#criminal whumper

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

He dreams of revenge pt. 1

Dallon

this is going to be a two chapter story, inspired by this dream I had

word count: 2.7K

masterlist

TW: sibling death mention, suicide mention, referenced captivity and torture, suggestive themes (nothing 18+/nsfw happens, but there's a vibe), choking, fade-to-black ending, gun mention (hopefully i got all of it? lmk if i missed something)

I'm going to kill Wesley Shaw tonight.

I tried to accept it as a fact, doubting it would only bring about a load of unnecessary anxiety, and I didn't need anything that could potentially poison the success of this mission.

We had been planning the hit for months now, everything had to be perfect. Every step had been thought through well, we had plan Bs and Cs for each and every one of them. By the end of the night that monster would be dead.

Before we entered the convention centre, Bailey and I went over our cover stories and aliases, quick, as if we were reciting a a well-learned poem.

The only good thing, I could honestly say I liked about her, was that she spoke fast. Sure, she was a great cop, with a steady aim, and she was awfully insightful, she just never shut up, and I could never get over that.

I fought the assignment hard, when the project started, I'd have been willing to work with anyone, but her. If there was a chance for a slip of a tongue compromising the mission, I would want to prevent it, even if it ruined my reputation as a good partner to be assigned with.

Fuck Bailey. I planned on doing this right, thankfully our cover stories let us spend the first half of the evening separately. It was a safety measure we took, we pretend not to know each other, so if anything goes south, we don't drag each other down. I was entirely convinced this was put in the plan for my safety, I would never let myself get in trouble like that.

She got out of the car a block away from where I did. I was to arrive from another direction, at a different time.

"You're gonna do great, Dallon!" I heard the captain's voice throught the earpiece, I would discard immediately upon arrival. We didn't wish for luck on high stakes missions like this one.

"I know" I replied with full conviction. I was going to do great and Shaw would die and it was going to be perfect.

I got out of the car just in time to spot Bailey saunter inside, flashing her wristband to the security guard. I heard her laughter from where I stood, and felt an uneasy shiver run down my spine at the thought of having to "accidentally" run into her inside and rejoin forces for the takedown.

Phase one, I go inside and mingle. I already hated it, every ounce of willingness to talk had evaporated from me, as Bailey entered the building before I did. I still had a list of conversation starters and a hell of a great ability to lie my ass off going for me. I would not enjoy a second spent in this phase, but I'd do well enough.

It was too bright inside. My skin crawled with how many bodies pressed to my side as I tried to push through the crowd. I had to keep my eyes open and actually look, which took tremendous effort to keep up against the onslaught of sensations.

My heart jumped every time I saw a feature that slightly resembled the one haunting me in my nightmares. Every glimpse of light reflected from a pair of glasses, every face with black stubble on set me off to no end.

Phase two started, when I finally spotted him. He stood off to the side, surrounded by a close circle of people with a glass of champagne in hand, a horrendously smug smile on his face. The latter might have been my imagination, he could only have been smug if he considered himself the winner of the fight already, and he didn't even know about the operation. At the end of the night I planned to make that expression, while he bleeds out on the ground and I claim self-defense.

It started off easy, I positioned myself in the crowd so that I could keep an eye on Wesley at all times. This made it significantly harder to find my partner, who should also be looking for me after she found the target. He was hard to miss and however annoying Bailey was, she was a lot more comfortable getting lost in a crowd and had a decent amount of precision to spot him, maybe even faster than I did.

It wasn't time to get closer just yet, I needed to find Bailey, and start a conversation innocuously. For that to happen I needed to actually talk to people.

I joined a larger group, where a few others seemed to be just as much of an outsider as I was, so it isn't too weird that I joined. I laughed when the others did, tried to get a word in edgewise here and there, but I wasn't paying much attention.

I was scanning the crowd for my partner's outrageous golden dress and bright ginger hair. Against all odds, she was a lot harder to spot than Wesley Shaw, in his simple black suit. We locked eyes, it seemed she had found him as well. We had entered phase two.

We had to find our way to him. Not do dwell on the details, Bailey joined my group, then we went for drinks and pretended to introduce ourselves. We weren't missed after we left and let the crowd carry us to Wesley.

He wasn't surrounded as exclusively as I imagined, he was just an attendee like we were. It made our job all the more seamless.

When we joined the conversation he was a part of, we entered phase three. Get him alone and find something to arrest him for. We had a list of everything Wesley had ever done, incriminating himself, but it would be much easier, if he gave us a reason. I wasn't one for planting evidence and such things, that was usually below me. Not this time. Wesley Shaw was going down one way or another.

His voice was deep, I could feel it rumble in my stomach and if I didn't know who he was, I would have even enjoyed it. Maybe... It was hard to say. All I could think about was Marci and the way she looked at me when we found her, and that I'm so close to making the fucker pay for it. I hated waiting.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" Wesley aimed the question at me, looking me up and down. I shivered.

"No, I don't think so" I smiled politely, and reached a hand out for him to shake. "Max Brown" It's Dallon Burke, and I'm going to kill you.

"Wesley Shaw. I swear I feel like we've met before" Do you even remember Marci? Here's a hint you, kidnapped her and tortured her for almost a year.

"I guess, I have one of those faces" She was my twin. We looked alike before you destroyed her.

"Yeah, probably" She killed herself. Did you even know that?

I had no way of keeping time as it passed by. People came and went, someone brought drinks at one point. I never left Wesley's side. The conversation was superficial, we chatted away about events, fundraisers and the dresscode, and I spoke to the best of my knowledge of what I thought Max Brown would say.

He didn't like strict black and white attires, much like the one Wesley wore. He preferred some frill and colour, as demonstrated by my dark blue, satin button-up.

I forcibly smiled as much as I could. I was used to doing it all the time, especially throughout the preparation process for this operation, because I didn't want to let everyone know how much I despised having to work with Bailey. I had reached my limit that evening and my jaw started to hurt.

I flirted with her and she with Wesley. We agreed on this beforehand, because there was no way in hell I would be able to keep up the facade for him, at least with her, I could practice beforehand.

She was smart to leave for a little while, so we didn't raise suspicion, as far as everyone else was aware, we we're strangers to each other as much as we were to them. After she got back, stumbling and slurring her words a little, acting drunk - at least I prayed it was an act, a rather prejudiced thought on my part - we set phase four into motion.

"Would you two care to join me for another drink?" the monster asked. Bailey stood close to him, leaning slightly on his shoulder, giggling like it was the best night of her life. Even though I knew it was fake, the sight left a sour taste in my mouth. "Maybe somewhere more private?"

"This place is crammed with people, do you know of some VIP area we hadn't been invited to?" I meant for the question to sound light, I think it came out a little awkward. He didn't seem to mind. Arrogant prick.

"I have a suite booked in the hotel next door" he replied smoothly. Bailey inched even closer to him, batting her eyelashes with not-so-secret intent.

"A suite? Are you rich or something?" She played dumb well. Her voice, usually sharp, even grating at times, was not soft and feminine. I wished she spoke more like that.

Wesley Shaw laughed and pulled her close by the waist. His hand didn't wander lower than it was appropriate.

"And you, Max?" He raised an eyebrow, as he inquired, I found it sort of comical as the frame of his glasses obstructed the view of the lower one. The sight of this monster of a man with only half a brow gave me enough material to laugh and smile in his direction.

"I'd love to" I made my voice deeper on purpose, so it sounded like I was actually into the idea.

We made our way back to the gates and walked over to the hotel. We locked arms with Bailey from both sides to keep her upright. I was starting to doubt whether she was actually sober.

Wesley Shaw's luxury suite was on the fifth floor. He invited us to sit in the living room, and opened up a bottle of wine from a wine cooler.

I wondered if he had brought that with himself for this occasion, or it was the courtesy of the hotel staff.

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" Wesley stood up abruptly, just after filling our glasses and making himself comfortable. "I have to make a phone call, it can't wait" He apologized again. I nodded, sure, it was fine, I was understanding. He walked into the bedroom and pulled the sliding door panel shut.

As soon as he was out of our line of sight Bailey straightened up and poured out half of what her glass contained on a plant next to the couch.

We heard as he picked up the phone, he paced the room. We couldn't hear much. Bailey immediately relaxed back against the cushions, when we heard him walk closer.

"This is going to take a while" Wesley came back to the living room, covering the microphone with one hand, he was half whispering. "You could make yourselves comfortable in the bedroom until then, my laptop is out here"

"Are you sure?" I asked with fake concern. Max Brown wouldn't want to be a rude guest. "We can leave and catch up later"

"I'm sure" He smiled warmly. It burnt my face. "Ten minutes at maximum, I'll try to make it in five, though" Wesley winked at me. I wanted to strangle him, but instead, I grabbed Bailey by the arm, maybe a bit stronger than it was necessary and pulled her up to come with me to the bedroom.

I pulled the door in, leaving it open an inch, so we could hear better.

Bailey was tense again, no sign of the alcohol induced lazy relaxed version of her. She sat on the edge of the bed, listening, still as a statue.

I concentrated as well. And when I finally picked up the thread of the conversation, I looked at Bailey in disbelief.

