason

Picture this very specific scenario: The team is captured by Whumper and they are all taken to the same room, chained up to keep them from running or trying anything: and here comes Whumpee (a teenager that's like half the size of everyone in the room) with these insanely complicated locks, maybe they're wearing a straight jacket, with multiple guards while the rest of the team got one or two

Because if you think about it, younger people would have to work harder to prove their strength and 'worth' to the team. There has to be a reason for them to stay on the team

However my personal favorite of this trope is that the youngest is just so unpredictable; not only are they talented/wise beyond their years but you truly never know what they'll do next with all the talent they harbor

Maybe Whumper hates them because at least he can fall into this rythme with the rest of the team and learn their habits: but he physically can't do that for youngest because there is no routine or habit to fall back onto

Maybe they mastered a rare magic form at a young age, or were trained as a soldier

Then think of the CARETAKING OPPROTUNITIES?? A parental Caretaker that shows Whumpee what it's like to be a kid, who worry about they're little reckless living death wish 24/7, and give them a mom/dad that they deserve

I just love young, anti-hero, vigilante Whumpees who have seen so much and learned so many things at such a young age, to the point where they are constantly on the verge of villain because of their genuine desensitization to it all

Which causes everyone to be at least a little afraid of youngest, in some sense of the word

[whumperer-86]

Sorry !! I've been away for a while now I'm back to post new whump

The Fiery Priest S02EP01

Fainted, Collapsed, Drug overdose from bullies

[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.

[paingoes]

Crash Out - Sabina

hi. this one is pretty dark. heres some backstory on paris’s parents. it’s about forced marriage and offscreen/implied forced pregnancy and rape. nothing sexually explicit is depicted, just implied. heavy overtones of domestic violence as well.

(Content: abduction, lady whump, forced marriage, physical abuse, familial whump, royal whump, intimate whumper, defiant whumpee, domestic violence, starvation, referenced child endangerment, implied noncon, suicide, poisoning, death, unhappy ending)

“Oh shit,” Paris sat up in the passenger seat, pushing the sunglasses up off his eyes. “I’ve been here before.”

The city below glowed in the early morning light, pale and crystalline. The glass spires jutted out from the soft grass. It looked cold, somehow. Twinkling. Lorelai had never seen a town look so fragile. She’d have never thought to describe one that way if she had not seen it herself.

“What?” she asked. “On conquest?”

“No,” he answered huffily, as if this were an unreasonable assumption to make.

“With my mom,” he explained, looking off into the middle distance. “Her family’s from here.”

Lorelai slid out of the car, slamming the door shut behind her. He followed her out, down the smooth stones that made up the pathway into the city center. 

It was a pleasantly cool day, but the architecture made the whole scene feel wintery. She imagined that she was entering into a kingdom of ice. She remembered Thales, how cold it had been on the night of the ball. As she slipped her hand into Paris’s own — the non-dominant, the less injured one — she felt the same chill. It wasn’t all unpleasant. There was a beauty to it.

 All it had to be was a supply run. The imperial currency was standardized, good enough for all the planets in its territory. The further out they got, the more open the locals became to haggling. She leaned forward against the counter of the fruit stand. The vendors liked her. Everyone always liked her.

After a while of staring off into the hillside, Paris propped one arm against the barrel.

“You know where I can find a Selene Lucia?” he asked them.

They were nice enough to draw up a map, the pencil carving a path up into the hills. No exact address, but Paris swore he’d know it when he saw it. By her estimate, if he’d come with his mother, he hadn’t been here since he was seven years old.

The pale buildings petered out on the climb, the houses became sparser, more residential. In time, he really did abandon the map, working purely off the distant memory. 

The trees shaded the sidewalk. She traced her fingers along the black fence that divided the path from the lawns, listening to the pleasant vibration it made in her fingers. The leaf canopy cleared for a split second as they passed another gate.

“This is it,” Paris said abruptly. He stared at it dumbfounded.

“You think she still lives here?” Lorelai asked, frowning.

“Don’t see why not.”

Neither of them moved.

“Are you coming?” he asked. It seemed like he already knew the answer.

“…If you want,” she offered. He shook his head. The one and only time she had met his father, it hadn’t gone well. She didn’t want much to do with his family.

“Call me if you need help,” he said as he pushed the gate open.

“You too.” She nodded, heading back down the hill. The sun was higher in the sky now. The city reflected it straight into her eyes, nearly blinding her.

~

“Oh, god,” Selene Lucia said as soon as she opened the door.

“Hi,” Paris said, pleasantly surprised to even be recognized. 

She pulled him into the house, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Are you being followed?” she asked.

“Uh, no, ma’am. Don’t think so. Not now.” Paris ran one hand through his hair.

“What are you doing here?” She narrowed her eyes. Her face had creased from years of that same, skeptical motion.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, “I was in the area. I just wanted to stop by.”

He needed to do laundry, too. He decided not to mention that now.

Selene sighed. There was some relief there, he could tell. Maybe she thought he’d come asking for more. 

He looked around at the house. It was smaller than he remembered, but still nice. Light filtered in through the sheer curtains.

She led him into the violet-colored kitchen, the dark sharpness of him clashing against the scene. She’d been working when he knocked — and this she resumed. He leaned back against the counter, rocking gently against it, watching the knife cut thin lines through the stalks.

“Do you need me to do anything?” he offered. She shook her head. He shrugged, looking back down at the linoleum.

“You’re wanted in five hundred different territories,” she said.

Five hundred sixty one.

“Yeah,” he said, not looking up. For some reason, he hadn’t thought that’d be her first reaction. 

“It’s your father’s fault, you know. Leaving everything in the air like that. It wouldn’t have happened if he-“

“-if he believed he could die?” Paris finished. He’d had the same thought, a million times over.

She made a soft and exasperated sound — and said nothing else.

“You didn’t…call or anything. After he died,” he said tentatively. 

“We had no contact,” Selene said.

“My phone number is public record,” Paris said, not hiding the hurt in his voice. He leaned forward, his arms crossed over his midsection. She didn’t turn to look at him.

“I don’t know why you’d expect that from me,” she said.

“I didn’t.” He shrugged. “I just…I don’t know. It would’ve been nice.”

“Would it?” She asked, turning now.

He frowned. What was he supposed to say to that? He hadn’t even realized he wanted it until he entered the house. It hadn’t occurred to him at all.

“I don’t know why you didn’t,” he said. “You didn’t call me when she died, either. You didn’t reach out at all.”

She seemed to lose her resolve then. She signed, nodding her head in the direction of the kitchen table. He sat down where indicated. The whorls of wood grain stared back up at him. Their shapes had mesmerized him when he was little.

“Is ginger tea fine?” She asked as she lit the last of the stove’s burners.

“Yes, ma’am.” He agreed, though he knew he wouldn’t drink it. He tried not to drink from any open containers — and he watched her hands carefully as she prepared it, wary of pills, wary of poison.

She placed two pale yellow teacups down on the table. Powder blue chinoiserie decorated the edges of the saucers. Steam floated delicately off the golden surface of the water.

“Do you know how your parents met, Paris?”

~

On a morning wet with dewdrops, Selene and Sabina tread happily through the underbrush. The sky was pale and overcast, but the sweaters their mother had knit for them kept them warm and comfortable. Sabina picked at the roses and the sweet briar that bloomed out of the damp earth. Twin blonde braids fell down her back. They were stained with mud at the edges when she’d bent down to touch the grass.

Selene watched the skies with a kind of dormant worry. There was something she was always waiting for, but never really expected. But it had come anyway. It had landed last month.

There was a place the land crested, the point at which the forest gave way to the clear valley. When they were little, they had dragged their sleds out to it on snowy days and laughed as they flew down the hill.

With the easy familiarity of someone who had walked this path since birth, Sabina moved to the top of the ridge. She was startled to find that in the valley below, a large ship was parked. It was more expensive than anything she’d ever laid her eyes on.

All dressed in scarlet against the verdant grass, a man stood tall and impervious. For a split second, his eyes fell on her. And that was all he needed.

~

The Emperor arrived in fine robes, in the middle of town, all his footmen swarming in droves about him. His color was pale, in a way that is supernatural. Not at all sickly. He was in good health. 

In the market, Selene crowded closer to the exit, while all Sabina seemed to want to do was stand her ground. The Emperor fixed his eyes on her, matching her boldness. His hands didn’t shake the way hers did, but the length of her was all resistance.

He liked it.

“Briar Rose,” he said, sing-song, “Was that you in the canyon the other day?”

Unbelievably, his hand moved to trace her braids. She smacked it away, teeth bared, furious.

“Go fuck yourself,” Sabina hissed. 

All she got in return was a chuckle. It was the sound birds made when the bullet missed their heart.

~

The knock came in the middle of the night, with only Selene up to answer it. She peeked through the curtain, and immediately drew far back, down onto the carpet.

“Daddy,” she cried, in a pitch she had not reached since childhood. 

He came instantly and sent her back to her room, far from the thin door that separated their house from nightfall. But her room was right by the entrance. She pressed her ear to the ground to listen.

“Would you accept a dowry?” came the low drawl of the Emperor. “For the youngest. The blonde one.”

“She is my daughter,” Father’s voice came out wrathful in return. “You can take the rest of the world - god knows you already have - but you will not touch her.”

“I would take good care of all of you,” he promised. “I don’t mean to distress her. I think it’d be best if we were all on the same page about this.”

Milky, sick. Selene cried until she couldn’t breathe, then cried more. Sabina slept in the next room, fast asleep, unknowing.

~

Roses. There were thousands of them, clogging up the yard, on each surface of the porch. Roses, roses, roses. The scent was overpowering. It was like something out of a nightmare. When she moved to open the door that morning, Sabina met a stiff resistance. That was thick the petals were stacked.

They came with a note. Father snatched it away before Selene could read, but Sabina had seen it.

She heard her sister crying down the hall. She watched it through a crack in the door.

“I don’t wanna go,” Sabina sobbed, “Mama, I don’t wanna go, please.”

She hid her face in the fabric of their mother’s dress, bent over on the floor, inconsolable. Already flinching away from any touch.

~

“You will come quietly,” the Emperor said, “Or you will come in chains. It makes no difference to me.”

Sabina swung at him as if she could knock his head straight off. It took five men to drag her off in those glistening, golden chains. She was soaked with sweat and tears, an awful slickness, a thrashing.

~

Castle Thales was dark in wintertime — and to her starved body, each room was freezing. Each door had a lock — and she had no keys.

He left her in her own bedroom the first nights. Locked up there, hands bound, until she was ready to *calm down*. He’d thought it would take days. It ended up taking months. It was only when the food stopped that she became handleable.

Sabina glared daggers at him. Her hands shook too much to hold utensils. He thought it was from fear, but it was all just fury. 

She dreamt of killing him nightly.

~

“It won’t be as bad as you think,” Constantine promised her as he lifted the veil. “It does not have to be this hard. You make it this way.”

She glared and glared and glared and flinched as his hand traced her bare arm. She was too pale now. She’d been locked away from the sun for too long. Now her skin was as white as the ripped wedding dress.

“You’re a queen now,” he said, like it comes as an assurance. She wanted nothing more than to beat him until he stopped breathing.

“You could have all you ever dreamed of,” he said. He doesn’t know her at all. Tears formed in her eyes before she could stop them. He moved to wipe them away for her. She bit into his hand as hard as she could and grinned when she drew blood. It was the first time she’d smiled in months.

~

She was slapped violently for that, which surprised her, because up to this point he had seemed so hesitant to hit her in the face. He threatened to yank all her teeth out, replace them with dentures, and take them out whenever he decided she’d lost the privilege. 

This seemed unattractive, which gave her reason to doubt the threat. But she could not call his bluff, so she stopped biting.

