#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

[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

[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."

[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 - 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 >:)

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

[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.

[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

[oros-ash3s]

｡ ˚₊ ˚ ‧ ✶ ⋆.﹒ ★ “Proud” ★﹒₊‧ 𖥔･˚₊ ⋆ ｡

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

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.

Taglist: @seastarblue @vesanal @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @bioniclechronicles @lostcryptidinthewoods @lancedoncrimsonwings @blackboxwarrior-mkultra @whump-till-ya-jump @sharkblizzardblogs @scoundrelwithboba

[whumpinator]

Fun things to do with your tiny whumpee:

1: Tie a length of string around their arms and chest, then tease a cat with them. Let the cat bat them and bite them and scratch them, and constantly yank the string so they’re all tired and bruised :)

2: Put them in a blender. And let them sit in there, agonised that at any minute you could turn the blades on. (Even more fun with immortal whumpees)

3: keep them in an exhibit and every so often let a field trip of young unassuming toddlers handle them roughly, with sticky fingers, who squeal too loud, who pinch too hard and pull too far.

4: Same as above but this time with a bunch of Instagram influencers who would arguably be more pointedly cruel.

5: Use EMS! Bind a ring of metal around their midriff and stick them between two opposite magnets to leave them swinging helplessly in the air, vulnerable to any of your intentions!

6: Make them sit as a figure in a cake, getting cold on the soggy icing, feeling humiliated in a ridiculous costume.

Bonus round: Caretaker edition

7: build an ecosystem for the whumpee in a jar, that’s similar to their homeplace. Perfect for whumpees who feel safer in enclosed hidden spaces.

8: Give them a mobile toy train and set up tracks around the house so it can get to certain places faster.

9: Same as above, but instead with various ladders and slides.

[greatgigintheskiess]

Here's a little Hero/Villain whump prompt :P

Cw: Minor whumpee, Child whumpee, bruises, kidnapping, restraints

Everything was bathed in pitch black when Whumpee had opened their eyes. They sat on a cold ground, back against the wall and felt the bounds wrapped tightly around their thin wrists. With the smell of a basement rising into their nose, they wept quietly what only came out as a muffled whine as their mouth was covered by some thick tape. Whumpee tried to struggle helplessly and panic stricken had looked around, trying to recognize where they were right now.

They didn't remember much. Only that they had been knocked over by something, losing their consciousness right after. They had been on a mission with Hero and that was also the last thing they remembered. And Whumpee didn't know how long they had been here.

The noise of a heavy metal door opening with a loud creak and some steps coming closer suddenly echoed in the room, scaring the poor child only more.

A light from the hallway shining through the door blended Whumpee as their eyes had completely adjusted to the darkness and further muffled sounds mixed with sheer fear of the one that approached them. The dark silhouette kneeled down in front of Whumpee, ripping off the tape from their mouth to which they reacted in a whimper. A pair of eyes stared directly into the child's terrified face, studying them with a stoic glance. And only then Whumpee recognized them. It was Villain.

Another almost inaudible whine escaped the child's throat, when Villain grabbed their wrists. They knew what Villain was capable of. Hero had told them countless times how they had slaughtered so many innocent lives just for fun. They were ruthless, sadistic, pure evil.

During their training sessions, Whumpee remembered, Hero used to tell them these stories while they had beaten up the little defenseless child. Hero always said it was for their own good and only this way they could learn what it meant to be a true hero. No pain, no gain was their favorite saying that seemed to have burned into Whumpee's mind since.

And now they were in Villain's clenches and scared to the core. Whumpee already imagined how they would torture them while laughing viciously, only to kill them afterwards anyway. But then they felt the bounds on their wrists loosend, being cut through by Villain's knife.

As if that wasn't confusing enough, now followed something Whumpee had never expected to hear from their mouth.

"Have you eaten today, kid?"

After some hesitation Whumpee instinctly shook their head and Villain handed them some food afterwards. They stared a while at it, then again back at Villain who raised an eyebrow, indicating them to eat. Whumpee didn't take long and accepted the food silently, eating all up.

Villain watched them patiently without any other word. They winced though when Villain's fingers tucked under their chin, forcing the child to look at them. But instead of hurting them like Whumpee expected, they turned their face a bit to the side, revealing some dark bruises on the child's neck and shoulders.

"Did they do this to you?" Villain asked sternly but not mean or in any spiteful tone. Their voice sounded almost concerned. "Hero?"

Whumpee tried to avoid their look but failed as the fingers still held up their chin, making it impossible for them to turn away. But Villain knew the answer all along. They knew how Hero had treated Whumpee. And they knew exactly what Hero told the child about them. So their reaction was only justified.

The child nodded slightly and the hand finally let go off Whumpee's chin. And the next thing they felt confused them even more. Villain laid a soft blanket over their delicate shoulders, their hand resting gently on their back.

"Relax, kid, I ain't gonna hurt you." Villain added when Whumpee reacted with another flinch.

"Y-you don't?" Their voice quivered as their little body still shivered in a mix of cold and fear.

Villain didn't answer but helped the child getting up, giving them a bit of support on their shaky legs.