It couldn't have been this easy. He was dictating account numbers into the phone, with names and places. Wesley Shaw started phase five by himself.

The microphones sewn into our clothes were sensitive enough to pick all the sound up. We needed to get at least one of the devices out of here, so it can be traced immediately. Bailey was the one delivering it, I was tasked with keeping him there, using force if necessary, until we get the okay to arrest him.

Bailey put the drunken act back on. She stood up, swaying a little on her feet and walked out of the room. She whispered incoherently, from too far away and Wesley waved her off, apparently way too lost in his laptop screen.

She was out. I undid the top two buttons of my shirt and sat on the edge of the bed. I thought about how I should have drunk that glass of wine at least. Not like I needed the courage, I felt determined now more than ever. All I had to do was pull my gun, that had been safely tugged into it's strap on my ankle under my wide-legged dress pants...

I didn't feel the weight of it as I lifted my leg up. I tried the other, since I'm bad with directions, because maybe I just forgot.

There was no gun. I desperately tried to find the last moment I remembered having it. In the surveillance van I checked before I headed inside and then nothing.

Wesley had stopped talking, I realised a second too late. He was standing in the doorway, with a questioning look on his face. I looked terribly awkward, patting the side of my ankles, looking for my gun. I hoped he was drunk enough not to notice, though I didn't remember him having a single sip of any glass of beverage he had in his hands through the night.

I don't know why or how, but that set me off, and I knew that he knew. Still I tried to save the situation. If ot came to it, I would kill him with my bare hands.

"Ba- Ashley f-felt sick, she said she'd, she'd be back later" I gulped. I fucked up, I was panicking and he knew "I- I told her not to come back, if, if she gets suck" I stammered. He merely hummed and crossed the space between us with three long strides. I was sitting on the bed, he looked tall.

I really thought I was a good liar. I had been a flawless one all night, why do I have to fuck it up the single most important minute?

"Maybe it's better like that, I'd hate to have to get rid of her, if she witnessed what's happening here" Wesley lifted my chin with a finger so I had to look him in the eye. I was frozen under his gaze. At least he didn't figure Bailey's cover out.

"You look so much like her, Dallon" he leaned down. He turned my face around to inspect it from every angle.

"I didn't think you would, but it's like she's right here. I don't know why you expected this little plan of yours to work"

"I'm going to kill you" I finally found my voice again. I pictured Marci's face, that was a carbon copy of my own, beat up, bruised and pale as a ghost. I looked healthy, no bruises or scars, maybe a slight tan I got from visiting our mother back home.

I was nothing like Marci.

"Sure, you will" Wesley laughed and his hand slid down from my chin to wrap around my throat.

"If only you had your gun" he whispered in my ear, hot and sticky, and he pushed me down on my back.

My hands flew to claw at the grip on my throat, but it was futile. I felt dark spots starting to dance around the edges of my vision, and they grew and grew until it all faded to black.

[aspergirl2022]

WITSEC Prompt

WITSEC (Witness Security) is a protection program for witness and their family in the combat against crime.

So imagine Whumpee receiving that program because they witness something Whumper did, something so dangerous Whumpee need to be protect by the government...

Whumpee has to change their name, their house until the trial's end and leave all their relatives and friends. But what happen when Whumpee meet Caretaker in this new town? Can they trust them and reveal their true identity despite the danger? Or should they keep the secret and stay safe but sacrifice their budding relationship with Caretaker?

[whumpitisthen]

Masterlist

Grab your character and shove their head underwater. Keep them pinned until they breathe in the water. Pull them up and let them splutter and cough. Push them under again. Pull them up. Let them use their precious seconds of air to beg. "Ple-Please, please stop — " Push them under again. Feel them squirm. Pull them up sooner; they couldn't hold their breath long enough. Once more for good measure. Don't let them up until they nearly suffocate. Pull them up and throw them to the ground, let them cough up all the water they swallowed. Pull them into your lap. They are shivering, the cold water having seeped deep into their bones. They are crying. They are going to try to pull away. Don't let them. Hush them gently. Card through their hair. Let them relax under your hands. Then drag them back over to the water. Put their nose right above the surface and keep their head right there. Let them imagine how it will feel to be pushed under again, held there, pulled up just so they can drown again. They will fight, they will sob, they will plead and barter and yell. They will be scared. Answer them with an order. "Take a deep breath for me." Watch them struggle to decide if they should. They probably won't be able to take one deep enough if they tried. Push them under. Watch them squirm. Repeat.

[chaotic-orphan]

Partners in Crime (2)

Read part one here

~*~*~*~*~*~

Casper peeled himself off the ground, his limbs exhausted as if he had just donated every drop of his blood. Even if he did donate all his blood, Monroe would still expect him to show up to work, or get Dante to grab his corpse for another fucking job.

He wobbled when he got his feet under him. It felt weird, like Monroe had cut off one of his senses; taken his eyes, or deafened him, or plucked every nerve from his body.

Monroe smiled at him as he grabbed the wall for support coming in from the balcony. “There you go, Casper. Taking it like a champ.”

“Oh fuck off, Monroe.”

Gavin laughed at that, eyes darting between the strange pair. Casper settled heavy into one of the chairs at the island, where Monroe was sitting when Casper arrived.

“Was any of this necessary?” Casper asked, not thanking Monroe as he slid a cup of coffee across to Casper. Little bit of milk, two sugars, just the way he liked it. “You still haven’t told me why you did it.”

Monroe inclined his head. “I thought I told you playing coy doesn’t suit you, Fox.”

“You think that I somehow betrayed you and used my power for someone else?”

Monroe just stared at Casper across the marble countertop. It was Gavin who answered. “He doesn’t think, Casper. He knows that—”

“Oh fuck off, Gavin, nobody wants you here,” Casper replied without looking at him. “You know that, right?”

“At least Gavin understands loyalty,” Monroe replied, heavy eyes pinning Casper to his chair. Casper rolled his eyes, bringing the steaming mug to his lips and gulping down two mouthfuls, gathering his thoughts.

“Like a dog,” Casper replied finally, casting his attention back to Monroe. “Well, I won’t be useful to whatever plans you want to discuss for the next few days. You’ve ensured that, dickhead.”

Monroe waved the insult away. “Nonsense. You know me, Casper, I like to plan well in advance. Your abilities should be up and running by the time I have use for them.”

“How convenient.”

“It really is. Just remember how you got to where you are today, Fox. How quickly your life changed after you met me.”

“Not for the better,” Casper grumbled.

Monroe raised his mug of coffee in a sardonic toast. “And yet, you can pay your rent.”

“As can you in your fancy hotel,” Casper shot back, raising his own cup. “Partners, remember?”

Monroe’s eyes glimmered with a dangerous smugness that Casper hated. It was just so irritatingly superior. “Partners,” he replied coolly.

They both took a sip of their coffee. Even with the two sugars, somehow Casper’s coffee tasted bitter, or maybe it was the eerie emptiness in his body. The dreadful absence of something he couldn’t quite describe.

“Now,” Monroe said, setting his cup down and clasping his hands on the table in front of him. “To business. Gavin, be a dear and grab my papers for me.”

Gavin stood and nodded, as if following Monroe’s commands were his life purpose. His reason to breathe. Casper kept his eyes trained on Gavin’s back as he left the room.

Stupid git.

Monroe inclined his head. “He’s useful.”

“Yeah, as a footstool. Or maybe with a gag, he would be.”

Monroe smiled. “Mmm, so tempting, Casper. I could get the pair of you a matching set. I’m sure Dante knows a guy.”

Dante answered with deathly silence as he so usually did. Casper could picture him in his usual spot, sprawled out across the couch in the living room, a book in his hand.

Casper scoffed. “I’m sure he does.”

Gavin returned, sliding a manilla folder across the countertop to Casper. Casper stopped it with his hand and looked down at the stupid file. He didn’t want to do this again, last time was supposed to be his last job. He wanted to wash his hands of this life already, he was tired of it.

“Do you need Gavin to open the file for you, Fox?”

Casper raised his eyes to Monroe’s across the table. He clenched his jaw and pushed the file a little away from him. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Open files?” Monroe asked innocently.

Casper’s expression dropped, exposing his irritation. “This. This fucking whatever we have here. Aren’t you tired? We got everything we want, Bass, let’s quit while we’re ahead.”

Monroe crossed his arms over his chest, cocking a brow at Casper. “You want to stop making money?”

“We have enough,” Casper grumbled. “The two of us, okay. You have your passive income now from your hotels and your real estate and I am secure. I have savings and shit. We don’t have to keep living like it’s all going to disappear tomorrow! We can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

“Easy to say when you’re not the one taking the risks!” Casper snapped. The air seemed to chill with the snap of a book behind Casper and he straightened in his seat as he heard Dante move behind him.

Gavin, the idiot, broke the silence with a sneer. “You’re such a fucking pussy, Casp—”

“Dante, please show Gavin out.”

Gavin’s head whipped to Monroe, but Monroe didn’t even look at him, his hard gaze fixed on Casper instead.

“What? Why, I can help.”

“I know, but it’s getting late, and Casper and I need a chat.”