One of his men whipped her back until it was bloody. She hated it. She reveled in it. She was making him so mad. 

She cried as the maids worked to cover the bruises, the skin still tender even at the soft touch of the brushes. The crying wet her face. They had to keep restarting.

There was no need to cover up the whip marks. The corset did it all on its own — coarse, scratching, irritating the unhealed skin. The maids undid her long braids. Her hair reached all the way to her waist now. 

She reached out for the scissors on the vanity and cut it all off.

~

He was mad he couldn’t pull her hair anymore. He could bunch it up by her scalp, but it wasn’t the same. His was a cold anger. He probably liked to think of it as controlled. He loved to think of himself as controlled.

“It looks good on you, darling,” Nezu said over dinner, just to piss them both off. Sabina made a gagging sound in the back of her throat. She reached for the unused knife by her right napkin and wields it menacingly. As menacingly as she could manage, which turned out to be a lot.

Nezu looked excited at the prospect of getting stabbed by her. In disgust, she put the knife back down.

“Picked a good one,” he said approvingly, just as soon as the Emperor rejoined them.

~

“Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” Sabina held the saber in both hands. It was decorative, plucked straight off the wall, but it still held an edge. It could still kill. She meant to. She really meant to.

“You are unwell,” Constantine said. “You don’t know what’s good for you. You don’t know when to quit.”

She lunged at him. He gasped and darted away. She’d only missed him by an inch. She howled in frustration.

If they’d trained her, she’d have been a brilliant fighter. But they hadn’t. And she wasn’t. She left all of herself exposed for the next lunge — and he downed her.

“I’ll kill you,” she swore, with his hands wrapped tight around her throat. “If it’s the last thing I do, I swear, I’ll kill you”

“Sabina,” he cooed sadly. “Rose. All I want is for you to be happy.”

“I want you to fucking die,” she sobbed. 

It was a final hurrah, one last gift to herself. When the sobbing died down, there was nothing else left.

~

The baby came a year later. He’d stopped hitting her while she was pregnant. She did not know if this was temperance, or if it was merely because she’d stopped fighting. They’d both been reluctant to resume the old routine. The baby changed things. It was soft, pliant. So easy to break. Sabina cried when she held it for the first time, cried every day after that. It had kneaded at her chest, half-blind, sleepy. It didn’t know anything.

“Constantine?” She said softly as he swapped out the bandages. The Emperor up in surprise. She so rarely used his name. 

But when he did look, she didn’t know what else to say. The terror must have shown through her. She felt all her body was wretched, torn apart, aching. She couldn’t take anymore.

He seemed to recognize this. He never hit her again.

~

Years passed before she saw her family again. When her son is five years old, she brought him back to that porcelain city, back to her parent’s old house. Both of them dead now, the million wars ravaging even when she cannot see them. She didn’t get to go to the funeral.

She’s stopped crying so much at this point. There’s a dignity to her, one she’s managed to scrape up off the floor of the palace. She was the tough one. She always had been.

She sat up in her sister’s kitchen, drinking ginger tea, manicured nails tapping softly at the porcelain cup. Selene sat across from her, pale, as if she’d seen a ghost.

~

They wrote letters after that. Constantine had agreed to it, perhaps sensing that his wife had no bone for conspiracy left within her. She was locked into it now, more than she ever had been before.

There’s a desperation to her script. God, she was so unhappy. Selene wrote back just as soon as the mail was delivered, sent it out the same day. It was all she could do. It never seemed to amount to much.

Sabina hinted at it. Selene swore she knew the end.

There’s a flower that grows in the garden of Castle Thales. It is indistinguishable from the heritage rose, but a single blossom could kill when ingested.

When they did the autopsy, they found fifteen of them in her stomach.

~

Paris stared back at her from across the table, totally frozen. The teacup sat in front of him cold and untouched.

“She died of sepsis,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word.

Selene looked at him with such pity that he thought he might be sick.

“She died of sepsis,” he repeated, “Slowly. In the hospital. She didn’t commit suicide.”

“Paris,” she said softly, “It took a week, didn’t it? Did you see her before the end?”

He propped one elbow up on the table and hid his face in his hand.

“I was at school,” he muttered. “She was already comatose when I got there. She died the next day.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

And of course she said it now, thirteen years later. She wasn’t there when it happened. Nobody was. There was absolutely nothing.

“You understand, surely,” Selene said, “why I was not so devastated to hear of your father’s death.”

There was still something so haunted in her look. He couldn’t bring himself to look up from the wood whorls. He didn’t even hear her standing up. He flinched at the sudden brush at his hand, gentle as it was. She tilted his face up as if to study him.

“God, you look just like her.”

The doorbell rang. Selene startled.

“I thought you said you were alone.”

“She’s my friend.” He stood up quickly. “She’s the only one.”

He opened the door. Lorelai stood cheerily on the step.

“Look what I got.” She grinned. She held up her hand at his eye level and let the necklace dangle from its chain. At its end, the rose charm shined in the dying light.

~

On an air mattress in the cleared out living room, they laid in a tangle of limbs. Lorelai’s breath was shallow, light, pleasantly exhausted. Paris traced the flesh of her breastbone, intent, almost like he was trying to find something. He had told her the whole story, in hushed tones, in the dark.

“I don’t want to get married,” he said quietly, at the end.

Lorelai laughed under her breath.

“Paris, we were never gonna get married.”

“Yeah, I know. I just…” he trailed off. “l don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

Oh, what a question. He shrugged.

“…I took you away from your family,” he said it hushed, as if it was confessional.

“Is that how you remember it?” She laughed again. “That’s not what it was. I wanted to go. I asked you first.”

“I just don’t want to hurt you,” he said, finishing the thought. What either of them thought when they first started out hardly mattered anymore. It seemed so far away now.

“Then don’t,” she said.

~

They left before the sun rose, trudging the long way, past all the grave sites.

“I guess it’s weird for me to keep this now,” Lorelai said as she studied the pendant.

“It’s just a necklace,” Paris shrugged. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

But they both knew it would always hold that weight.

The grass was frosty as if it had snowed. There was so much mist in the air. It was cool and refreshing. It was the perfect morning for it. 