"But I don't understand... Hero used to tell me you're evil." Whumpee chirped confused, leaving Villain in right with their only assumption about them.

"Didn't you ever think that maybe they were the bad guy all the time?" Villain retorted. "And put all the blame on me?"

Whumpee didn't know what to say anymore.

Yes, it's true that Hero had always blamed Villain for their misery, making them the scapegoat. And Whumpee also had to learn that Villain is no one to trust, that they want to kill them whenever they crossed their ways.

But why did Villain act so caring now? Was this all just a trick? Hero wouldn't have lied to them, or would they?

Standing on wobbly legs Whumpee soon felt their strength giving in. They were so confused and too tired to think about this more. They just wanted to sleep. And as if Villain would've read their thoughts, they eventually lead the child to the door with their hand still resting on their back.

"C'mon, kiddo. You must be very exhausted. You can take my bed for tonight."

[another-whump-sideblog]

Fixing Tracy — Illness

TWs in the tags

Masterlist

Somehow, Tracy is even more tired than before. She's stopped worrying about escape methods, which if anything should free up her mental energy, but she's just exhausted. Using the gym, which used to be easy, saps Tracy's strength further, until she stops using it altogether.

She's not even just tired, she's achy and weak and hypersensitive to cold. Molly must've changed what she's drugging her with, or maybe stopped drugging her, causing withdrawal. It doesn't really matter, there’s nothing Tracy can do about it either way.

“How are you feeling?” Molly has been hovering around Tracy, worried, since the disaster of Tracy’s last escape attempt.

Tracy shrugs, staring at but not really watching the movie Molly put on.

After a moment, Molly moves to slap Tracy!— oh wait, she’s just placing her hand against Tracy’s forehead. False alarm.

“You’re burning up…” is that excitement in her voice? “I should’ve checked that sooner, you’d think a former nurse would know not to just assume something is mental health related without checking! I’ll— I’ll make you some soup, and read to you, and keep a lukewarm washcloth on your forehead—“

“I don’t get sick, Molly.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t get sick.” Tracy repeats. “You know why I’m miserable, you just want to blame it on something that you can fix without letting me go.”

“…I know you probably won’t suddenly feel great about everything after you’re better. But you won’t be sick anymore, and that’ll help at least a little.”

“I’m not sick!”

Molly chuckles. “Whatever you say, dear. I’m going to go make some soup, is that okay?”

Tracy can’t come up with an answer to that that doesn’t make her sound like a pouty child. “…fine.”

Molly’s definitely got a spring in her step as she heads to the kitchen. She seems to really like the idea of Tracy being sick. Not because she likes it when Tracy suffers, Tracy's fairly certain that she doesn't, but because she likes how vulnerable it would make Tracy. Which is worse. Tracy shudders. Just from the thought of how creepy Molly is, not chills or anything of the sort, because Tracy doesn’t get sick.

Tracy rests her eyes. She's so, so tired. So…

She wakes up in her bed with a washcloth on her forehead. She's definitely being drugged, how else would Molly move her from the couch to her bed without Tracy even stirring?

"Are you awake? Are you hungry? I ended up putting the soup in the fridge since you were asleep, if you're hungry I'll reheat it for you."

Tracy rubs her eyes. "...what kind of soup?"

"Chicken noodle. Can't go wrong with a classic."

"Mm… I can reheat it myself." Tracy tries to get out of bed, but Molly gently pushes her back down. "I'm not sick. You're fucking drugging me, and I can't avoid it because there's no food here that hasn't gone through you first."

"The only time I ever drugged you was to get you from your old place to here. I can have some of the soup too, if it helps you feel safer."

"Reheating it myself would would help me feel safer."

"Hmm… what if I brought in a bowl of soup and had some in front of you so you know it’s safe? With a different spoon, of course.”

“Then the spoon could have a drug on it.”

“But… germs… what if I brought a few spoons, and you can pick which to use and which to have me use?”

“…that works. Wait— no, I want to get it myself, I’m not—“

“You are sick, dear. Even if you were sick because I drugged you, that wouldn't mean you're not sick, right? You'd just be sick for an unconventional reason. I haven't drugged you, but if you can't believe that, can you at least believe that you need extra care right now, whether it's because of a virus or drugs?"

"No, I don't get sick! Stop treating me like I’m incompetent! I’m not—“ hot tears fall from Tracy’s eyes. Could this get any more humiliating? “I’m not that weak! I’m not pathetic, I don’t get sick!”

“Being sick doesn’t mean you’re weak or incompetent or pathetic.”

“I’m not sick! I don’t get sick, please stop saying that, I’m not— I don’t make excuses, I’m not sick, I can do it!”

"...okay. This seems like something we should talk about when you're feeling better. For now… could you just humor me? Please, I desperately want to take care of you. It’s not because I think you’re weak or incompetent or pathetic or making excuses. It’s the opposite, actually. I know you can do it. You’re so strong, and you always work so hard. You deserve to be taken care of. Will you please let me take care of you?”

“You’d just drug me more if I said no.”

Molly looks crestfallen. “I… is there anything I could do to convince you I’m not going to do that?”

Tracy shakes her head.