Before Gavin could protest further, Dante put a hand on his shoulder. Gavin looked between the two at the counter before letting out a disapproving groan and shrugging Dante’s hand off.

“Fine. Call me when you need me.”

“I will.”

Dread pooled in Casper as he watched Dante and Gavin leave. Somehow, Monroe still made him uneasy when he shouldn’t. Casper had known Monroe way before the other two did, but Monroe had a lethal way about him. In his words and his quiet power. The fact that he could beat the shit out of Casper but paid someone else to do it said everything about the man.

Only when the doors to the penthouse shut did Monroe begin to walk around the counter towards Casper. Casper set his jaw, not letting any of his anxiety show as Monroe undid the button of his waist coat.

“You’re right you know,” Monroe said casually, attempting to disarm Casper. Casper had grown with Monroe; he’d seen him do this same set up right before he added the dagger to your kidney with a smile. “I don’t take the risks.”

“I know.”

A razor-sharp smile spread across Monroe’s lips that seemed too large for his face. “Do you know why I don’t take the risks?”

Casper scoffed and looked away. That was a mistake. If there was one thing Casper should’ve known — one thing Monroe taught him — it was to never take your eyes off the enemy. A flash of movement caught his eye and before he could face Monroe again there was a hand in his hair.

Casper flinched, then froze, his blood pounding an erratic war drumbeat in his ears as the hand ruffled his hair. Casper turned a wide-eyed glance to see Monroe smiling, genuinely this time. Casper wanted to slap Monroe’s hand away like he always did, but there was something wrong with this picture. Some void opened up in the pit of his stomach ready to swallow him whole, but he couldn’t put his finger on what.

“It’s because I don’t have to, Caspy,” Monroe said simply with a casual shrug, but his eyes… the way Monroe was staring at him reminded Casper of a wolf looking at a particular vulnerable piece of meat. “I pay Dante to do most of it.”

Casper batted Monroe’s hand away with his forearm, steeling his expression once more. “Yeah, and I do the rest, putting my life and freedom on the line.”

A flash of movement and Casper’s head slammed against the marble island counter. Casper’s hands shot to the hand on the back of his neck which pinched harder as he tried to pry it off.

“Casper…” Monroe sighed as Casper groaned, trying to push himself from the chair and out of Monroe’s reach. Monroe hooked his leg around the chair and slammed Casper’s head down again. The thump of his head off the counter resounded through his entire skull, rattling his brain. Casper cried out, letting go of Monroe’s hand and instead pushed against the countertop. “Sometimes you can be a real brat, y’know that?”

“Fuck you!” Casper spat, spit flying from his mouth as he cried out, Monroe crushing his skull against the cool stone. “Get off of me!”

“Remind me again, Caspy, why don’t I take the risks?”

Casper didn’t answer initially. Monroe’s fingers went to Casper’s hair at the nape of his neck, fisting a clump and yanking Casper’s head back over the chair. Frightened eyes met warm blue eyes, smiling down at him.

“I’m a patient man, Casper. I can wait for your answer.”

“Bas... let me–”

“EHH!” Monroe said, mimicking the sound of a wrong answer buzzer on a gameshow. “Try again.”

“Okay! Fine! I don’t know! Why don’t you take the risks?!” Casper spat, the words rushing out of him as his head snapped up again.

Monroe stared at him as if he were a piece of meat. Casper reached for his ability pathetically, finding nothing comforting when he found the usual well of magic inside him.

“I don’t take the risks, Casper,” Monroe began softly, crowding Casper as he lowered himself slightly to stand over him. “Because I’m not the unregistered powered individual between us.”

Casper’s lips curled back into a snarl. “You bastard! You were the one who told me not to register!”

“Potato-potahto.” Monroe’s hand in Casper’s hair snaked over his shoulder as he leaned in closer to Casper’s face, a mock comfort that only made Casper’s heart race in his chest. “Point is, if you want to cash out and settle now when we have so much potential, well then… my good morality would win out and I’d have to report you to the proper authorities.”

The words stung something deep inside Casper’s chest, as if one of his arteries to his heart had just been severed. Like Monroe reached into Casper’s chest, plucked at the wire connecting his heart to his body and snapped the chord with a sickening smile on his face.

Monroe… he wouldn’t do something like that. Not to Casper, not after everything they had been through. Casper was the only family Monroe had— not blood, but as close to it or better.

“You wouldn’t,” Casper challenged, his voice coming out far smaller than he intended, trying to call his bluff. This was the first time Monroe said anything like this to him. Granted, it was also the first time that Casper talked about quitting but…

Monroe’s smile was anything but warm as he pulled back, patting Casper’s shoulder with his hand. A gesture of mock reassurance. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Monroe straightened, pulling back altogether and began to undo his cufflinks as Casper straightened, trying to catch his breath and mulled over the threat silently. He felt sick, more so than he did when his powers were muted, but this was on a whole new level of control. Even for Monroe.

“Listen, Caspy, it’s not a bad thing we’re doing, and it’s not like I’m forcing you to do it.” Casper remained silent. He didn’t bother to point out the fact that Monroe was forcing him by blackmailing him into staying. Monroe’s voice turned soft, honey-coated words adding: “It’s for our mutual benefit, and you know – you know – I’d never let anything actually happen to you.”

Casper looked away from him, opting to stare forward instead out to the night-soaked sky that fell like a shudder over the city.

“You’ll see in time,” he said, unclipping his pocket watch and leaving it in front of Casper. “I haven’t steered us wrong before; I don’t plan on doing it now.”

When Casper still didn’t reply or look at him, Monroe sighed. From the corner of his eye, Casper could see Monroe run a hand through his hair. He was uncomfortable with his threat at least, Casper noted. At least he was still somewhat human.

“Tell ya what. I’ll have your bed made up in your room, huh? You’ll stay the night.”

“No thank you.”

“Nonsense. It’s already late.” Monroe said, gesturing to the windows. “Your room hasn’t been touched; I think your bed was stripped but other than that it’s golden.”

Casper crossed his arms across his chest. “I have an apartment. I’d rather go home.”

Monroe paused, glancing over his shoulder at Casper. Casper could feel the eyes boring into the side of his face, but he refused to look at the man. Even though his heart sped up in his chest. Was this considered being a brat in Monroe’s eyes? Would he hurt him again?

Casper stiffened, preparing for the blow.

Monroe hummed.

Casper risked a glance. It was a mistake.

“I wasn’t asking.” Monroe told him with a smile. “We haven’t had family time in a while. We should relax, hmm? Just the two of us. Catch up. How about a movie?”

“Bas—” Casper protested getting to his feet.

“You can choose the film. And we can order takeaway, that sushi place you like? I haven’t touched your room, but I can get one of the maids to make up your bed?”

Casper sighed. Monroe grinned at him, knowing he had won.

“Choose whatever, I’ll be a few minutes.” Monroe said before ruffling Casper’s hair again and turning away. The protests died on Casper’s tongue as he watched Monroe retreat to his bedroom to get changed.

He didn’t want to stay here ever again. That’s why he moved out in the first place. He had outgrown living with Monroe who blurred the lines between family and business associates in the blink of an eye. It gave him whiplash. To go from the caring, protective older brother to the cold-blooded bastard that was Monroe.

“Fuck,” Casper muttered under his breath. He really shouldn’t stay. He should disappear while Monroe was distracted and move country, or continent. Or planet if he didn’t want Dante to find him and drag him back.

Fuck.

He dropped his head, running a hand through his hair and pulling at the strands on the back of his neck, letting out a long, tired sigh. Pale eyes flicked to the golden pocket watch that Monroe had discarded on the counter. Casper glanced up, making sure Monroe wasn’t lingering as he grabbed it, turning it over in his hand to read the inscription.

Fight. The world has enough doormats anyways. - C

Casper ran a thumb over the indents of the letters in the metal. It was old. It was old when he got it from a backstreet merchant known only as Grouse. Definitely stolen, but Grouse always had a soft spot for Casper. And Monroe. The only real cost was the engraving that crippled Casper financially for a week, but it was worth it. To see Monroe’s face light up when he gave him the gift was worth it.

Casper sighed, putting the watch down and getting to his feet. After all this time, Monroe was still the only shred of family he had in this world, the same way Casper was Monroe’s only family. Monroe had found him on the streets — the two of them scrawny and skinny — and taught him how to live instead of just survive.

Casper remembered looking up at the terrifying boy a couple years older than him that had just taken out three guys double his size, probably triple Casper’s. Monroe’s eyes gleamed with something monstrous when he turned to face Caspe, his chest heaving as he threw down the lid to the trashcan he had used to fight the other boys.

Monroe’s gaze softened when they fixed on Casper’s half concealed body. “You just gonna lay there and die, or are you gonna fight?”

Casper blinked owlishly at the boy. People rarely noticed him, let alone spoke to him when they saw him. He risked sticking his neck out a little to get a better look at the hot-blooded boy. He had blood gushing down from his hairline, staining the right side of his face.

Casper’s eyes widened as he saw one of the boys get to his feet behind the boy. Casper didn’t think, he just moved. He dashed past the other boy, standing between his saviour and the other boy. He scooped the metal lid from the ground and mimicked how the nice boy fought. He smashed the lid up, not quite reaching the taller boy’s chin like his saviour, but instead slammed it into the other boy’s chest, then below his ribs before sweeping it against the back of the bully’s legs.