They passed by another memorial site. Victims of the war that Empire was waged. An orator could list them all day and never run out of names. Paris paused to watch as Lorelai moved up the knoll and placed the pendant by the base of the stone. Not for Empire. Not for Rose. For Sabina.

~~~

tags:

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

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

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @whump-queen

[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

[oros-ash3s]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ── | “Proud” | ── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Cato (she/her)

TW: Death, descriptions of violence

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

Atlas was six-years-old when he killed for the first time. 

His hands shook as he walked into the brightly-lit arena. It expanded out in front of him, lights blinding him as he stepped out of the shadows, his one solace through it all. The room was wide and circular; the ground uneven and jagged, smeared with dirt, grime, and deep crimson stains that were too familiar for Atlas’ liking. Tall pillars lined the two entrances that were opposite to each other, shadows masking the other trainees that were all waiting in an orderly row for their turn. The walls were made out of a similar jagged rock material that the floor was, the same dark red splatters marring the surface. Reaching high up near the domed ceiling was the only window in the room: a dark, tinted glass with splatters of blood near the rim, showcasing a group of shadowy figures that Atlas knew belonged to the generals and other high-ranking officers, overseeing training. 

He could feel their gazes burning into the side of his head. They were piercing into him; calculating, scanning, scrutinizing. Picking out his worst insecurities, his weaknesses. Analyzing his every movement. He pulled his shoulders back, tipping his head up high, straightening his back. That’s what he was supposed to do. Make yourself look confident. Make yourself look strong. Capable. 

But despite the words repeating in his head, he didn’t feel strong. His entire body was shivering, and he knew it wasn’t just from the bite of the cool air. No, he felt…. He felt scared. 

He didn’t like it down here. He really, really didn’t like it down here. He had never even been to the lower levels of the warehouse before. He was never allowed. He had been at Eden for a few months already, but in all his time here, he hadn’t been around more than two or three people. They were all nice. They gave him whatever he wanted: food, snacks, blankets, books. Atlas didn’t understand any of the words, but he liked feeling the pages while the grown-ups did their work. Some of the books had a rough, almost scratchy feel to it, while others were shiny and sleek. Feeling along the material of the pages would entertain Atlas for days. 

Everything inside Eden had seemed like that — with the bright lights, sparkling clean metal surfaces everywhere he looked, and long, winding hallways that went on forever; everything was so new and fresh and awesome. Not at all like before. Here he had a bed and fresh food and anything he could ever want. He was warm and cared for and safe. 

Safe. 

He repeated the word like a mantra, mouthing it silently to himself, as he stepped fully into the arena. He was safe. Even with the scary commanding officers glaring down at him, and the dark, coldness of the room, and the hushed whispers of the others behind him, like pricks against his neck, he was still safe. Eden would always be safe. They were kind. They would never hurt him. 

From across the room, his opponent appeared, slow and careful. It was a girl, small as him, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, fair like wheat, skin pale and marked by freckles. In her hands she carried a long metal rod with two blades attached to the tips. Atlas wasn’t sure what it was called. The training officer had listed the names of each of the weapons they would be supplied during each of their training sessions, and he’d tried so hard to memorize them like he was supposed to, but now for some reason, his usually excellent memory was failing him. The blade in his hands shook, his grip unsteady. What was it called? A…. danger? No, that wasn’t right. A da— 

Dagger, a voice in the back of his mind supplied helpfully. Right. That’s what it was. A dagger. 

He dug his fingernails tighter around the dagger, taking short, even breaths to calm himself. Like he had been taught. Training was simple. This wasn’t scary. This was going to be fine. He just had to do what he was told. He could do that, he could do that just fine. 

Just do as you are told. 

The girl from across him watched him warily, not yet moving from the edge of the entrance. The weapon looked to be far too big and heavy for her tiny hands; she had her weapon lowered to the ground, arms tired. Not like Atlas, his small dagger light and fitting perfectly in his palms — almost like it was meant to be there. He planted his feet, holding it in front of him stiffly, fear still coursing through his veins no matter how much he told himself this was all safe. 

The two of them seemed to be locked in some sort of silent standoff, both waiting for the other to make the first move, and both too stubborn to cave. The seconds ticked by slow as ever, as both stared each other down, still not daring to go. The girl dug her feet into the uneven ground, narrowing her brows at him. She was almost taunting him now, giving an unspoken, come and get me. Atlas shifted his weight from one foot to the other, eyes glancing momentarily to where all the officers stood, still observing. Should he attack…? Making the first move was scary; they were far apart, she’d have more time to come up with a plan. But, with her planted stance, Atlas also noticed that her weapon was now wedged in between her feet, too heavy for her to hold any longer. 

Now’s your chance, her voice echoed in his head. Take it. 

Holding the dagger close to his side, he charged. 

His mind was a whirlwind of rapid, panicked thoughts as he closed the distance between him and his opponent. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, if this was what he was supposed to be doing, but there was no turning back now. 

Listen to your gut. He could hear her in the back of his mind, guiding him through it all, and that was all he needed. Just do as she would. Do as she would, and he’d be safe. He’d win. 

The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of her opponent barreling towards her and she sloppily tried to pull up her weapon again, but Atlas was too fast. He kicked at her, foot knocking loose the weapon from her hands, sending it flying to the side. It clattered to the ground, rolling away from her reach. She turned towards it, moving to retrieve it, and Atlas took advantage of the distraction. He lashed out, grabbing her by her ponytail and tugging her back. She tumbled down and he jumped on top of her, digging his fingers into her hair and tugging, thick chunks coming loose, spilling out around them. She screamed in pain, writhing to get out of his hold, but even then he did not let up. He brought a fist down, just like he’d been taught, whacking her hard against the side of the head. Then again. And again. And again. His knuckles were hurting now, little spasms of pain shooting through his hand for every hit, but he didn’t care.

Don’t hesitate. Finish the job. 

He brought his arm up again, his fingers tightening around the dagger, raising it high into the air. 

He slammed the dagger down fast. 

And just like that, in only mere seconds, it was over. The blade stabbed into the girl’s neck and at once all her attempts to get away from him were gone. The hands clawing at his arms fell limp, her mouth parting into a wide, shocked “O” as she gasped. Her eyes bulged, as big as saucers, as if they were trying to pop out of her head. Tears that Atlas had not been able to notice in the struggle streamed down her face, trickling down to sides of her cheeks. Her desperate, darting gaze locked on his, and for a moment, it was as if she and Atlas were the only people in the room. For a moment, it was as if the officers were not still glaring into them, ready to punish any misbehaviour, as if the others weren’t gathered in the darkness, leaning forwards in wonder at the sight in front of them, whispering and trembling. It was as if, for a second, it was just him and the girl with big, round blue eyes, lying on the ground, and nothing else mattered. For a second, there was only them. 

The moment ended just as fast as it had came. 

Atlas ripped the dagger from out of her neck, the action sharp and intense, just like he’d been taught. The girl made a deep, horrific gurgling sound from the back of her throat, blood bubbling between her lips, as a stream of red shot up from where the knife had been only a second ago, splattering against Atlas in a harsh gush. 

Atlas yelped, scrambling back off of her in a frenzy. His heart beat fast in his chest, so hard he was sure it was going to leap out of his own skin. Blood rushed in his ears, loud and disorienting. The dagger fell from his grasp, skittering across the ground with an awful screeching noise. He scrubbed at his face, eyes darting around wildly, searching for the one person he had been most desperate to please. Did I do it right? Did I do it like I was supposed to?

There was no one there. No one, besides the hundreds of eyes burning into his skin, trapping him in place. No, no, no. He didn’t like this. Wasn’t he supposed to like this? Why didn’t he like this? Where was… Where was she? He needed her. He needed her to tell him he did it right. He needed her to reassure him. He needed her to tell him he was safe. That this was good. He needed—

The girl wasn’t getting up. She wasn’t moving at all. The bright red fountain of liquid was spilling from her neck, staining everything in sight, and she was twitching, making these horrible, terrible, groaning sounds, but she was not getting up. She was not getting up. Why wasn’t she getting up? 

Atlas choked, taking spluttering, gasping breaths. This was all wrong. This was all wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Why wasn’t she getting up? She was supposed to get up. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. He wanted to go upstairs, he wanted to go back to his room. He liked his bed. He liked sleeping in it. He liked the long winding hallways that he could run down as much as he wanted. He liked the smiling grown-ups. He liked going on walks. He liked how shiny and clean everything was. He liked his new books.  

He did not like this. 

The red stuff was sticking to him. His face, his hands, his clothes. It was all over. No, no, no. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He didn’t want to. He clawed at his skin, desperately trying to get it off. Get off. He needed it off, right now. He didn’t want to do this. He wanted to go back. He wanted—

Sudden hands gripped him, spinning him around and tearing his gaze away from the twitching girl on the ground. He made a desperate attempt to shove them away, to wriggle free and run — he needed to run, run back to safety — but the hands only held him tighter. 

“Atlas,” a voice breathed, soft and careful. He found himself staring at not the foreign face of one of the training officers, but instead the smiling face of a woman with mismatching eyes, one a dark, smooth brown, and one the palest, icy blue Atlas had ever seen, starkly contrasting against the other. 

Cato. 

It was only Cato. 

Cato was safe. Everything was going to be okay. Cato was here. Cato would never hurt him. 

“Atlas,” she said, voice even and gentle. “Oh, Atlas.” 

He gasped for air, grunting and wheezing as the words he wished he could tell her failed to form. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again, and still as he willed himself to speak, nothing could come out. 

This is all wrong, he wanted to scream. This was all very wrong. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He didn’t want to be down here. He didn’t like this. There was red stuff on him and a twitching girl on the ground and everyone was watching him—

Cato pushed down his flailing arms, moving to cup his face, turning it away again from the body on the ground, forcing him to stare into her eyes. He had thought they were scary, at first — the harsh, coldness of the blue, so unnatural — but right now, nothing had ever felt more soothing. It was familiar, something that dulled the panic of his mind, for only a second. Something he could rely on, pushing away the bad thoughts. 

“Oh Atlas,” Cato whispered, her eyes bright with excitement, thumb rubbing calming circles along his cheek, smearing the blood there. “Atlas, you were magnificent.” 

Magnificent. He hadn’t heard that word before. Was this good? Did he do good? Was this what she had wanted?

“That was wonderful, Atlas, truly wonderful.” She said, continuing with a tone of such reverence that stopped Atlas short in his panic, despite not knowing what exactly those words meant.

“Wuh…” He mumbled. “W—“ 

Cato smoothed down his red-streaked hair. “Yes, wonderful. That means good. Oh Atlas, you did so good.” She fixed him with the widest smile he had ever seen, and suddenly, the twitching girl on the ground didn’t seem to matter anymore. Nor did the officers still watching over him, or the kids gathered in a row at each entrance. No, only Cato. 

He did good. He was good. 

“You’re even better than I thought.” Cato said in the same hushed voice, talking faster than she ever had before, eyes still shining bright in a way that made the fear fluttering inside Atlas’ stomach dissipate. “You’re… you’re a natural. Oh Atlas, this is perfect. You’re truly perfect.” 

She brushed the bangs out of his face, smiling warmly at him. Her face was only inches away now, so close that Atlas may have once flinched and ran free. But not now, not with the look on Cato’s face, so fond and tender. “I’m so proud of you, Atlas.” 

She pulled him into a tight embrace, and Atlas let himself be held tight, his face pressed into her shoulder. He brought his arms up, wrapping around her, his crimson-coated, trembling hands holding onto her with all their might. Proud. He’d made her proud. 

Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

masterlist ||

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

taglist || @seastarblue @vesanal @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @bioniclechronicles @lancedoncrimsonwings @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @whump-till-ya-jump @sharkblizzardblogs @scoundrelwithboba @corinneglass

★ Send me an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ★

[firapolemos05]

Whumpuary 2025

Day 1 Sacrifice

Day 19 "Let them go!"

CW: abduction, self sacrifice, dragon whumpee, lady whumper, sadistic whumper, caretaker turned whumpee, hostage situation, threats of harm and death to minors, past child abuse, broken bones, magical whump, dragged behind a wagon, collars, muzzles

Gahvon (they/he)

Scarlet (she/her)

Static prickled over the back of his neck and Gahvonedwiin froze where he stood, the sensation biting deeper than any of the snow choked wind. His magic flared, a warning screaming over the back of his mind.