“That’s… that’s okay. You don’t have to trust me, and… I’m glad you don’t feel like you have to pretend to. I’m glad you can be honest with me.” She looks at Tracy with big, sad blue eyes. “Do you really want to get the soup yourself? Or do you just not want me to do it?”

Does she actually want to get the soup herself? It… wouldn’t actually prevent Molly from drugging it, since she could’ve beforehand. Even with Molly’s offer to eat some to show that it’s safe, eating a little of something drugged wouldn’t have as strong an effect as eating a lot of something drugged. And if Tracy pushed for Molly to eat the same amount as her… Molly could just say no, and then what would Tracy do? She has to eat. Tracy will eventually eat what Molly wants her to whether it’s drugged or not. Even if Molly did eat the same amount as Tracy, it’s always possible that she has higher tolerance to the drug she put in the food, or has access to a drug to neutralize the effects of the drug she put in the food. There’s no point in trying to ensure the food isn’t drugged. It always could be, no matter what.

And Tracy feels like shit. Does she want to get out of bed when she doesn’t have to?

…No, of course not. Who would want to make things harder for themselves on purpose, when the same result is reached either way? Of course she wants the easier way. That’s… that’s not weakness, that’s normal. It’s normal. Healthy, even. That’s what Tracy has told Alicia to comfort her countless times, and Tracy doesn’t lie, not to Alicia.

Really, the only reason she wants to do it herself is because Molly would really enjoy getting soup for her, and that’s creepy as fuck. Is that all this argument is about? Molly would enjoy taking care of Tracy, so Tracy doesn’t want to let her?

This is such a pointless, childish power struggle, and Tracy is too tired to continue it. “I guess I just wanted to argue.” Tracy says softly. “You can get the soup. I don’t care.”

The answer doesn’t seem to make Molly happy. “I… that’s very self aware of you. I’m proud of you. I’ll be right back.”

Molly leaves the bedroom and Tracy pulls a blanket over her head. She’s so fucking worthless, can’t even get soup for herself… but… she can. She could’ve. Molly wanted to do it for her. Molly begged to do it for her. So… what does that say about Tracy, that she let Molly do it? She doesn’t know. Well… it doesn’t matter. Who cares?

Achy and tired and trying not to cry, Tracy groans into her pillow. She can’t go on like this. Every little thing can’t be a huge debate and power struggle. What else can she do, though? Just accept that she’s stuck and do whatever Molly wants? She doesn’t want to fight and she doesn’t want to give in either.

Molly finds Tracy curled up under the covers crying when she comes back. “Oh, dear… what’s wrong?”

Tracy doesn’t answer. There’s no point in starting another argument.

“I know, I know, I know it’s hard. I’m sure you’re really miserable right now, but I promise it’ll get better.”

“I’m so tired.” Tracy sobs. Tired of fighting, tired of losing, tired tired tired.

“Let’s get some soup in you, then you can go back to sleep. Can you sit up? I brought a few spoons so that you can pick which one you use and which one I use if you want me to prove it’s not drugged.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Tracy stops hiding under the covers like a child and sits up. She reaches out to take the bowl of soup from Molly’s hands, but Molly seems to have a different plan. She picks out a spoon and sets the rest down, then fills the spoon with soup and starts bringing it towards Tracy’s lips.

“What the fuck is wrong with you??” Tracy knocks the spoon out of Molly’s hand. “I can feed myself! I’m not— I’m not…” anger quickly gives way to horror. “You- you think I’m sick. You think I’m so sick I need help bringing a spoon to my mouth, and— and I’m still here. Not in a hospital.”

“…I just wasn’t thinking. Of course you wouldn’t want me to do tha—“

“If I was so sick I couldn’t eat on my own, would you take me to the hospital?”

“I was a nurse, dear. Breathe. You’re safe, I can take care of you.”

“What if— what if I had a heart attack or a stroke or something?? What if my appendix burst, you’ve never been a surgeon, have you??”

“That’s extremely unlik—“

“Humor me! What would you do?”

“You don’t need to worry about that. I don’t want you intentionally injuring yourself to try and get away, so I’ll leave it vague, but I do have plans in place. You’re safe with me.”

“I’m going to die here! Alicia won’t even know! They’ll never find my body!” Screaming again so soon after last time does not do her throat any favors, but she’s too panicked to care.

“You’re safe. Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

Thoroughly drained by her outburst, Tracy lies down and complies. Molly guides her through breathing exercises until Tracy can hardly keep her eyes open.

“I hate seeing you so scared. I would do absolutely anything to help you feel safe, so please let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’m going to leave the soup and the spoons here on the nightstand, okay? I’ll bring you a water bottle too.” She picks up the spoon Tracy knocked out of her hand. “I’ll take this, since I assume you don’t want a spoon that’s been on the floor. I’ll clean the carpet later. Does all that sound good?”

Tracy doesn’t answer and tries to pretend she’s already asleep.

“You’ll feel better once you’ve had some sleep and food.” Molly says softly. “If I could take your sickness on myself so that you didn’t have to be this miserable, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I love you so much.”

Tracy is asleep before Molly’s footsteps leave the room.

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

[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