The hulk fell with a thud. Wordlessly, Casper turned to face his saviour who was beaming down at him. Up close, Casper could see the dirt on the boy’s face and the small red stream down his nose. His teeth-stained red. The boy put a hand in Casper’s hair and ruffled it.

“A fighter. Good. The world has enough doormats anyways.”

The words were the nugget of wisdom Monroe had told Casper, back when they were kids. It wasn’t the full quote because the engraver said that it wouldn’t fit on the back of the pocket watch, so Casper pulled out the important parts and cut the rest.

Monroe taught him the way to survive the streets. He taught him everything he knows; rumours were power, favours currency, and of everything Monroe had taught him, only the smart ones survive.

That initial mantra – you just gonna lay there and die? – echoed in Casper’s mind like an earworm, every time someone hit him to the ground, he’d hear Monroe’s voice and get back up.

Casper walked into his room and stood in the doorway, taking it all in. Everything was how he left it. His bed took up most of the room, a super king and softer than any bed he had ever slept in. His PC was set up on his desk in the corner of the room, his screensaver lighting up the screen. Casper made a point not to look at it as he took the first door to his right.

His wardrobe, a small box room with shelves panelled into each wall and a hanging space in the back. Casper grabbed black tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie, getting dressed in the wardrobe. Hanging his signature leather leather jacket up with care and throwing the rest of his clothes wherever they landed.

It felt good, like old times as he stepped out of the wardrobe and walked to his ensuite. He missed him, the old Monroe; the version that was like an older brother. Bass. Not the dictator who had taken over Bass’s body, the hard businessman Monroe, who took whatever he wanted and left nothing for anyone else.

Casper made a point of ignoring the small voice in the back of his head that told him that’s the way Bass had always been. That it was Casper who changed. He didn’t have the energy to deal with that kind of revelation tonight.

He stopped in front of the mirror and sighed. He didn’t look into it, but he could see the gash on his forehead from the corner of his eye.

Just wash your face, Casper, he told himself. Tiredness pulled at his mind, fraying the edges slightly. He didn’t notice he was tired before, but the weight of everything felt too great. Or maybe it was because he was in comfortable clothes.

Just remember how you got here, Casper, Monroe isn’t there for you. He really wished that voice would shut up for two seconds. Thankfully there was a knock at his door.

“You ready?” Monroe called from the other side. Casper nodded, realising after that Monroe couldn’t see him right now. “Yeah,” he said back, walking to the door and opening it. Monroe grinned at him. He was dressed in red and black chequered pyjama pants and a white t-shirt. His grin exposed his faint dimple that was so much more prominent when they were kids.

Casper followed him to the couch, settling in while Monroe pressed a button on a remote to lower the blinds over the windows. They closed with a soft hum while Casper scrolled through Netflix looking for something to watch. He had one hand on the armrest of the sofa, propping his chin up while he scanned the films idly.

“I called for Maid to come up and change your bed, and asked Butler to place the order for sushi.” Monroe told him, scrolling through his phone casually.

Casper hummed in reply. From the corner of his eye he saw Monroe pause his scrolling on his phone and turn to face him.

“Oi, don’t tell me you’re still mad about today,” Monroe said. Casper shrugged one shoulder, eyes still focused on the TV. “Caspy,” Monroe whined like a child, slamming his foot at Casper’s leg. “Come on.”

“You got your dog to force me to drink some fucking potion that cuts me off from my powers for who knows how long, and then threatened to expose me to the government for being an unregistered Supe.” Casper said, turning his head to glare at Monroe now. “Sorry if I’m a little pissed off.”

“That’s business, Casp. You know that.” Casper studied Monroe’s face, his jaw clenched. Monroe’s face softened, a cheeky grin exposing his dimple again. “Casper~” he sang, setting his phone down on the armchair. “You can’t be mad at me forever.”

Before Casper could reply, Monroe lunged and caught Casper around the neck. His elbow locked around Casper’s throat while his other hand went to his hair, knuckles poised and ready. Casper kicked out, forcing the pair of them back against the couch cushions, trying to break free. Monroe responded in kind, locking his legs around Casper’s waist, immobilising him completely.

“Say you love me.”

“No!”

“Say you love me.”

“No way!” Casper grunted, pulling on the elbow locked around his neck and pulling it off slightly. He couldn’t help the smile that came to his face. “Get off me, idiot!”

“Say you love me or I won’t let go.”

“I’m going to punch you,” Casper told him.

Monroe sighed, tightening his grip on Casper’s waist with his legs. “Then you forced my hand.” His voice grave.

Casper cried out when Monroe gave him a nuggie, bucking wildly as his hands reached for Monroe’s wrists and yanked his hands off Casper’s head. Casper planted his foot on the couch and launched them off the side, rolling until he was free of Monroe’s clutches, a wide grin on his face.

Monroe got to his hands and knees with a small laugh. “Say you love me or I’ll eat all the sushi in front of you.”

“Like you could.”

“I’m serious,” Monroe said, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll get Butler to tie you up and you can watch me eat all the beautiful dead fish.”

The doorbell rang. The brother’s locked eyes for a moment. Then it was a mad dash for the door. Casper reached it first, smiling at Butler, hand out to get the food before Monroe barrelled into him from the side, and pushed him to the ground.

“Thank you, Butler,” Monroe said, fixing his hair and grabbing the bag. “You are a star.”

“Of course, Mr Monroe.” Butler said, his eyes drifting behind Monroe. Casper’s hand darted over Monroe’s shoulder, kicking the older man in his shins and grabbing the bag of food.

“Thank you Butler!” Casper called over his shoulder, dashing to the kitchen and quickly unpacking the dishes.

Butler hummed while Monroe groaned, taking Butler’s outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you both together again,” he said earnestly.

Monroe’s grin melted to a genuine smile. “He’s still a little shit.”

“As are you, sir.” Butler said with a wink. Monroe waved the old man’s comment away with a breath through his teeth.

“Psssh, me? Never.”

“Indeed.”

The rustling of cartons and paper bags drew Monroe to the kitchen, where he saw Casper sitting on the edge of the countertop, a piece of California roll between two chopsticks.

Monroe smiled at the scene. It was good to be together again, to see his little shithead of a brother again. Compared to what he was when they were kids, Casper was a man now, same as him. He didn’t need as much protection as before, Monroe would always be there for him. Always.

Even when Casper didn’t want him to be anymore.

[rizzoto-whump]

Tag your whumper/whumpee/caretaker/OC

[reid-whump]

Last Words Dialogue Prompts:

“This feels like…it’s like my last sunset, you know?”

“You’re gonna leave and you’re gonna win this thing. No, I’m gonna be right there with you, baby, no matter what.”

“You can’t leave me here? Of course you fucking can! Go!”

“It’s weird that this is the…the sensation people dread the most. I’ve never felt more at peace.”

“I’d always hoped I would die somewhere prettier, but I guess I can’t complain when you’re here.”

“I’m scared.”

“Can you just…look at me?”

“Caretaker…caretaker stop it. You can’t save me this time.”

“I’m sorry it ended this way.”

“Caretaker i loved you so much, before all this I mean. I still do.”

“Guys we don’t have time for this. Let me fucking die.”

“It’s funny…when I said I wanted to be young forever, I didn’t think I would be this young.”

“Um…i don’t feel so…collapses.”

“Please hold me.”

“Caretaker i can’t escape them, even in death. Caretaker help me.”

[whump-me-all-night-long]

"Just keep talking. You're only making it worse for yourself."

- Lonesome

"Just keep talking," the prince said with a lazy smirk, leaning against the dark, damp dungeon wall. "You're only making it worse for yourself."

The thief scoffed, attempting to make themself larger despite hanging rather limply from the chains around their wrists. Spitting a glob of blood-tinted saliva at the royal's feet, they snapped, "Oh, just get on with it already. All the anticipation and suspense is getting a bit tedious."

With a bored shrug, the prince pushed himself upright, walking leisurely to the shelf of torture instruments. Picking up some wicked-looking knives, he said casually, "I'm terribly sorry for boring you. If there's one thing I hate—besides dirty thieving rats like yourself—it's disappointing a captive audience."

Finally settling on a particularly terrifying blade, the prince strolled over to the thief, who was desperately trying to maintain their facade of calm, cool, and collected. Baring their bloody teeth, they stared into the prince's ice cold eyes. "I won't talk," they growled with gritted teeth.

The prince smiled at them, perfectly straight pearly whites gleaming. "I know," they said, running the cool blade across the side of the thief's face, just enough for their breath to hitch and their body to tense. "You won't talk. You will sing. And sing beautifully at that."

Then the prince began.

[kim-poce]

4. A Brand New Life: Chaos

Previous

Masterlist

CW: pet whump, deaf whumpee, fear of punishment, caretaker new master, reformed criminal caretaker, killing briefly being referred to as ‘put down’, it/its pronouns in a dehumanizing way.