Intruder! Intruder! Intruder!

The axe dropped from his hands, chopped firewood forgotten.

The children were playing in the yard. Bundled in wools and tossing packed balls of snow at each other.

No one had screamed yet.

Powerful wings lifted him to the air as bones shifted, muscles enlarged, scales replaced skin and more teeth filled his jaws. Treetops sped past below as the dragon raced above, the force of his tailwind clearing their branches of white. The little cabin they all called home wasn't far, a shape in the pale mist that hung over. Whoever dared to trespass upon their sanctuary, Gahvon intended to make them pay.

The house came into view, and their eyes immediately found the kids. They crowded together by the front door, Zvonko and Ashryn a defensive barricade protecting the younger ones. All twelve accounted for.

Why weren't they inside? The door should've be open.

There's a stranger standing in the yard, the woman's red hair a splash of blood against the white snow.

As Gahvon approached, her head turned slightly to face them.

Most people who've faced the dragon’s anger had run screaming. Others reached for weapons, a fear-laced curse leaving their mouths.

This woman grinned. Sharp and calculated. She was alone, and no weapons laid in her hands.

With that simple gesture, Gahvon knew they could not let her leave here alive.

When the children noticed him, their relief wrote itself onto their faces. 

“See? Tío Gahvon is here!”

“Yeah, if you don't leave, he's gonna kick your butt!”

Their faith in him was nice, but he needed them to get back inside.

The beat of his wings kicked up snowdrifts, small clouds of powder whirling into the air as his talons dug into the earth. With small quakes shaking the ground with each step, Gahvon positioned himself between the children and this… this…

What was she? The woman looked Elven, but her scent wasn't right. It was something completely different and unfamiliar. Changeling? No, not that either, Gahvon didn't sense any trace of fae.

She did, however, smell of potent magic. 

“Who are you?” The storm of metal in their chest laced a grate into their voice. The emeralds in their eyes flared, an aura howling with intent to overwhelm. “These are my lands, and you were not invited.”

There should've been at least some reaction to the threat display. A twitch of an eye. A shift in posture. 

The challenge in this woman's gaze was unyielding. “So you're the one who's been hoarding stolen kids around this region.”

Clearly, she didn't feel obligated to answer their question. But her own made their spines bristle. Another hired hunter. “They were not stolen.”

“Yeah! Ujak Gahvon's been taking care of us!” That was Zvonko who shouted.

Twisting their head around, Gahvon turned to address the children. “All of you go inside. I will take care of this.”

“We can't, the door won't open!” Ashryn yanked on the handle to prove her point, and sure enough, it wouldn't budge. They couldn't see the runes of the arcane lock bespelled upon it like the dragon could. 

His glare shot back to the woman, her matching magic signature incriminating her. “Cancel your spell.”

“You wonder why I'm here, dragon? Surely you can take a guess. Even a creature like you cannot kidnap several children and get away with it.”

“I've done no such thing! They sought me out under their own will, and they are under my protection.”

“They do not belong to you, however. You're keeping them from their real families.”

“If a family to you is people who hurt or abandon their young, then they are not deserving.”

She scoffed, as if it was something funny. Like it was trivial that her kin treated their offspring with such contempt. “Is that the story they've been telling you? Come now, I thought dragons were smarter than that.” Oh he really didn't like this one. “Children lie all the time to try and escape discipline. Your little band of misfits are playing you for a fool.”

“Don't be presumptuous, mortal! I've walked this planet for centuries, I am well acquainted with how heinous your people can be to their own.”

“As am I. And by the look of your little hovel, you haven't been doing this for long.” She shot a disapproving look towards their stone house, the one he built himself. The stone a timetable of the original structure and recent additions for each new child he took under his wing. “Do you even have the slightest idea how to properly raise offspring not covered in scales or gorging themselves on small beasts?”

“Insult my intelligence again, mortal, and perhaps I'll gorge myself on a small beast.”

It wasn't normal for those just threatened with becoming food to laugh. “Oh you can certainly try. We could argue differing philosophies and child rearing until the sun rises next week. But I'd like to not waste anymore time. The children are coming with me.”

The magic surrounding her was too potent. The scent emanating from her too stagnant. The faint heartbeat in her chest too uniform. Nothing tugged at his mind to alert him to the song of a metal blade. Not once has she blinked or shifted her expression away from arrogance. Too much of the same. Like an automation attempting to act sapient.

Gahvon snarled. “Then you should show your true face and not some illusion, coward!” 

And as they anticipated, their jaws snapped onto empty air.

The red filling their vision, they did not expect. A burst of ruby dust, carried by crackling energy that enclosed upon the dragon like a translucent net. They pulled away from the fading spell, the torn visage of the woman's face still grinning, and their wings hit solidified force. Red-tinged barriers surround them, dust becoming script, magic materializing into a trap. A confinement. 

A cage.

Shit, if this was what they thought it was.

Their talons raked uselessly across the wards, their tail slammed into unrelenting walls, spikes leaving not even a single rune out of place. 

“Tío!”

The children were yelling, confidence having faltered. Hands pressed up and banging against the forcecage. 

“Get back!” he warned them, and the desperation in his voice must've been enough to make them understand the seriousness of the situation. 

Should he tell them to run and scatter? The mage appeared to be alone, but he didn't trust that assumption. If more were lying in wait outside the wards, dividing the kids may put them in more danger. He couldn't run to their aid while trapped. They had to stay where he could see them.

They sent their awareness seeking, senses honed to narrow in on the threat. Hearing. Smell. A real heartbeat. A real scent. The real sound of quiet footfalls coming from across the clearing. There!

A figure identical to the fake stepped out from the treeline.

They tugged at the weave of magic laid over the sanctuary. An extension of their own, seeping deep into the natural terrain and making it bend to their will. They invoked their intention. The space surrounding the woman thawed, snow melting into wet slush. The magic roiling frozen ground beneath like churned butter. Digging deep enough for the mud to swallow.

Then Gahvon roared.

A pulse of ferric matter erupted from the maelstrom of his ventriculus. A rolling mass of airborne iron particles that has sculpted each previous statue of foolish hunters. The mud stole their ability to evade and the particles would leech into their skin until they were nothing but a metallic meal. The forcecage would hold a while, but not forever. Gahvon would ensure nothing came to release the woman from the petrification, and once he could freely roam again, the metal that was once a body would satiate his hunger.

Her form emerged from the cloud.

For a brief moment, Gahvon thought his mind was playing a trick on him. Or perhaps another illusion. But no. The woman approached unhindered. Shiny black boots unblemished stepping over muck that should've buried her to the waist. Iron particles brushing off her clothing and skin as if they were but a harmless whorl of flower petals. 

What was this person?

Well fine. A fire began to build at the back of their throat. Even if they couldn't turn this mage into a metallic statue, they could certainly incinerate her with a shower of superheated sparks.

“You really think so?” she questioned

They paused. What did she mean? They hadn't said that thought out loud.

A flash of red and she vanished again and-

A scream.

Gahvon's head snapped to the side.

The children scrambled back as the woman apparated within their midst. A gloved hand snatching up little Xènia. Another levying a sleek dagger against the young girl’s neck.

The cage shook with the force of its captive throwing themself against it. The air shook with their bellow. “Get your hands off her!”

The others froze, flinching, so unused to hearing their caretaker raise his voice in such anger (Gahvon mentally cursed himself for frightening them). But the woman's smile grew, a knife splitting her face, a flash of fangs puny compared to his own but wielding all the power here.

“These little ones are important to you, aren't they.”

She backed him to a ledge and whatever laid below promised that death would be a mercy next to what it planned for him.

“Tio?” He'd never heard Xènia sound so small. “I'm scared.”

They couldn't do anything. 

“Here's what's going to happen,” the mage began, her audience captive. “If you wish for this girl to survive to see tomorrow, you will obey.”

Their talons and teeth were trapped in this cage with them. They could not use their breath weapon without Xènia getting caught in as well. Their youngest charge, how quickly she grew in her first five years of life. No way to fight or escape without jeopardizing her life. The others stood frozen in terror, their earlier defiance all but forgotten. 

“You will not kill her,” they said slowly. “Her family wouldn't allow you.”

The bluff didn't work. “You and I both know she's orphaned.”

They had no other options. 

“What do you want?”

Crimson eyes sang. “Return to your humanoid form.”

She allowed him a few short moments of hesitation, though whether it was a taunt or a sliver of mercy, he didn't know. Wouldn't bother asking. His body shrunk back into its skin, green eyes seething, claws threatening to cut into the palms of his hands.

Even in this form, he towered over the woman, and he would've allowed himself that small satisfaction if she looked any bit intimidated. But she didn't, and the satisfaction went to her for forcing the dragon to obey. If she thought he'd be weak in this body, she'll find herself sorely mistaken. Gahvon stretched out his wings, the walls of the forcecage no longer closing in.

Despite this smaller form, they were still a dragon. Still a being made of powerful magic. Still a threat not to be underestimated. They were not weak-

An object materialized into the air before them and dropped to their feet.

“Put that on.”

His boiling blood froze, dread clutching as his eyes roved over the straps and metal piece of the device. His senses immediately detected the averse magic laced within. Scraping at his aura like leaves of cinder nettle, he had to force himself not to retreat back to relieve the sting of its proximity. 

Reinviidost. Roar poison. Or Drake Scourge he's heard some humans call it. The surface of the chains and bars swirled with the tell-tale pattern of nullifying energy that's plagued dragonkind since its discovery. 

In the ancient eras of war between dragon and fae, countless weapons grown from that ore felled many great ancestors. Just as weapons of cold iron helped them slew wing and chitin. Death tainted its very nature, stained into the primal energy it produced.

What lay before him was worse than any weapon.

Dragons were not weak, but this substance denied fact.

“Are you hesitating, dragon?” the woman spoke in warning, and Xènia whimpered in her grip.

Gahvon snatched up the muzzle. 

Gods, even just touching the damn thing sent a wave of revulsion surging through them. An ancient wrongness leaching into their very soul. Instincts screamed for them to let go, to get as far away from it as possible. 

A dozen terrified pairs of eyes stared, and one waiting. 

They couldn't. 

They brought the loop of metal, the collar, up to their neck, the snap of its closure sealing their fate. A killing bite to prey's throat.

Gahvon's heard the stories, the tales of caution told by flight elders. They've dealt with egotistical monster hunters wielding those weapons, thinking just waving around that poison like a wyrmling’s flailing tail would be enough to make them drop dead. It wasn't until now they've ever truly felt the effects of Reinviidost. 

A choked gasp escaped his throat and he lost his bearings, dropping to his knees in the snow. A few of the children called out to him in alarm, but he could not answer over the agonizing cacophony of his magic being ravaged. It felt akin to acid in his bloodstream, a force tearing into each cell and ripping the fabric of his being apart. A crushing, consuming grip on the starfire that made his vitality. Like rupturing organs. The essence that had seeped from him into the surrounding lands tore asunder, severing him from the territory he'd made his home. The wards shattered and fizzled into nothing, the cloaking mist disappeared.

The collar sat tight, snug against their throat, a seamless transition from inorganic chain to their gunmetal scars. An unspoken threat. They could swear it was just waiting to squeeze, to crush. To coil, and constrict, and bite, and strangle, and crush, crush, crush.

(They shoved the memory away.)

He understood now the degree of danger he was in. Locked out of his magic, his senses dulled, not permitted to return to his true body. A gust of frigid wind crashed over his skin and he shivered against it.

“You're not done yet.”

He nearly snarled at her, but bit back the display when he laid eyes on the children again. 

Xènia, Leone, Estela, Justiñe, Irene, Tomé, Amílcar, Zvonko, Yasmine, Ashryn, Myrrh, Inkee.

They didn't look at the woman, only their kids. They hoped their expression conveyed how sorry they were. That they failed. That they couldn't prevent this from happening. 

But if giving themself up to this mage would keep the children, their children, from getting hurt, then so be it.

It was a collar and muzzle. If she intended to kill them, it would've been a weapon she brought and made them bloody their hands with their own. If she meant to weaken them before dealing the killing blow herself, a pair of manacles would've been sufficient. 

Collars denoted ownership.

Going after the children was a ploy. He'd been her true target. 

While his hands shook from the poison, he secured the rest of the straps around he head. Tight. The metal stinging against his face, digging into trapped jaws. Voice and breath now useless.

The forcecage dissipated around him. The woman stepped forward, still not releasing Xènia. Gahvon tried to stand, to regain some dignity, to avoid being looked down upon like a lowly animal. But her quick command made him pause, and then relent. Pride was not worth giving her an excuse to harm her hostage.

But oh how he hated how she looked at him. Like a prize. A trophy. A shiny trinket to add to a hoard.

“Hold out your hands,” she ordered. 

And he obeyed.

Mages were usually supposed to have a verbal or somatic component to their spellcasting. But Gahvon did not see her fingers or lips move before two twin glyphs encircled their presented wrists. Runes writing restraint and control.

They should've been able to feel its magic. To read arcane energy and intention in their very blood, sense its alteration of reality as easy as looking at a person's face. But beyond the runes, they picked up nothing.

“From this point on, dragon,” - the arcane cuffs pulse with each word - “you belong to me.”

So their intuition was correct. She meant to keep them alive for some purpose. That…that was fine. That was manageable. They would endure. They'd just bide their time. Certainly the mage will slip up at some point, underestimate them, have her hubris get the best of her. They'd find an opportunity at some point to-

The woman flung her hostage aside, the young girl falling hard into the snow with a yelp. Estela and Irene were close and rushed to her, holding Xènia close as she sobbed.

There was one moment, one fraction of a second, the woman's eyes left the dragon before her. One moment where he saw nothing but red. Muscles poised to attack, claws itching to rip.

Gahvon lunged.

He hated killing in front of the children, afraid of exposing them to such violent gore. They were not wyrmlings who needed to hunt or fight to survive. But this woman was dangerous and she needed to-

Mere centimeters from her face, an expression unchanged, the glyphs began to glow. An unseen force wrenched Gahvon back by his wrists, dragging him away. His back hit the ground, knocking the air from his lungs, wings splayed, arms pinned above him.

With the muzzle muffling their words, they did not hold back the slew of Draconic curses.

The glyphs locked in place, frozen in space and time, trapping the dragon's hands. No matter their struggles - as they were made to watch two masked figures lead a large carriage into the clearing (at least they were right about that), as the children were rounded up - they could not break the bindings.

“Where-. . .where are you taking us?” Leone stuttered, the young boy clinging onto the hand of his older sister. Her thin tail curled around his waist.

“You two are Leone and Irene Gismondi, is that right? Your father has been worried sick looking for you.” The siblings paled, and Gahvon recalled the vivid bruises both of them sported the day he found them. Their fear went disregarded. “Those of you stolen from your rightful homes will be returned of course. I'm sure your families will be very happy to have you back.”

“No!” Myrrh shouted, their ears folding downward. “No, I don't wanna go back! I wanna stay with Uncle!”

“Please! Let them go, they didn't kidnap anyone!”

“You hurt Tío and Xènia! Why should we listen to you?”

An uproar of protests sounded, the children voicing their pleas. Even those who weren't runaways, who never knew a family before here, who didn't have anywhere to return to. No one wanted to go, but their captors never had any intention of listening to them.

The two masked strangers spoke nothing but moved in sync.

Dark shapes peeled like skin off of the taller one, rising like lumbering undead into shadowy duplicates. The wisps of their bodies dissolved and reformed flanking the group, armed with pitch black blades. The shorter one muttered an incantation in a language Gahvon hadn't heard in centuries. Threads of white tied themselves around the children's hands, entwining, weaving, snaring them all into an arcane web. Their unanimous uproar broke into discordant quarrels, as the threads tugged everyone into each other, shoving and pulling. When the shadows advanced, an army of darkness in the minds of a frightened child, the flightful ones tried to run and forced everyone else to follow. 

Herded right to the perceived shelter of inside the carriage. 

“You will listen because you are children, and good children do as they're told.”

One by one, all twelve were packed into the vehicle. Squeezed in like a squirrel's hoard of nuts. Sniffles and quiet sobs, none made any further move to resist. Tear-filled eyes, hands reaching with silent pleas, were the final glimpses of them Gahvon saw before the door shut and locked.

He thrashed, pulling at his arms until the restraints cut his wrists, wings beating the ground whisking away snow, feet clawing up frozen dirt. Poison against his throat leeched away energy until his vision swam and muscles turned to lead. The spell had to have a limit. It had to have some weakness and he would find it. Reinviidost be damed. He would. He had to.

A shadow fell over him just as two more bands of magic locked around his ankles, forcing them still. Looming red eyes that reveled without words. Drinking in his fruitless struggles. 

Her smile hadn't dropped even a little since she got here.

Nothing but the same snide, condescending, enraging arrogance that made him yearn to rip her head off.

A strange pressure coiled around his leg, disregarding flesh and going straight for the bone. Each second it pulled tighter, a garrote, a heaviness that gnawed like a farm dog with its favorite hollowed cattle shin. He tried to pull away, the growing pain setting off all the warning bells. The glyphs held no sympathy for their prisoners. 

Crack!

Something sharp and hot shot up Gahvon's spine, but they forced themself to remain silent. Just a twitch of an eye and jaws clenched behind the muzzle. It was a minor break, it'd heal. They refused to give this woman the satisfaction of-.

Her hand moved, and the fibula joined the tibia in matching fractures.

They cut off the groan a fraction too late and a curse begged to leave their lips. They couldn't stop from squeezing their eyes shut, and that's likely why they didn't notice-.

A pressure took root in their upper thigh and crunched.

This time the wall wasn't strong enough to stand against the agony. It overtook. The woman was only satisfied with his screams after she broke his leg in three more places. When splintered ivory shards threatened to poke through skin. When the ringing in his ears was louder than the alarmed cries of worried children. 

“Are we going to have anymore problems, or do I need to move to the other leg?”

There was no chance she planned to give him space inside the wagon. No chance she'd planned to offer him room on the saddle of a horse he was taller than (not that the animals would even allow him close). There was only one way she expected him to follow. 

Gahvon shook his head.

The glyphs around his ankles vanished, but those around his wrists yanked again. They wrangled him until his bloody hands were trapped before the woman's boots, and the jostling to his leg made another cry break loose.

A hand grasped one of their horns to lift up their head, but the pain was too much a distraction for them to even register the insult. “I'm going to talk about some rules now, so I suggest you pay attention.” When the focus and clarity in their eyes was up to her standards, she continued. “You will be coming with me to my manor, where I will be giving orders you will definitely not enjoy. But you are going to obey, for should you not, both you and one of those little ones will face the consequences.”

They could not speak, but the glare they leveled at her must've spoken for itself, for she added. “The stolen ones are off limits of course, but mark my words when I say this; it is remarkably easy to make orphans disappear.” How could people be this callous? Any dragon would be shunned by their flight if they spoke that way about their child. “Now, have I made myself clear, or should I expect to make your newfound empty nest more literal?”

Why did she want them so much? What sort of plans did she have that would make her stoop this low?

Gahvon could not speak, so instead he lowered his head and the woman accepted the gesture of submission.

He will rescue his family someday. He will put these people in the ground so deep, even their awakened skeletons wouldn't be able to climb their way out.

Someday. 

But until then.

The shorter masked one waved a hand across the back of the carriage, and another glyph appeared. This one a dark green in contrast to the red encircling the dragon's wrists. Its runes wrote tether, and for a brief moment, he saw one flash between it and his restraints. 

The three hunters boarded, and with a snap of reins, the carriage lumbered back the way it came. Leaving Gahvon kneeling in the snow, unable to stand or walk, bracing for the inevitable. 

They knew what would happen. That didn't mean it hurt any less when the glyphs glowed and the tether pulled. Ice, dirt, and gravel scraped down their body, their leg throbbing with every divet in the ground it caught on. The tether dragged them all the way up to the carriage then let up. A few seconds of false mercy. Then doing it again. Over and over. An endless, cruel fishing line.

Gahvon did not gaze back on their home. They could not bear to watch it fade away in the distance, uncertain if when they'll see it again. 

[melpomenelamusa]

Light & Darkness - Masterlist

This is the masterlist for my little story, for those interested.

SUMMARY: A boy is the Chosen One destiny to defeat the evil Lord of Darkness, who torments his village by stealing the light of the moon and stars during the night. However, when the day of the prophecy arrives and the boy finally faces his enemy, things don't go as he expected… Genre: Fantasy. Major prompts: Whump, child whump, near death experience, permanent injuries, child abuse.

CHAPTERS:

The Chosen One

Trauma

No escape

A light in the darkness

[ashintheairlikesnow]

His Word Goes Forth

CW: Referenced past child abuse, some emeto references (brief, vague), some dissoci@tion towards the end, alcohol references, prostitution references. Just a whole load of references. But I am so excited to finally be able to write this chapter and introduce... Gilly's children.

Bones in the Ocean Masterlist

The Hotel Import, Grand Island, the Colonies

Guilford Wentworth the Fifth - who went by Ford and told everyone who didn’t already know his parentage that his name was Wilford Prose, simply a cousin to the illustrious Wentworth name - woke up to sunlight streaming in through the gauzy curtains, bright like daggers against his closed eyes.

He’d been meant to go to the symphony last night and make some sort of connection with a man whose properties his father admired, a man named Hogarth or something who owned too much land and not enough good common sense to know to avoid anything to do with the Wentworth businesses. Ford had been told to convince him a visit to the Continent would do him good, to stop by the Wentworth estate and meet the elder Guilford.

He’d been told to make many such meetings before, and usually he did as he was told. Ford had ceased to be treated as a child and had become just another tool in his father’s toolbox since his mother died and could no longer shield her children. He’d been good at it at first. 

But now… He was only eighteen and already he was tired of this.

And last night, he’d decided to let tired win the day.

Instead of making contact at the symphony, he’d instead allowed himself to be distracted by the promise of further liquor in a dark men’s club down the street, and spent his night in pursuit of new ways to forget his hated name.

He had succeeded, however briefly.

Unfortunately, the end result was that Ford woke up knowing his own name very well still, but with a headache that threatened to split him in two from temple to chin, a tongue that felt like cotton stuffed into his mouth, and a stomach that was either threatening to empty itself or ravenous for food and it couldn’t seem to decide which.

“Damn the sun,” He groaned, still feeling the ebb and swell of the liquor from the night before within him, stretching against the sheets. There was an ache in his hips that he enjoyed more than he disliked it, and when he tried to open one eye to look down at himself, there were marks of red from someone’s rouge, he thought, along the insides of his thighs. “... huh.”

Rubbing his face, he slowly sat up, squinting against the pain. There was a bottle with at least two good drinks left in it on the table next to the bed, and he drank it all, feeling it burn all the way down.It would help hold off the worst of the ache, though, at least until he could find somewhere darker to hide away from the daylight and a draught of laudanum to send him back to sleep.

Then, when he woke up once more, he’d need to come up with an excuse for why Hogarth Whoever wasn’t already boarding a ship for the Continent, to be swayed by his father’s monster like everyone else was.

That could wait, though. At least for however long it took to sleep off last night, both the alcohol and the pleasures that came with the darker bars and the seedier places in the city. Ocean air and warm nights made pleasures easy to find, and there were plenty of people who wanted money to eat more than they wanted their own virtue intact.

Ford had plenty of money.

Although even the money wasn’t really his.

He sighed, dropping back into the bed. There wasn’t anyone in the bed, although there had been when he went to sleep. Or passed out. Whichever it was that he’d done.

There’d been a young man, his own age - what was his name? It didn’t matter. None of their names mattered. Once they had coins in hand he could call them anything he wanted and they’d do anything they were told. Nothing there beside him now but empty space.

 When he laid his hand there, it was still warm.

“Damn,” He whispered, then checked the other side, where there had been a lovely woman. Had the two known each other? He couldn’t remember. Well, in any case, that space was equally emptied, and it wasn’t warm at all. 

She’d left long before the man had. 

“Well… double damn,” Ford said, voice a little rasping. One of his last clear memories had been shout-singing along with the sea shanties sung by the sailors come on shore to drink and whore with the rest. Had the young man been a sailor on leave? Might have been... “If he told me his name, I forgot it. I rather liked them.”

His eyes drifted closed again.

“Of course you did,” His sister’s voice came, warm as the ocean nearest the shore, dry as the desert wind, breaking through his thoughts. “You like them all, because you are an idiot with money and that makes them like you.”

Ford gasped, his heart half-stopped before his mind caught up and he realized she wasn’t actually in the bedroom, but out in the sitting area where he couldn’t see her - and more importantly, she couldn’t see him. Even so, he felt himself flush and yanked the blankets up to cover himself, sitting upright all at once.

“Nathalie! What in the gods’ names-”

He heard the rustle of the morning paper. “Good morning,” Nathalie said, without even the slightest change in tone. “How are you, dear beloved sister? Oh, I’m fine, Ford, thank you for asking. Did you just arrive, Natty? Why yes, Ford, I did, it is so lovely of you to ask after my health-”

“Fine, fine, Nathalie, I get it. Just-... hold on, let me dress and I’ll join you.” Ford snorted, reaching blindly towards the floor and grabbing at the first pieces of clothing he found there. The suit he’d been meant to wear to the symphony, now a wrinkled mess - but it wasn’t like his sister would care, or even as if it were the first time she’d seen him in disarray after a night wasted. He had to fight a swell of dizzy nausea as soon as he was on his feet, leaning against the wall and letting his fingers scrape the textured wallpaper there, a series of flowers in dim pastels against cream. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