=-=

Many many people had owned it, and it went back to the facility too many times to be able to remember all of them. No owner —in the memories it can recall— was as big as this one. This new one wasn’t only toweringly taller than it, he was also so strong, it was sure that he could kill it with a kick if he wanted. It tried not to think about it, this is the biggest but many others were cruel. Crueler it dared to hope. It needed to hope because it had to, somehow, anger this owner enough to be sent back but not enough to be put down.

Trying to plan something so delicate was hard for its dumb pet, and it was getting harder and harder as time passed, exhaustion came without a word of warning, like a sudden storm breaking everything in its way. And just like with a storm, it can't do much to fight the sleepiness. It wasn't that much of a stupid pet to stop trying to force itself awake, though. The comfortable dog bed was just like the clean water; a trap. And it knew so much better than falling into the first trap in a new home.

There was a time that the knowledge of the punishment to come was enough to keep it up. When it had enough control over its body to stay awake days and days in a row unless ordered otherwise. Back then wouldn't close its eyes to blink just to open them too many hours later with the big scary-looking new owner looking down at it. There was such a time. But that was too long ago.

It shivered. What else could it even do but shiver, look down and wait for the pain? It guessed it could, maybe, look up. It could show that it is sorry and it will do anything to make up for it. But the instinct to cower away far predated its need to look up to understand orders. And in the fear, all that's left is instinct and flashes of painful memories.

Its eyes closed shut when, through its eyelashes, it saw the new owner's hand raising. It was almost grateful, both for knowing what the first hit was going to be and for it to be a slap instead of a punch, a kick, or a baseball bat. It would all come later but at last not at the start. It would be fully grateful for that if the new owner wasn't so very big, and if it wasn't so small and skinny.

The pain didn't come, though. Just a touch. An odd touch. Dry, rough skin in a soft touch. The hand was slow, it slid down from its cheek to its chin. Causing the shiver to increase so very much. The hand, new owner's hand, the one who can hurt it as much as it wants, slowly —always slowly— lift its head.

It was still scared. In truth, scared isn't the right word. After all, even people can feel scared, and what it felt was so much deeper than that. Deeper enough, it was sure, to earn a whole new word. Dread was closer to the feeling, although it felt it wasn’t enough. But there will never be a word for it, it was a pet kind of feeling, and no one bother about what these lesser things feel.

It opened its eyes. The ‘dread’ was still there, but isn't it always? Eating it alive way faster than any torture could. But maybe its ever-presence made it not strong enough to freeze forever. Almost but not enough. Not anymore, anyway.

New owner mouthed something, it didn't try to read it, not truly read. It could be any word, that was way too many words to and it didn't want to pick the wrong one. So it stared, trying to match the word with one of the normal usual orders. It wasn't ‘kneel’ (although it should be kneeling, it hadn't even noticed it was still laying down), it wasn't ‘get up,’ ‘fetch,’ or ‘look down.’ It wasn't even a curse. Just when all the memorized words had failed to match the mouthed one it tried to read properly.

“...th… brea…the… breathe,” new owner mouthed slowly.

Breath? Oh. It wasn’t breathing, was it? Just then it realized that its lung was begging for air for quite a while now, it took a deep desperate breath and flinched, sure it had been loud, it tried to read its owner again. He was still mouthing the same word. So maybe it wasn’t loud after all. It felt weaker all of a sudden. Oh. It wasn’t breathing again.

“Breathe in… breath out. Good boy,” Owner said, it was an undeserved praise, it was anything but good. “breath in… breath out… breath in…”

It obeyed. At the very least, it knew how to breathe, it wasn’t that useless of a pet.

At some point, new owner was holding the (trap) water glass close to its lips, helping it drink water slowly, it noticed that he was doing everything very very slowly. Good. It’s so lucky that he has patience.

No! it thought-screamed to itself. It isn’t luck, you need to make him angry so you can go back to the shelter!

New owner mouthed something again, but it was too many words, and it couldn’t follow even simple orders, so it looked down, there was no reason to try if it’ll fail anyway, and maybe this way new owner labels it ‘too fucking useless’ and sent it back. It didn’t work, it only made the hand come back to its chin, gent- gently? Nothing is ever gentle, the hand slowly lifted its head back up.

“It’s okay,” new owner said, and if it was any less scared or any more defiant it would laugh right then.

‘It’s okay.’ That’s not even a real thing. Not that it mattered anyway, it was lightheaded, maybe it wasn’t breathing right again, or it was dreaming and this all was a nightmare, or it was dehydrated enough to hallucinate again. Maybe it wasn’t even alive anymore. It just knew it was scared, and it was so very tired. It wanted to go back, it wanted caretaker. It doesn’t like it here.

“Hey, hey,” new owner said after making sure it was looking up. “.... don’t cry… here… okay?”

It is not okay. It’s not okay. It is not-

The hand was wiping its tears away now. Oh! It thought. So it is a dream, there is no way an owner would do it.

It relaxed, as long as it is silent no one ever punished it for dreaming of comfort. It leaned on the hand like it had learned to so long ago, and it cried, it was fine because it wasn’t real. Owner won’t be angry about things he doesn’t know, about things that didn’t even actually happen. It knows it was not allowed to sleep yet, so it shouldn’t be dreaming at all. But wasn’t it trying to be bad anyway? It doesn’t know, its thought seems to be crashing against each other, waving at every change of its feeling. It doesn’t care anymore, at least it doesn’t care right this moment.

Dream Owner was still big, still scared, but he was also very careful, his touch was soft, so all it focused on was his soft and warm skin against its.

———

The pet’s reaction was chaos. First, fear of me, then despair for air, then fear of me again, and despair for water. He cried after this, I think it was for fear at first (unsurprisingly), but for relief right after. I just… don’t understand him at all.

I almost pulled my hand away when he leaned on it, it caught me completely off guard, he was suddenly comfortable, as if he seeing someone else instead of me. Not that I am complaining, rather than that I was glad that he could relax a bit, even if for a while. So I caressed him as gently as I could, I wasn’t used to being gentle but I know it’s never too late to learn.

The pet leaned on me and went back to sleep. Maybe he, just like myself, went to sleep too late the day before. I left his breakfast near the bed with another note. I forgot to ask if he could read back in the shelter, but it doesn’t hurt to try (even if the previous note didn’t work).

“Good night,” I said uselessly as I covered him with his blanket. “Sleep well.”

=-=

Taglist: @extemporary-whump, @cupcakes-and-pain, @d-cs, @hollowgast1, @inpainandsuffering, @pinkraindropsfell, @the-magpiesystem, @nicolepascaline, @dainluvr, @a-dead-tea, @fishtale88, @greenwhump, @pigeonwhumps, @wolfeyedwitch, @isntthisblank, @emcscared-whumps, @alienmashup, @neverthelass, @batfacedliar-yetagain, @sacredwrath, @blu-jay-2779, @rose-pinkie, @latenightcupsofcoffee, @espresso-depresso-system

[tater-tot-jr]

Whump community. I need help. Give me your best mafia whump. Prompts, characters ideas, anything helps. Thank you all and god bless.

[spritehouse]

Put Down the Knife (we're not swapping blood)

read on ao3

Prompts: "What happened to me?" (no. 29), Reluctant Whumper (alt), & "Take it easy" (no. 30) | @whumptober-archive

⚠️Content Warnings: kidnapping, mentions of torture and drugging/drugs, flashbacks (about hankel), violence (including, strangulation, stabbing, and gunshots), hospitals - nothing is graphic! please read responsibly!

Pairing: Luke Alvez/Spencer Reid

Summary: Luke’s movements are ragged and desperate, a result of the drugs coursing through his system, not the smooth and seamless motions Spencer has memorized from mandatory hand-to-hand combat practice, and if it were anyone else—anyone who didn’t train with their partner, probably going easy on them—they could disarm and pin him easily– “Luke! Please–” –but Spencer can’t, hot tears burning in his eyes, blurring his vision, every ounce of understanding, knowing that this isn’t the man he married, flying out the window as his partner stands before him. “I’m sorry.”

- or, luke gets kidnapped and spencer has to face a partner who doesn't recognize him

Notes: this is it for whumptober! thank you everyone who read, left kudos & comments/liked any of my works, i really enjoyed participating this year :]

“Luke!”

Spencer coughs, choking on blood as his partner slams his back against the brick wall, a cold hand with a crushing grip wrapping around his throat, unseeing eyes with an achingly unfamiliar gaze in overflowing amber he usually holds onto like a lifeline staring into his soul.

“Reid!”

The brunette’s fingers scramble to claw at Luke’s suffocating hold, shaking his head as he makes eye contact with Emily, her gun trained on the older agent.

“DON’T!” He shouts, his gaze returning to his partner, searching for a sign that he’s still in there, dark, dilated pupils staring back. “Luke, it’s me! It’s Spencer–!”

The hand around his neck tightens, taking the last of his air, the desperate words dying before they leave his lips as darkness dances in the edges of his vision.

“Luke–”

Time seems to slow down in the seconds after he hears the first shot, unsure of the source until pain tears through his side, blade carving through his flesh before both of them fall, and everything goes dark.

He can’t breathe.

Luke is missing.

He can’t breathe, stumbling through the precinct on unsteady feet, staggering into the bathroom, and collapsing to his knees, expelling the meager contents of his mostly empty stomach.

Luke is missing.

He leans against the wall, his usually overactive brain ignoring statistics about the number of germs in public restrooms in favor of repeating one thing.

Luke is missing.

Luke is missing.

Luke is missing. Luke is missing. LukeismissingLukeismissingLukeismissing–

“Spence– Spence!” JJ is crouching in front of him, holding his trembling hands between hers, squeezing them slightly as he flinches, words finally reaching him under the waves of panic washing over him like the rising tide. “There you are. It’s okay, Spence, deep breaths–”

“Can’t– He’s missing. Gone. Can’t breathe– He’s gone– He–” Spencer sputters, eyes darting back and forth, adrenaline sending his senses into overdrive. “He’s gone. They took him. They took him. He’s gone–”

“I know you’re scared, Spence–”

“He’s drugging them, Jen, and torturing them—fucking with their heads—Luke is being– He–” He stops, taking in shuttered gasps, head spinning from the lack of oxygen, closing his eyes as he squeezes his friend’s hands. 

“I know, Spence, but Luke is strong, and he knows we’re looking for him, that you are looking for him, and we won’t stop until he’s safe. We’ll find him, and then you’ll be there for him the whole time—he’ll never be alone—no matter what. Right?”

“Yeah– Yeah. He’s strong; he’ll be okay. The unsub doesn’t kill them. He won’t kill him unless he deviates–”

“He won’t, Spence, this guy is organized, and Luke knows that too. He’ll be okay.”

“He’ll be okay,” Spencer repeats with a nod. “He’ll be okay.”

He has to be; Spencer doesn’t know what he’ll do otherwise.

It’s dark and damp in the empty park Spencer sits in, staring into the distance, clutching his phone while he waits.

“The park you met—10 PM—come alone and unarmed.”

They didn’t get anything from the call, unable to place a trap and trace or pick up any sounds in the background that gave them something, anything.

“Or he dies.”

They don’t have enough information for anything else, forced to play into the unsubs hands, sending Spencer in as bait.

He never protested, only arguing when the higher-ups almost refused to let him go, desperate to do anything to see Luke again.

“Perimeter is clear, Spence,” Emily says through his comm, her voice level and calm with an edge of anxiety at the prospect of two of her agents, her friends, her family being in harm’s way. “Five minutes. We’ve got your back.”

Spencer stares at the package, holding it in shaky hands, staring at his name scrawled across the top.

Doctor Spencer Reid-Alvez.

He tears away the brown paper carefully, taking a step back with a gasp as the wrapping reveals a silver chain with dog tags– Luke’s dog tags in a plastic bag, blood staining the silver.

“Spence–”

He can’t breathe, staring at the chain on the table; the sight of it without his partner burned into his brain.

“His ring is missing.”

He stares at the spot where the band, almost identical to the one that sits on Spencer’s finger, save for a small nick on the side and the width—Spencer fell while chasing an unsub, the hand with his ring catching his fall against concrete, and Luke’s is slightly thicker—usually stays, the older agent unwilling to lose it in the field.

“They took his ring. They took it. It’s gone. It’s not here–”

“Spence–”

He’s spiraling again, he knows he is, but he can’t stop it, his nails digging into his palms until they draw blood, head spinning as he hyperventilates, imaging his husband where he’s been—in that little shack in Georgia, smelling burning fish hearts and livers, cold and utterly alone–

“Spencer–”

–but there’s no camera, no connection, no way of communicating with the rest of the world, nothing to keep him present, desperate to send a message, drifting into a haze of dissociation and drugs instead–

“Come on, Spence, open your eyes. Look at me.”

Fingers pry his fists open, making the brunette shutter as the suffocating air touches torn skin, eyes flying open, finding himself on the floor of the conference room.

“It’s a trophy, Spence,” Emily speaks softly, still holding the younger agent’s hands. “He takes trophies—symbols of love—but he doesn’t kill them. Luke is still alive–”

Spencer shakes his head, pulling his hands out of hers and sealing them over his ears; sounds and smells the click of a revolver, damp dirt, dust, everything—overwhelming his senses, the band around his finger burning the skin until he has to pry it off, holding clutching it in his bloody palms.

“We’re going to find him, Spence,” Emily murmurs a string of steady reassurances as her agent gasps, stuttering and stumbling over desperate sobs until his tears taper, eyes running dry, room lapsing into solemn silence until–

“Guys,” Penelope gasps, grabbing Spencer’s phone as it rings, the screen lighting up with Luke’s number—the call they’ve been waiting for. “It’s him.”

 He remembers the first time they met.

Spencer remembers everything, but time still takes its toll on the strips of film filling his head, scenes losing some sounds and smells, leaving him staring at silent and detached pictures.

But that day is as clear and crisp as the leaves that littered the ground like scattered sunsets of scarlet, orange, and brown, the air cool and calm as chess clocks clicked, turns ticking on.

This is different, so different.

He doesn’t recognize his husband’s silhouette at first, shadow staggering over the hill until the soft glow of the lamps’ lights illuminates the stained, golden skin he knows every inch of.

“Luke…?”

And then he catches the soft glint in his hand, metal shining, reflecting the starts in Luke’s grasp, gaze locked on the blade until Spencer can see his partner’s dilated pupils–

“Luke?”

“‘Pence…?”

JJ looks up from her messages with Emily as her friend speaks, voice soft and scratchy, entire body tensing as Luke pries his eyes open, panic washing over him as he pulls on the soft restraints around his wrists.

“Hey– Hey, Luke, look at me.” She’s by his side in a second, drawing the disoriented agent’s attention away from the soft cuffs around his wrists.

“JJ? What–”

“It’s okay. Everything’s okay. Take it easy. Breathe, Luke. I will explain everything, but I need you to breathe. Okay?” He nods, taking stuttered, staccato breaths as he looks away, studying the machines surrounding him, pausing at the chain on the table beside him, missing the most important piece–

“What happened to me?” Luke looks up at her, catching how the blonde’s mask of calm slips for just a split second. “JJ, what did I do?”

It happens too fast.

Suddenly, he’s running, sprinting down the streets, listening to the sound of his partner’s feet hitting the concrete behind him.

“Spence? What’s going on?”

He doesn’t answer, lungs aching, on fire from the strain, only focused on escaping–

“Reid!”

“Don’t shoot him!” Spencer chokes, stumbling over his feet before turning a sharp corner. “Whatever you do—Do. Not. Shoot.”

“Spence–”

Pain shoots through his body as he falls against the pavement, skin ripping on sharp rocks waiting where he lands.

“Don’t fucking shoot, Em!” He nearly screams into the comms, staggering to his feet to face his partner, Luke’s eyes empty and unseeing—unrecognizing—as he lunges towards the younger brunette. “EMILY–”

“Okay! Okay—standing down—Spence–”

More agony cuts Emily off, exploding through him as his husband slams him against the ground, something in him shattering–

“Luke–!”

He scrambles to his feet, staggering back, taking shuddering gasps as he glances between Luke and his comm on the ground.

“Luke, come on, look at me–”

Spencer ducks out of the way as his partner dives toward him, knife nicking his shoulder as his movement stutters, hearing someone shout his name in the distance.

“Spence!”

“Stay back!”

He can’t win this fight.

“Spencer!”

Even if he was willing to hurt his husband, he could never overpower him.

“Luke!”

Luke’s movements are ragged and desperate, a result of the drugs coursing through his system, not the smooth and seamless motions Spencer has memorized from mandatory hand-to-hand combat practice, and if it were anyone else—anyone who didn’t train with their partner, probably going easy on them—they could disarm and pin him easily–

“Luke! Please–”

–but Spencer can’t, hot tears burning in his eyes, blurring his vision, every ounce of understanding, knowing that this isn’t the man he married, flying out the window as his partner stands before him.

“I’m sorry.”

But he also can’t lose, can’t let Luke hurt him how the drugs want him to, can’t let him wake up to that–

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry–”

He’s stuck.

Spencer is awake by the time the unit chief has dealt with the diplomatic mess two married FBI agents fighting in the street made, and Emily is starting to think he’d rise from the dead to chew her out if he could.

“Reid–”

Derek is by his side, silent as his friend’s anger unfolds.

“I told you not to shoot him.”

His ring has returned to his finger following his surgery, almost as if it never left, a testament to Spencer’s resolve—his unrelenting adoration for his partner.

“Spencer, he was going to kill you–”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“He almost did!” The younger brunette clenches his jaw, clasping his left hand around his right, hiding the finger that holds his ring. “I know it wasn’t him, Spence—that wasn’t Luke—and because of that, he almost killed you; I don’t blame him, but it’s true.”

Spencer is silent for a second, staring at his boss—not his friend, not right now—lips pressed into a tight line.

“I could’ve gotten through to him–”

“No, Spence, you couldn’t have,” He opens his mouth to interrupt, but Emily stops him. “Your emotions are clouding your judgment, Spencer, and I don’t blame you. You love him—he’s your husband—but I know part of you understands that your love is keeping you from seeing this rationally; part of you knows that you couldn’t have gotten through to him, not with the drugs that were in his system.”