“I asked at the desk if my brother was here carousing with whores,” Nathalie said. The paper rustled again as she turned the page, as if punctuating her sentence. “And the sweet young man at the desk informed me that you were, indeed, carousing with whores. I paid him to let me in and threw out the whore.”

Ford swallowed thickly, walking with slow, careful steps along the cool wooden floor to the doorway, his shirt half-buttoned and the linen a mess of wrinkles. “There were two.”

“Of course there were.” Nathalie set the paper down and turned to look at him. She looked like their mother - both Ford and Nathalie looked like her, thank any god who might have been responsible. They had her delicacy, her bright wide eyes. Nathalie looked the most like her, though. And now she turned their mother’s look of solemn, disappointed judgment on him just like she had. “There was only one when I arrived. I sent him away.”

“Hmph. I thought he was quite nice, I was hoping to seek him out again. I can’t recall if he told me his name, though.” He dropped into a chair at the little breakfast table she’d set herself up at, slumping against the hard wooden back and tipping his head back. The world swayed dangerously around him when he did.

“His name was Darren,” Nathalie said, and when he opened his eyes to look at her, he found that the disappointment had become the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Darren Meander.”

“That… He cannot have been speaking true to you.”

“I don’t care if he was or wasn’t, it’s what he told me. There, now you have a name if you want to find him again.”

“Thank you. Why did you bother?”

“You get on better with the whores than you do with your own class,” Nathalie said, as if the answer were obvious. “And you’re going to seek them out anyway. Besides, I use you as proof positive to myself of something I have always known.”

“What…?” 

“That I, Lady Nathalie Wentworth, shall never marry, since any man of means or with a good family name may be as dissolute and pointless as you are.” She winked at him, and he might even have found it in himself to laugh if his stomach hadn’t twisted angrily at the thought. “I do enough picking up after you, I don’t think I am in need of any other man to deal with.”

“I’m sure you can find a pious man and get to him before he joins the priesthood,” Ford muttered, his face hot with guilt. She really did so often have to handle things for him, things he should have handled himself as the eldest.

Nathalie was younger than him, only just now sixteen, but she’d always seemed older, more second mother than sister some days. Maybe because, since their mother had died - when he was eleven and she was only nine - she’d done all the mothering of the twins, all the hiding them from the attention of their father, holding them in the night after nightmares or when the coastal storms raged. 

Ford’s job, back then, had been to take the brunt of his father’s anger, keep Guilford’s eyes - and his fists - on him, and only him. It had kept Nathalie and the twins safe, for years… until their lordly father had split them all apart and declared the twins were old enough for finishing school, Ford was ready to take over the business interests in the Colonies, and Nathalie was old enough to run her own household and prepare for marriage.

Still.

They were all still far, far away from their father, and therefore safe from his direct influence, his attention, and his damnable monster.

Still.

Ford sighed, watching a shivery little rainbow from the sun shining through a window just right bounce off the ceiling. “In any case, I’ve hardly caused enough trouble to cross the channel and find you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

Nathalie didn’t look up from the paper she was scanning, but she gestured at a carafe before her. It had freshly-brewed coffee that steamed as he poured it into a teacup, and he sighed happily at the first sip. She hummed. “I came to see you.”

“You’re meant to be up at Howe House.”

“I was up at Howe House. I’ve been supervising it for months. It’s nearly habitable, which is lovely, considering I’ve been habiting there amongst the dust and the mouse droppings all this time.” Nathalie finally set the paper down, crossing her arms on the table and looking Ford over. She was pristine, in a light-blue linen dress made for the hot island days, her hair pulled back in a chignon to keep it from suffocating the back of her neck. “Oh, Ford. You look awful.”

“I feel awful, thank you ever so much for noticing.” He drained the first cup of coffee and poured a second, his tongue flat and numb from the too-hot liquid. He didn’t care. “So if you were at Howe House, why aren’t you there now? It’s a four-day sail to get here from there, and you sent no warning-”

“I absolutely did send you a notice, you shattered teapot of a man. You just haven’t been home in a week, I checked when I arrived. Your servants haven’t seen you since last Wednesday and not a single one had a clue where to find you except your butler.”

“Yes, well, he’s the only one I told when I left that I was going to stay here.” Ford exhaled. His sister’s constant piercing stare wasn’t helping his headache even a little bit. His stomach turned over itself and he fought back the urge to simply be sick all over this lovely table and Nathalie’s lovely dress. “... I hate the house. I avoid it whenever I can.”

“Clearly.” Something in his sister’s bristling manner softened, a little. She reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Ford. I know this… wasn’t how we hoped it would be, when we were young.”

Ford laid a hand over hers. His fingers felt chilled and numb - hers, by contrast, felt bright and warm and full of life. “We thought we could go farther from him, that he wouldn’t follow us. But…”

That had been when their mother was alive, and they had thought they could bring her with. Neither of them said it. Both of them heard it, anyway, even unsaid.

Ford cleared his throat. “... but if this is what our father wants, we must help to build and maintain the Wentworth name and fortune.”

“I know.” She squeezed his arm, brief but firm, and then let go of him, glancing back down at the paper. “I know. And we are, however we hate our parts, we play them. For the twins, at least.”

“For the twins. They’ll… be out of school in a few years, and by then, maybe-”

“Maybe.” She cut him off. She poured herself a coffee, then, holding it in both hands. Her nails were bitten nearly to the quick, the one bad habit that had never been broken in her no matter their father’s rages. “I should tell you, Ford, this is not a social visit. I was… sent here to pick you up.”

“You were?” Ford sat up straighter, and felt a frisson of dread like an electric eel moving inside of him. “By-... Nathalie, not by-”

“Yes. By… our father.”

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “... why?”

She took in a breath, wincing and pressing one hand to her side as the mere expansion of her ribs pushed against the tightly-fitted bodice. The style of the times, for wealthy young women, and Ford had spent more than a few nights undoing laces of young ladies wondering if ‘style’ was just a pretty way to avoid saying suffocation. At least the lower class women he spent most of his time with were allowed to breathe. 

Nathalie’s voice was so soft it was nearly a whisper. “You were supposed to be packed and ready to go when I arrived, Ford. I was supposed to explain it to you on the ship.”

“... what?” He blinked.

"Father's letter to me made it clear I wasn't to tell you until we were underway, but-... but I meant to regardless, just-... I expected you to have seen my letter."

"... Ah." The mere mention of his father had made his stomach try to rise up in his throat again, and the idea of going back on a ship - the weeks of seasickness and then the week of land sickness afterward when he had to get used to being solid and still once again - made it much much worse. He had to swallow hard as bile rose and lean over, resting his forehead on the cool surface of the table and pressing one hand over his belly to try and calm it with the pressure. 

The morning breeze blew in through the windows, bringing the salt-scent of ocean air with it. There came with the welcome salt the faint hint of dead fish, a simple fact of life everyone tried to ignore. You got used to it. Ford had gotten used to it, in the end. But it didn’t help his stomach feel any better now, or stop his heart from racing. “Father sent you... to pick me up? I am to live at Howe House with you now?” He groaned against the tabletop without looking up. “That house is full of ghosts!”

“It is not.” Nathalie rolled her eyes. He could hear her shoe tapping impatiently under the table and her cup clatter against the saucer as she put it back down. “That’s an old wives’ tale, I’ve never met a single one and I’ve been living there for more than a year.”

“Yeah, because you aren’t the heir, they don’t loathe you like they do me.”

“There are no spirits haunting Howe House,” Nathalie said firmly. “And if there were, why would they hate you?”

“The same reason I have such hatred for myself, due to the blood in my veins! His blood!"

Oh, he’d spoken too loud. The pain in his head spiked with his voice's volume, and he had to close his eyes tightly and breathe in quick, shallow pants until it ebbed again. 

Nathalie was silent, but her hand laid on his back, then, rubbing gently up and down. Just like their mother had, when they were young and came to her with sickness. She gave him a moment or two of quiet, which... it helped, honestly. “You cannot help the circumstances of your birth,” She murmured. “And remember what Mother said."

"It is only blood," Ford muttered, mouth barely moving. "She had no idea how deep the ties of blood run."

"Yes she did. And... I understand, Ford, I wish as much as you that we could change our names and be gone, but you know we can’t."

"The twins need us."

"Yes. Besides, Father-”

“Why, why would Father even think of me? I’ve done everything I can to get him to forget me entirely, Nathalie!”

“Oh, is that what the drinking and whoring were about? Being easily forgotten?” Nathalie’s humor was sharp, but it never quite cut deep. He knew her too well for that, and she was still gentling herself for his sake. He made himself sit up and look over at her. There was something in the set of her face that had his nerves singing in worry. “Listen to me, Ford. You aren’t coming to stay at Howe House.”

“Well, he can’t have sent you to scold me about… this.” He gestured at the wreckage of the hotel suite around him, bottles emptied or half-emptied. It looked as though at least one of his guests the night before had left their shirt behind. Or maybe that was one of his, and it had been unpacked… He’d never seen it before, but that didn’t mean much. Ford’s clothing was bought according to his father’s specifications, he never knew of it until he was sent for tailoring. “He doesn’t even know about it.”

“You cannot be sure, but… no, no, it’s not about this.” She licked at her lips, looking uneasily over to the window. Outside, the sun shone in a perfect, cloudless blue sky. The sound of people going about their lives down there filtered up to them. “... Ford. He calls us. We have been summoned... home.”

His heart chilled at the word. "No."

"Yes." Nathalie exhaled, folding her hands in front of her. She looked everywhere but him, and he tried without success to follow her gaze. “He’s… sent for us, Ford. You know why. You know what that means.”

“Either of us, really.” His voice was a whisper, airless. The hotel suite around him seemed suddenly transparent, as if he weren’t even seated here within it. As if it were all a pretty fiction, a daydream he had at night with Wentworth Manor crowding ever closer, his father’s eyes everywhere searching for faults, always finding them. His father’s monster with teeth bared and loathing in its dreadful eyes. “It could be for either of us. You’re sixteen, I’m eighteen, it could-... it could be for you, or for me, it could be-”

“... I think it’s for you.” She took his hand in both of hers again, and this time she held on tight. They looked at each other, with their mother’s eyes, and Ford felt the wave of fear he had spent his time here on the islands trying to escape breaking over his head, to drag him under again. “I think Father has found you a wife.”

The sun shone. Birds sang. The ocean was a constant dull, reassuring roar just outside the window. Despite the heat, Ford shivered with a depthless chill and felt water closing over his head, drowning him in the dark with all his fears coming suddenly to life.

“How-” His voice broke.

He had to swallow down terror, just like he had done since he was a child, and straighten his shoulders. He had to tell himself the world was only a play, and he was only a part his father had imperfectly cast. He had to keep his own life at a distance, and not feel it, or he would feel too much. The world had too many sharp edges, and he must stand apart from them or be slashed to ribbons. “Nathalie-”

“Please,” Nathalie whispered. “Please don’t ask, Ford. Don't, I won't know the answer, none of us know."

“How long?”

She didn’t answer, only looked away. He could see the glimmer in her eyes, knew it for what it was. It made the world feel even more distance, as if he were adrift in a lifeboat, the tide carrying him away from his own body. The escape was a gift or a curse, and he didn't know which.

His mouth still moved, without his consent. Without his decree. It asked the question neither of them knew the answer to, the question that haunted every Guilford Wentworth but the first.

“After I’m married, Nathalie... after he has given me to his bride, and the monster has taken my mind and will from me... after he has me shut up in his house again..."

His voice felt like someone else's. His body was only a creation that carried blood to a new generation, to give his father more power. He was far, far away from it.

"Nathalie-"

"Please, Ford-"

"How long will he... let me live?”

-

Taglist: @grizzlie70 @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @theelvishcowgirl @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @bloodinkandashes @squishablesunbeam @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings @there-will-always-be-blood @latenightcupsofcoffee

[the-broken-pen]

Six months ago, when the protagonist had first appeared in the middle of the villain’s compound, scrawny and half feral, the villain hadn’t thought much of it.

And then it happened again.

And again.

The villain thought something of it.

“Let me work with you,” they had begged. The villain was almost certain the protagonist was homeless. “Please, I have powers, I can—”

The villain said yes.

Maybe it had been whatever remnants were left of the villain’s stupid heart. Maybe it was the chocolate donut they had that morning. Maybe it was the desperation coming off the protagonist in waves.

Maybe they were just bored.

They paid it no mind.

The protagonist did have powers, but they were minor. The kind you see in small children, the first in a bloodline to mutate powers. Their great grand children would wield enough power to level buildings, be heroes and villains and everything in between. But for now, they sat in preschool classrooms and summoned the tiniest spark of flame.

The protagonist, trembling like a fawn, sweat slicking their brow, seemed to be one of those children. Albeit an older version.

Not useless, exactly. They had a startling affinity for picking locks—which explained the ability to get into the villain’s compound—a willingness to fight anyone, and a lack of fear. But they weren’t exactly the most useful sidekick the villain could have picked.

The villain wouldn’t trade them for anyone else, though.

Their stupid, half dead heart, it seemed, cared for the protagonist.

So, when the hero set out to kill the protagonist, the villain knew they would do anything to keep them safe.

They caught the hero’s hand, twisting to shove them backwards a step, and they felt rather than saw the protagonist wince.

“Violent today, aren’t we?”

The hero was seething, and it unsettled something in the villain. The hero was unstable, yes. But the villain had never seen them try to kill someone before; they hadn’t even considered the hero might try.

They dodged another blow, the hero’s power blasting apart a building behind them. Their spine prickled, and they dropped to avoid the next hit.

“Just itching to go to prison for homicide, hm?”

When the hero didn’t even attempt to respond to their half-assed banter, the villain’s gut roiled.

“Protagonist,” they said between breaths. “Leave. Now.”

“No.”

They managed to throw the hero to the ground, risking a glance at the protagonist. They were covered in dust, supersuit dirty and torn across one calf, but their feet remained planted, shoulders set. “You heard me. Go back to the compound—“

The protagonist’s eyes widened, and the villain knew they had turned away for too long.

The villain went down hard, ears ringing, as the hero shook out their fist.

“Stop it,” the protagonist’s voice cracked. They took a step forward, wavering like they weren’t sure if they should run or fight.

“Go,” the villain coughed, and the protagonist flinched. They rolled onto their back, struggling to stand as the hero’s power flickered dangerously.

The villain knew, innately, that the next hit would kill them.

The villain sucked in a painful breath.

The hero lunged.

And the protagonist, voice wrecked with fear, screamed, “Dad.”

The villain’s heart stuttered.

There was a flash of light.

In front of them, panting for air like they would never get enough, was the protagonist. The hero’s fist was planted against their chest still, and the villain could tell it had been a death blow. Anyone, even the villain, wouldn’t have survived.

And yet—

The protagonist stood, unharmed.

“Dad,” they said again, and the hero didn’t quite flinch, but it was close. “Stop.”

The silence was deafening.

Something in the hero’s jaw tightened.

“Move,” the hero said lowly. The protagonist didn’t falter.

“No.”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“What exactly will you do to me if I don’t listen,” the protagonist gave a sharp laugh. “Hit me? You tried that already.”

The hero sucked in a breath.

“I am your—“

“You are my nothing,” the protagonist corrected. “Certainly not my father. You lost that right when I was eight.”

The villain managed to push themselves to their feet.

“That was stupid,” the villain murmured, but it didn’t have any heat to it. “You couldn’t have known that would work. You had no idea if you could survive a hit like that.”

The protagonist very pointedly did not turn around, shoulders tense.

“I did,” their voice was strained. “He lost the right to fatherhood when I was eight, remember?”

The hero didn’t say anything, but the villain thought that might have been shame creeping its way across their face.

Oh.

Oh.

The hero—

The villain had been harboring the child of the most powerful being on the planet for six months. A child the hero had tried to kill, or at the very least, hurt.

Their heart stuttered.

They had been harboring the most powerful being on the planet, their mind corrected. A drop of blood slid its way down their spine. Power grew with every generation, and with the hero already so powerful, any child they had would be something close to a god.

“You said you had mild telekinesis,” the villain said numbly. The protagonist half turned to look over their shoulder, eyes shiny.

“My mom,” the protagonist. “I got it from her. The rest…”

From the hero.

The protagonist scanned the villain’s face.

They were searching for signs of violence, the villain realized. The protagonist wasn’t afraid of the hero anymore; no, the protagonist had seen the worst they could do. But somehow, the protagonist had begun to care for the villain. And they were terrified the villain—the person they trusted the most—was going to hurt them over a secret. The villain could see it all, scrawled across the protagonist’s face clear as day.

The villain was going to kill the hero. Painfully.

“Protagonist,” the villain kept their voice even. Gentle. Slow. “I’m not mad. And I’m not going to hurt you.” Their eyes slipped past to the protagonist to the hero.

“Him, however, I will be.”

The protagonist worried their lip between their teeth, and the villain watched as their power—their true power—sparked along their shoulder blades.

The villain stepped forwards—

“Don’t,” it was little more than a whisper.

The villain stopped.

The protagonist slid in front of the villain once more. “Just,” they raised a hand, as if taking a moment to choose their next words. “Stay.”

The villain stayed.

When the protagonist’s attention turned back to the hero, it was bloodthirsty. It spoke of war, and hatred, and revenge.

“You’re going to leave,” the protagonist’s voice was sharp enough to cut skin. “And you aren’t going to come back. I don’t care if it’s because you don’t want to, or because you know that if you do, I will kill you and I’ll like it—you won’t come back.”

The hero swallowed.

“The city needs me.”

“You are a plague to this city, and I am ridding it of you. Get. Out.”

The hero stumbled a step backwards, as if they had been hit. Their expression twisted.

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” the protagonist seethed.

They all knew the protagonist meant it.

The hero was halfway down the block, news vans and reporters scrambling their way onto the scene with cameras raised, when the protagonist called after them.

“Oh, and Dad?” The cameras snapped to them, and the protagonist grinned. It was vicious—it looked like the villain’s. “Parents who abuse their children don’t get to be heroes. Especially not you.”

They waited a beat, two, three.

The press exploded.

Above the din, power crackling around them, the protagonist mouthed two words.

“I win.”

[lumpywhump]

Tw: child whump/abuse, parental whump akakososkekkeksks I love parental whump so much the whumper doesnt actually have to be whumpee's parents but when they pretend to!!! LIKE WHEN THEY PRETNED TO ADOPT WHUMPEE AND SHIR AND WHUMPEE DOESNT WANT ANYTHING TO DO WITH THEM ESPECIALLY IF WHUMPER WAS HURTING THEM BEFORE AND ARE STILL HURTINF THEM BUT TELLINF WHUMPEE ITS A NECESSARY EVIL AND ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY TELL WHUMPEE HOW MUCH IT BREAKS THEIR HEART TO HURT WHUMPEE BUT THEY HAVE NO CHOICE AJSJKDISOEOSK CAN YOU TELL I HAVE MOMMY AND DADDY ISSUES?????

[whumpluv]

defiant whumpee who acts like an absolute brat─blowing raspberries, going "i can't hear you la la la la!" when whumper is trying to speak, mimicking everything they say in a high-pitched voice. hey, they're gonna be tortured either way, might as well piss off whumper and have some fun while it happens.

[another-whump-sideblog]

Fixing Tracy -- Cursed Knowledge

TWs in the tags

Masterlist

Molly keeps her promise, and Tracy finds that the achiness and other symptoms have faded a lot by the next day. At least she won’t have to feel like that ever again.

What would it be like, if your priority was your own health and happiness?

Molly’s words keep intruding into her thoughts, which is especially weird because Tracy already knows the answer. She would be a different person if she prioritized herself. So why does the question loop in her mind?

It doesn’t matter. She needs to escape, to get back to Alicia. But… when she had a chance to escape, she failed. She doesn't even know why!

She takes a deep breath. That train of thought goes nowhere. Just… think about it logically. Stop being stupid and think of it like a puzzle to be solved instead of a potentially hopeless situation.

Okay, the main obstacle in the way of escape right now is that she can’t hurt Molly. Since she doesn’t know why she can't hurt Molly, the logical next step towards escape is to figure out the reason, right?

How does one figure out why they couldn’t do something, though? She knows she was interrupted by a memory that made her lose focus, but she doesn’t know why that happened. It’s not like being violent is so out of the ordinary for her. She’s always been able to do what she had to do, so why can’t she now?

“…hey.” Molly pulls Tracy from her thoughts and sets down a plate of eggs and toast in front of her. "Um.. how are you feeling?"

"Better. Uh… thank you. For not keeping me like that. And for breakfast." She's not really grateful, of course, but keeping Molly happy certainly can't hurt anything.

Molly sits down. "So… do you want to talk about why you're so sure you can't get sick?"

"I don't get sick."

"...Most people do get sick sometimes, though, right?"

She's waiting for Tracy to answer, so Tracy gives a quick nod. It would feel like Molly's talking to her like she's a toddler if she didn't know that Molly always talks like this.

"So why are you different?"

"I don't know why, I just know that I don't get sick."

"But how do you know that? If it was just that you've never been sick before, why would you be so sure that you can't get sick now or in the future?"

Tracy eats some of her eggs. "I just know."

Tracy knows she's being frustrating, causing the conversation to go in circles, but Molly doesn't seem annoyed. "While you were… feeling not so great, you said that you weren't sick because you're not weak or pathetic. Do you feel like people who get sick are weak and pathetic?"

"...I guess."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, 'why'? If you're sick you're obviously weaker than normal, and you need people to take care of you."

"And… that's pathetic?"

"Yeah? Y'know, you're not my therapist, you're my kidnapper. I don't want to play whatever game this is."

"You seem frustrated."

"I am! Can you let me eat in peace?" 

"Of course. I'm sorry." Molly starts eating her own breakfast.

They eat in silence for a bit, allowing Tracy to go back to her predicament. How does one figure out why they couldn't do something?

The options can be broken down into two potential answers: it was either something about trying to give someone a concussion, or something about Molly specifically.

The first seems more likely. She's never given anyone a concussion before, and it's a bigger deal than slapping someone or pulling their hair. It's… only human that she hesitated. It's only human that she thought back to how it felt when it was being done to her.

So, how can she fix being human? How can she make hurting someone seriously feel the same as slapping someone or pulling their hair?

"What're you thinking about?" Molly asks.

"Just enjoying my food." She eats the last bite of her breakfast.

Molly takes Tracy's now empty plate and stacks it on top of her own. "I'll go wash these. After that… Do you wanna play chess?"

"...sure. I'll set it up while you're doing that."

Molly grins widely and goes into the kitchen.

Tracy finds a chess board with the other board games, puts it on the table, and sets up the pieces. She can multitask, it shouldn't be too hard to play chess while figuring out how to turn off the part of her that cares about causing someone brain damage.

Molly finishes with the dishes quickly and sits down across from Tracy. "Do you want white or black?"

"How good are you at chess?"

Molly laughs. "We've played chess together before, when I was your therapist. Do you remember at all?"

Tracy shakes her head. She really doesn't remember anything from those sessions.

"How about we just do rock, paper, scissors for who plays white. Does that sound good?"

Tracy nods. Molly plays rock and Tracy plays scissors, so Molly ends up with the first move.

Tracy has to remind herself not to get too engrossed in the game, no matter how much she enjoys chess. She still needs to be focused on escape. How can she fix the part of her that hesitated at hurting Molly?

If she can just fix that, she can retry what she did last time. Grab some handcuffs from the backpack, catch Molly by surprise, hit her head hard enough to disorient her, take the cattle prods, restrain her, take the keys, and escape. 

Molly will probably be anticipating her trying something like that, so she'll be on guard. She's already started taking the backpack with her when she goes to the bathroom, which she didn't do before the incident. Tracy could've tried that strategy long before Molly accidentally left the restraints when she went upstairs… but it would've failed, because she hasn't fixed the part of her that hesitated.

"You've always had such an aggressive playstyle." Molly once again interrupts her thoughts. "I'm more like Alicia, I prefer to focus on defense."

Tracy's stomach drops. Molly may have played with Tracy before, but she's never played against Alicia. “How do you know that?”

Molly winces. “Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. Is there any answer to your question that could make you happy?”

“No, but not answering it doesn’t make me happy either!” Tracy tries to keep her breathing under control.

“I think… you’re happier now than you would be if you knew.”

“That’s not fair. Why do you get to decide that? Why can’t you just listen to me? I want to know! I hate not knowing, I hate looking back on private memories and wondering if you were somehow there! I hate wondering if Alicia is safe from you or if you're watching everything she does!" She sweeps the pieces off the chess board and lets them clatter to the ground. It doesn't make her less angry.

“...I'll tell you if you can calm down, dear."

"That's not fair!" 

Life isn't fair. Calm the fuck down.

"You stalked me and won't even tell me how and I'm supposed to not be upset about that?? Why is everyone allowed to get angry but me!? Why are you allowed to kidnap me and shock me with cattle prods and restrain me, but me getting upset is too far?? Tell me, now, or– or–"

What can she threaten? She's completely powerless, even over her own emotions. Now that she's opened the floodgates, she finds herself sobbing uncontrollably. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you–"

"C'mon, just take some deep breaths. In… and out… In… and out…"

Tracy abruptly stands up, sending her chair flying, and flees to her room. She locks the door behind her despite knowing that Molly must have a way in and starts throwing things. The spinny chair, books from the bookcase, clothes, pillows, anything she can find.