Spencer frowns, glancing at Derek with a sigh.

“How is he?” He asks after a second, fidgeting with his ring as he stares at the stuffed bear Penelope got him.

“He’s been in and out. Tara’s been with him for a while, and JJ just took over to give her time to rest, but we’ll probably have to wait for him to sober up to see how he’s doing,” Emily reports, watching her agent for any tension as she talks. “His doctors are monitoring him closely and trying to keep the medication they give him to a minimum. I hit him in the thigh, and the bullet went through and through cleanly; he’ll probably recover faster than you.”

“Okay,” Spencer nods, chewing on his bottom lip as he processes, making a mental note of everything. “Keep me updated?”

“Of course.”

“Luke–”

Spencer coughs, choking on blood as his partner slams his back against the brick wall, a cold hand with a crushing grip wrapping around his throat, unseeing eyes with an achingly unfamiliar gaze in overflowing amber he usually holds onto like a lifeline staring into his soul.

“Reid!”

The brunette’s fingers scramble to claw at Luke’s suffocating hold, shaking his head as he makes eye contact with Emily, her gun trained on the older agent.

“DON’T!” He shouts, his gaze returning to his partner, searching for a sign that he’s still in there, dark, dilated pupils staring back. “Come on, Luke, it’s me! Please. It’s me–”

The hand around his neck tightens, taking the last of his air, the desperate words dying before they leave his lips as darkness dances in the edges of his vision.

“Luke–”

Time seems to slow down in the seconds after he hears the first shot, unsure of the source until pain tears through his side, blade carving through his flesh before both of them fall, and everything goes dark.

Luke’s shoulders are tense, trembling hands clenching the blanket in his lap as Spencer turns the corner, steps staggering as he sees his husband.

“Cariño–”

He breaks the short distance between them in a second, practically lunging into the older brunette’s arms, burying his face in Luke’s neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–” Spencer’s tears soak his skin, seeping into the collar of his shirt.

“Don’t apologize, cariño. Please don’t apologize. It’s not your fault,” Luke’s hand rests on his partner’s back, their arms intertwining like two halves of a whole slotting together. “I’m sorry for scaring you, Spence. You know I would never hurt you if I could help it—right?”

“I know,” Spencer nods as Luke peppers gentle kisses across his hairline. “It wasn’t you; I know.”

“Okay—good—because it’s true, Spence. I would never hurt you.”

The younger agent hums happily, leaning against his husband’s chest, listening to his heart as he takes Luke’s hand, slipping a silver band around his finger.

“I know,” He smiles softly, kissing his partner’s jaw, relishing the familiar feeling of stubble against his skin. “I know. I love you.”

[lizzyverydizzyyo]

D.E.A.N | Chapter 31 - Civilian (END)

Masterlist and overall summary of the whole novel is here. | Prompt on trope-appreciation-tuesdays that inspired this is here. | @whumptober-archive

Fandom : Original Work

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)

AO3

A/N Aaaaaand here we are at last. The last chapter. The pseudo epilogue. The wrap-up. The end (before a new beginning for the sequel). I'm so proud of myself because this is genuinely the first long fic I've ever finished in my entire life. I have so many WIPs and they're all always half-written and get somewhat abandoned in the middle. Maybe this is the beginning of me finally being able to finish my other WIPs, including the sequel for D.E.A.N.

I cannot promise when I will start posting the chapters of the sequel, but with the first book in the installment now finished, it might be a little easier to finish writing the second book too because I don't have to jump around between writing two of them. I have another whump misunderstanding WIP too about a prince and a knight in a medieval setting that has a similar premise to D.E.A.N. And I have an anthology-style non-linear whump fic about two of my original OCs that are basically the prototype of Mark and Nick (you can read them on my AO3, if you want). It's likely that I will start posting those before posting D.E.A.N - Resurgence, so please be patient.

Anyway, if you want to read this chapter and immerse yourself, I suggest reading this while listening to T*ylor Sw*ft's "Wildest Dream", because Nick and Mark are so "Wildest Dream"-coded lol. Not to mention I loosely base Mark's appearance on Scott Eastwood, who is in that song's music video. Look, I know a lot of people here don't like her, but some of her songs are really good and fascinating, and I think that song really fits the end of D.E.A.N. (If you want to immerse yourself when reading the first few chapters, especially Chapter 15 - Visit, I suggest listening to Adele's Easy on Me, because that's the song I was constantly listening to when writing those chapters).

Anyway, adieu everyone! I'll see you in the next book, hopefully soon!

Wordcount: ± 5067

TW: Discussion of Past Sexual Assault, Kidnapping, Captivity, and Torture, Allusion to Slight Panic Attack, Allusion to Past Suicide Attempt

After all is said and done, and the dust has settled, Mark realizes everything will—and has to—change from now on, so he takes care of some unresolved heartfelt business before going ghost with the hope that it’s not going to be forever.

Whumptober 2023 Tropes:

Day 16 — “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

Day 21 — Vows

Day 29 — Troubled Past Resurfacing

This story is set in the last half of 2016.

——

"Mister Belyaev! Mister Belyaev! Over here!"

"Nikolai, how would you describe your experience in Helga?"

"Nick Belyaev, is it true you made Helga network?"

"Nicky, over here!"

"Nikolai, can you tell us anything about your rescuers? They were said to be confidential?"

"Mister Belyaev, is it true you were prostituted to several senators? Which ones are they?"

"You were said to be the first surviving victim of Helga, is that true? How do you feel about that, Nick?"

"Mister Belyaev, can you tell us which politicians you know are involved in this syndicate?"

"Nikolai Belyaev, can you look here for a bit?"

The screen of the heavy-duty laptop is showing Mark the scene of Nick slightly slouching and covering his face with his hands, while double D.E.A.N/Secret Service agents stationed to protect Nick are trying their hardest to create barriers between the heterochromatic-eyed boy and the reporters trying to devour him.

Still, Nick and the agents can barely move, let alone walk away to their car to drive them to a safe house for Nick and his family. Despite the Secret Service agents pushing back reporters roughly and yelling, "Step aside now, all of you. He will not comment. Keep a distance or we will take necessary actions if you injure him," the reporters are relentless.

There are even civilians with signs yelling at the entourage, some saying, "Welcome home, Nicky! You're safe now :)"—which Mark begrudgingly feels grateful for as he hopes that it will cheer Nick up a little—while others have unsavory things to say regarding Nick's forced prostitution, his so-called ‘communist’ ancestry of being Russian-Vietnamese, and the fact that he created Helga's server—blaming him for it despite the widespread news that Nick was tortured into doing it.

Mark is tuning in on one among many livestreams available of the transfer. Some of them are filmed by reporters and broadcasted on behalf of the news companies they’re working for, big or independent, while others are by civilians from their personal social media accounts. They’re all equally competing with each other to get the best shots and audio so that they get the most viewers.

Nikolai looks so distressed in the livestream. Mark can tell from the screen that Nick looks somewhat pale with his swirly blue-brown eyes moist, lips also bitten. He hears Nick whispering with quivering voice to the closest reporters and nosy civilians, "Please, can you let me go?"

As usual, when he watches Nick being hurt by someone (like the times he was allowed to see Nick indirectly while being treated in D.E.A.N medic facility—many doctors and nurses, unfortunately, had to put Nick through somewhat painful treatments sometimes—or the instances Mark was shown more torture footages of Nick for intel purposes), he feels a jolt of fury and protectiveness seeing Nick deeply upset and scared like that.

Unfortunately, watching the livestream is the only thing Mark is allowed to do right now while the transfer to the safehouse is commencing.

He knows he isn't allowed to go near the building where Nick is officially announced to be rescued, with high-level commanders from Central Hub saying that 1056 agents aren't allowed to be near Nick. They’re citing worry that 1056’s objective judgments might be impaired after living with Nick for so long. So, all he can do at this point is just seethe, clench his jaw with balled fists, and wish his knuckles can connect to those asshole reporters and harassers roughly.

He muses that maybe the commanders are right about their suspicion.

Mark then ponders whether calling it ‘announced’ is too generous of a word. D.E.A.N simply moved Nick out of a confidential headquarter in Colorado and into this public venue—a transitional building to make sure no one can track D.E.A.N's classified locations—before delivering him to a safe house. D.E.A.N has finally decided that Nick has done enough work for them in secrecy, so he can now continue helping the division outside of their confidential sites.

They have also determined that Nick is safe enough to be put back into civilian life, although they will still station agents here and there to make sure Nick stays alive to keep helping D.E.A.N and other government agencies, including public law enforcement. Many national and foreign justice system courts have also requested help and testimony from him, since many are now starting to open criminal cases against Helga syndicate members who are caught and identified.

For some reason, crafty and sneaky reporters caught a whiff of the news of Nick's transfer and immediately descended upon the venue like a ravenous pack of vultures. The news traveled fast beyond reporters' communities too, so other curious or sympathetic people, along with bitter and mean trolls, are now also standing around the building, adding to the crowd that is swarming Nick.

There are at least 10 double D.E.A.N/Secret Service agents who are assigned to chaperone Nick right now, and they are still obviously overwhelmed anyway. It seems that they have underestimated just how easy and quick it is for classified information like this to breach containment, and how many people would be interested in it.