All she achieves is tiring herself out. She screams until her throat is hoarse, but Molly doesn't even knock on her door or try to talk to her. She punches her mattress until her arms are sore, and still, nothing happens. Her rage is meaningless. She's not even going to get punished, much less listened to. No one cares. No one cares at all.

She cries until she's emptied herself out. That should be calm enough for Molly, right? She takes some deep breaths, unlocks the door, and exits her room. "I'm calm now. Tell me."

Molly is sitting on the couch, staring at Tracy. "I… I had a lot of things. It was a lot of hacking, mostly. Um…" she takes a shaky breath. "You're going to be upset."

"Yeah. Did you not know that when you did it?"

"I… I don't know…" She closes her eyes. "The cameras. The cameras that your parents set up in your house, I watched through those."

Tracy feels like the wind has been knocked out of her. She thought she was too exhausted and numb to feel anything, but she was wrong. She's not even sure what she's feeling, but it's definitely something besides exhaustion and numbness.

It was violating enough to have her parents watching. It never even occurred to her that the footage could be being watched by someone else. What if Molly wasn't the only one? God, Molly probably didn't even have to do anything but guess the password a couple of times! Tracy wouldn't be surprised if the password was 'password' or one of their birthdays.

"So… Alicia…"

"There aren't cameras in her foster parents' house," Molly confirms. "I follow her foster parents' social media, and I can access Alicia's email, but… that's it."

Tracy doesn't remotely believe that that's all, but she does believe that there isn't a way for her to watch Alicia anymore. "If I asked you to unfollow them and log out of Alicia's email, would you do it?"

"...yes. But it would mean I wouldn't be able to tell you how Alicia is doing, would you be okay with that?"

"Of course I'm fucking okay with that!" Tracy snaps. "I already asked you to leave her alone, but I guess you don't care about my wishes as much as you pretend you do." She's proud that her voice is able to sound cold despite the fire raging inside her.

"...I thought that as long as I didn't contact her–"

"Let me make it clear, then. I don't want you to have anything to do with her. I don't want you to surveil her in any way. I want you to be completely clueless about what's going on in her life."

"Okay. I'll do that. I'm so sorry, Tracy."

Tracy doesn't dignify that with a response. She locks herself back in her room. She doesn't think Molly will actually stop stalking Alicia, but… there's a chance. That'll have to be enough for now.

There is another small comfort– the cameras were only meant to make sure she and Alicia followed the rules when their parents weren't home, and her parents turned them off when they were able to keep an eye on her and Alicia in person. If Molly's main source of information was the cameras, she didn't see the worst of it. She didn't see Tracy at her most vulnerable. She tries to remind herself of that, but it doesn't make her feel any less violated.

Maybe Molly was right. There was no answer that could've made her happy, so she shouldn't have asked.

tag list: @whumpyourdamnpears @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @iamheretohurt

[paingoes]

Crash Out - Joey

(Content: past abuse, whumper turned whumpee, beating, implied child abuse, claustrophobia mention, addiction mention, retraumatization, crying, guilt, self harm?, blood, brief weight talk)

Still shaking, still sick, Paris stared up blankly at the ceiling again, for want of anything better to do. The manacles chafed at his bare wrists, leaving a thick band of raw skin beneath. He’d gotten used to it.

“Did you go to a school when you were little?” He asked Johanna without looking at her.

Without looking back from the control panel, she answered: “I’m not that fucking stupid, am I?”

He shook his head — and the movement of the collar caused the chain to click against the tile.

“No. I mean, like, a special one. For psychics.” He explained vaguely. 

“I went to St.Holly’s Prep.” She answered curtly.

“Oh.” He deflated. 

He had hoped for something that might give his life a perfect symmetry. He wanted any sense of justice to fall back on, though he knew well enough not to truly expect it. His hand traced the collar again, taking slow and steady breaths. He breathed easier when he was flat on his back. Any sudden motion made him feel like he might faint, so he didn’t move at all. The lock picks were burning a hole in his pocket.

She’d missed them, somehow. She hadn’t been very deliberate in the pat down — and at this point, he was all angles. His own hipbone had been as hard and as pointed as the metal. 

He did not dare reach for them here in the dead of space. He’d be no better off once he was out of the chains. Paris knew, with total certainty, that he would not beat her in a fight. He didn’t even think he could do it healthy anymore, some new flinch mechanism that made him so tired of hitting and of being hit. He certainly could not do it in the thralls of withdrawal, not with the cracked rib and the hole through his hand. No opportunity presented itself. He was scared to.

The stygian depths appear every time he closed his eyes, dark blue, teeming. He was scared. Some ancient dread was settling onto him, sharp-toothed and feral. He missed Delta. 

It embarrassed him just how badly he missed Delta.

But when he dreamed, mercifully, it was of Lorelai. It was a frozen morning and the last night’s rain had crystallized against the pale bluegrass. Her hair was undone, hanging in limp curls against the fabric of her sweater. It was the last morning before the break. He’d given her clovers and coffee and jasmine perfume. He’d have given her anything, but he knew the wealth humiliated her. It was an affront for either of them to even wear the uniform.

All the same, her fingers had been lined with white gems that morning. They were impossible not to notice as he’d brought her hand up to his lips. He’d have done anything for her then. The memories bled out into the edges of his dreams.

His heart was all the way empty when he awoke. Lorelai was safer without him than she’d ever be with. It was cold comfort. He’d left her alone and limp in the dirt.

There was no day or night to follow, but the ship’s lights had dimmed. Paris thought it was another hallucination, another dream he couldn’t shake — but the soft sound of crying permeated and echoed throughout the ship. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. 

She was whimpering in her sleep.

~

Johanna dreamed of something cold and breathing beneath the soft wet earth. She had the nightmare often. Big walls and little hands. A playful pulsing in each of them, turned violent and mean over time. She smiled because she could, because they always liked her. She smiled too wide and laughed too hard, some screw knocked loose, faulty wiring from having been hit in the head one too many times. A nervous laugh. Wide, pleading eyes.

She dreamt of a small box. She dreamed of a pulsing that grew into a frantic pounding — and a loving flesh that always come backs. It came back no matter how many times they tried to kill her.

Johanna dreamt of a hole dug deep into the earth. She’s had the same nightmare since she was twelve — and though it gets better, it never really goes away. She woke up with her eyes still blotted with tears and for a minute she had forgotten where she was. 

From across the room, the captive prince stared at her unblinking, and she knew he had heard everything.

~

Several hours later, when they were both wide awake, Paris tried again.

“Did you know Martino?” he asked.

Immediately, he knew it was a mistake. He had about three seconds to flinch before she’d crossed the interior to him and hit him as hard as she possibly could. The intention had clearly been to knock him unconscious, but he’d recoiled fast enough that she mostly struck the side of his jaw. He gasped, sure for a second it’d been broken. There was no time to recover in between the blows. He only shielded his skull as Johanna slammed the cleat into his side, over and over again, breathing heavy. She tore his arms away, gripping the collar’s chain just to slam his head back into the wall, pinning him there.

But Johanna looked so lost. All her anger was thick with confusion. Her eyes searched him, up and down, as if something in his body might tell her.

“How-“ she asked desperately. “Who-“

Paris shivered, retreating, hiding his head again. It hurt. His ribs were so tender he could’ve cried. She released the chain around his neck, staggering a few steps back.

“Don’t say his name again,” she warned.

Paris nodded.

~

“Are you mad at me?” Paris asked. He was stupid and chastened, both knees drawn up to his chest.

Johanna sighed, sitting up against the starboard wall of the ship. She tossed a tennis ball idly, only occasionally glancing at the autopilot to see they were still on course. She did not dignify him with a response. 

“Did you know him? Delta. One Zero Seven.” Paris asked quietly.

It felt like it’d been ages since he’d said his name aloud. The sound of it hovered in the air, seemed to echo in a way the other words had not. He still remembered the numerals that followed, though by the time he first learned them, they’d lost all their usefulness. But to her, those numbers must have meant something. It’d be the only way to distinguish them.

“As if I’d remember any of them.” Johanna rolled her eyes.

Paris quieted, tucking his face back down into his arms. He only peeked up at her as she stood up, moving to check up on the air filter. 

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

He was surprised when she didn’t laugh. She only sighed again, eyes flitted up to the ceiling as if she was considering it.

“I didn’t before. I think I’m starting to.” She decided.

“Is that why?” He looped one finger in the collar, tugging it.

“Nope.”

In return, she tapped one finger to his nose, booping it gently. He still flinched.

“That’s just business.”

~

It ate at him. He turned restlessly within the chains. There was nothing to do and only her for company. She was taking him to be killed, to hurt the whole time he died, to be mutilated and changed. All his future seemed an endless void. All he could focus on was the past.

“What was it like?” he asked. There will be no other opportunities to ask, no other ways to know. He wondered if anyone else who went to that school was even alive anymore. Delta wasn’t. Was Johanna alive, really? 

He looked at her and he could not tell. 

She stood up from the console, visibly irritated at the fact he was still taking. Or maybe she just didn’t like his choice in conversation topic. Either way, he’d pissed her off.

“You want to know what it was like?” She asked incredulously.

He sat up and nodded his head. For a second, she just looked tired. She undid the belt from around her waist.

“Hands out. Now.”

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before. He’d gotten his knuckles rapped millions of times, had the cane brought down against each part of his body. None of it ever helped. By the time he graduated, he knew it was more about anger than it ever was about correction. This was no different.

Except that all the previous times, he did not have a knife wound piercing straight through the flesh of his hand. A white bandage had been bound tight around it ever since he’d been rescued. It still held. She’d seen it, of course. She had to have known. She didn’t care. 

They must not have either.

Paris offered both hands without resistance, surprising himself. Would she have forced him to if he hadn’t? For some reason, he didn’t think so. If he wasn’t playing along, he thought, she might just give up.

He held both palms facing upward. It was what he was used to, what he assumed she wanted, and he was willing to turn them if it wasn’t.

The belt was folded over. He kept still.

It was worse than he thought it’d be. He gasped in shock and pain at the sting. He’d been comparing it to the wrong injuries, expecting the wrong kind of pain. The belt hurt his right hand about as badly as when it’d first been punctured, about as bad as an arrow through his fucking ribcage. His eyes watered immediately.

He still tried to be steady as the belt came down against his hands again. Again. Again. He resisted the automatic curling of his fingers in an effort to protect himself. It was really nothing. He’d had so much worse. He didn’t know why he was crying so badly. 

The belt swung again. He only pulled his hand back just to quickly wipe at his eyes. She got mad.

“Paris,” she hissed, exasperated, and he couldn’t remember her ever using his name before this. “I can make this a lot worse for you and you know it.”

“Sorry,” he muttered as he offered the hand back.

Again. Again. He lost track, letting his vision blur just the same as the count. All the nerves in his hand were beaten almost numb, stinging. He couldn’t keep the tremor out of them. 

Johanna grumbled in frustration, pulling the belt back to her side. She was fumbling with the end of it.

“…Are we done?” he asked weakly. 

The belt buckle hit him square in the face, drawing a pained gasp from him. He reeled to the side, barely catching himself. Blood dripped readily from the gash in his cheek. In shock, he moved two finger up to touch it. Wet. Warm. 

“You don’t fucking ask when it’s over.” She barked.

He kept his eyes trained on the ground, half-curled away from her. The impact had whipped his head to the side and he did not correct it. 

He heard her readjusting the belt. For a second, he really did think she was finished. He let himself be fooled twice.

The buckle struck him again in the shoulder. It produced much less of a reaction than the strike to the face did, but he still cried. It was worse when he couldn’t see it, but he knew better than to try and turn around. He twitched at each new impact.

“You don’t understand!” She yelled. It was infantile. And it was wrong. He did.

Then again, he doubted she was even talking to him.

The metal snapped at the bare skin of his arm, once again at his back. He shifted one shoulder up to shield his still-bleeding face and endured the hit for it. It was only then she seemed to tire. It didn’t matter. He was sobbing. Though he tried to do it quietly, there was so little he could focus on besides his own misery. The effort was futile. He hardly noticed whether she was there or not, whether the beating had even stopped.

He tucked himself further into the far wall, unable to stop crying or to even be silent about it. She did not speak to him again for the rest of the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~

thank you to @floral-comet-whump for getting me to canonize Johanna being from Beldam!!! that was always supposed to be the implication w her character but i wasnt sure about making it explicit until they had the idea of her being an experiment that beldam tried to kill and ended up BURYING ALIVE. that was too tasty to leave as subtext >:)

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

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @whump-queen