They are moving like ants, little by little, inches by inches, practically crawling instead of walking, but Mark can eventually see them pushing Nick gently into the car. The windows are tinted, and he knows that they are all also bullet-proof, but the reporters and the crowds do not give up in trying to see inside the car, many cameras shoved right onto the glass windowpanes. They’re probably hoping that if the lens is basically touching the glass, it can penetrate the dark tint of the windows.

It doesn’t matter. The car still manages to drive away, protected by another car in the front and one more taking the rear. So Mark sighs and closes his laptop, relieved on behalf of Nikolai, but also still anxious if the younger man is going to arrive here in one piece.

Marcus knows this is probably going to land him in hot waters with Central Hub, but he cannot make himself stay away until he can make sure that Nick is safe and sound. He is hoping Central Hub will only realize he is not accounted for in the headquarter within an hour at least, enough to buy him some time to see for himself that Nick has arrived in the safehouse, alive and well.

So he waits, leaning against his discardable car which he parks around a hundred meters from the aforementioned house.

Three cars that look different from the livestream finally pull over the safehouse property, and Mark is guessing they stopped by somewhere hidden to change cars, since the previous ones were already identified by the public. Those vehicles are probably no longer safe for travel to a sensitive spot like this.

Mark pulls out his binoculars, pointing them at the cars one by one until he finally sees Nick walking out of one of them. He sees Nick stumbling and hesitating when he sees his family—his mother, his father, his sister, his niece, and his brother-in-law. They are at a standstill for a bit until Alisa finally chokes out a sob and runs to Nick to hug him tightly.

Nick looks a bit surprised, but he raises his arms to hug his sister back, burying his face in the crook of his sister’s neck and shoulder despite being almost a head taller than her. The others then follow suit, walking towards Nick and hugging him tight. Mark can’t tell what they’re saying to each other, other than being able to see that they’re finally hugging each other with happy tears all over their faces, except for Tom who is more stilted and distant without hugging Nick like the rest.

Mark can only guess what Tom is saying to Nick, but Nick gives a small smile before looking at his brother-in-law’s arms where Nicole is being held. Nick immediately brightens up and bends down a little to coo at her, inviting a smile on Mark’s face too. He knows full well Nicole is really, really important to Nick. Months of living together in their Nevada headquarter have shown him that.

He sees Nick straighten up again with a wide smile and excited face—giving a peck to baby Nicole—before running to the car again. He pulls out a carrier, which Mark knows has Nightingale in it, so he is not surprised when he sees Nick unzipping the carrier and pulling out his black blob cat to show her to Nicole. The baby is reaching out to pet Nightingale stutteringly, probably because she hasn’t mastered her motor skill, and she laughs jovially while screaming in excitement because Nightingale turns to lick her tiny fingers. They all laugh together, and even the chaperone agents smile at the scene.

Mark pulls down his binoculars, feeling somewhat at ease since he can confirm that Nick is safe now, back with his family and hopefully getting better and becoming well-adjusted into normal life eventually.

Mark knows he should head back to the Central Hub headquarter right now, seeing that his secure D.E.A.N-issued phone is pinging alerts that he is being summoned to one of the offices in the headquarter, but nowhere to be found. He estimates that within 30 minutes they will realize that Mark has exited the premise without permission, and another 30 minutes to pinpoint exactly which coordinates he is at now.

Well, he still has time.

He pulls up his binoculars again and he sees the Belyaev (and Conrad) family walking into the house with Nick having his sister’s and mother’s arms around his shoulders. Alisa’s other hand is holding the pet carrier, while Nick is holding Nightingale in his arms, the feline looking much bigger than what Mark remembers seeing. Nick’s father and Tom are walking in front of him, opening the door so Nick can go in first.

He still sees some agents standing around the cars and the front door with their typical idle pose—a hand on top of the other over their stomachs. Mark can tell their earpiece comms are still on to communicate with some D.E.A.N management, seeing the lips movements of the agents with his binoculars.

He feels another vibration of alert in his phone, tsking in annoyance but still pulling out his phone anyway. A Central Hub agent apparently sent a direct message saying that he knows that Mark has gone somewhere out of the headquarter without clearance, and soon the commanders will know too. Mark rolls his eyes and types a message saying he has a pressing security matter to take care of, not really feeling bad about it because he is technically not lying. The matter of Nick’s safety is paramount to him.

But he continues the chat, sensing the testiness of the agent from the texts. He sounds pissed that Mark doesn’t show him enough respect despite being a higher-level agent—and also an agent in charge of managing several teams, one of which Mark is going to be assigned to. Mark tries to continue the lie, trying to conceal the fact that he is going directly against Central Hub’s instructions to not go anywhere near Nick.

He suddenly hears a knock on his car behind him.

He turns around near the speed of light, one hand already going to his holster, but then he sighs deeply in relief as he sees Nick there.

“Hi,” the heterochromatic-eyed boy says to him with a small smile.

“I thought you’re someone dangerous,” he responds with a slightly irritated voice.

Nick smirks, evidently pleased he could sneak up on Mark.

Mark narrows his eyes with a realization.

“How did you get here?”

Nick just shrugs. “Saw a suspicious car parked here since I arrived.”

Mark narrows his eyes even more in question.

“And you just decided to approach it?”

Nick shrugs again, making Mark slightly uncomfortable with how brazen Nick is about his safety.

“You know, for a confidential government institution agent, you’re kinda bad at disguising yourself,” Nick comments lightly, sensing that Mark might be concerned about his sense of self-preservation.

So Mark chuckles now, relieved.

“I’m not here under Central Hub’s command,” he explains casually, “so I don’t have enough resources and preparation to conceal myself like usual.”

“Hmm,” Nick smirks again, “Sure.”

Mark smiles lightly, feeling serene at the opportunity to talk to Nick again after weeks of not being allowed to meet directly. Or at all.

“You’re pretty good at ambushing me, though,” he comments again. “Learning well from those agents working around you all this time?”

Nick shrugs again. “Maybe.”

Nick moves his legs but stutters, seemingly wanting to get closer to Mark but not knowing if he is allowed. Bells are ringing in his head that this might be unwise to continue, but his heart yearns so badly for a chance to see Nikolai, so he steps aside to give space for Nick to stand near him. Nick walks around the front of the car and leans against the driver’s door next to Marcus.

“How are you?” he eventually asks softly, looking at Nick from top to bottom to detect if Nick is in any harm. He pauses a bit at Nick’s abdomen.

Nick gives a small nod with a bashful smile as he says, “I’m okay.”

It makes Mark feel that weird jolt in his heart again.

“How about you?” Nick asks back, now his turn to lower his eyes towards Mark’s abdomen on his right side.

Marcus looks down too, one hand absently going to his upper waist.

“Yeah, of course,” he replies with a reassuring voice as he feels softness in his heart at Nick’s concern. “Told you I was just lightly grazed.”

Nick nods again with his own relieved breath.

“That’s good. I didn’t know what became of you all these weeks. They didn’t tell me anything.”

“They want you and us, team 1056, to work efficiently,” he shrugs and adds, “Well, as efficient as we could be with all of our ongoing injuries recovery.”

Nick furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

“They think separating us will help. Getting rid of distraction and all.”

Nick rolls his eyes.

“That’s stupid. I’ve been worried sick about you for so long I couldn’t think of anything else,” he says, before he sputters with widened eyes and continues, “I mean, the others in your team too!”

Mark tries not to read too much into it.

“Speaking of which, how are the others?” Nick starts again, his bashfulness after his comment about Mark starting to dissipate. “They didn’t tell me much about what happened to the agents in that attack.”

Mark stares at Nick for a while, eventually feeling some grief and maybe anger settling in his mind. He looks down and inhales deeply.

“3 from 1082… died in action.”

“Oh,” Nick whispers with a shocked and melancholic face.

“The deputy, one sniper, and another agent. I think. Wasn’t informed directly.”

“Agent Leonard, right? The black man?”

Mark nods mournfully. “That deputy, yeah.”

"And the decoy agent?" he asks unsurely, again with fearful face. "Robert Van Hoven, right? That's his name?"

Mark nods to confirm the name, but then gives a half-hearted shrug.

"He is not from 1056, so we weren't really given any information on him." He pauses a bit. "I hope he is okay, though."

Nick nods too.

“The thing is…” Mark leans his head back with a deep, weary sigh “…we weren’t told anything other than the official report. Even I don’t know what exactly happened to the rest. Just hush-hush info, not even verifiable.”

Nick stays quiet reverently, waiting for Mark to recount further.

“Over 25 died in that clash. 4 Tactical Intelligence agents. 11 Offensive team agents,” he explains with despair but also fury in his voice, eyes cast down.

He feels that familiar anger again at himself for failing once more—wondering what could have been done differently so that not so many lives were lost—and at to those sons of bitches from Helga themselves.

“Two out of Doctor Lowe’s three nurses, and another two out of the 5 additional Medical agents sent to 1034. I think at least 6 agents from backup teams also died. That’s all the report says.”

Nick’s lips part while looking down too, probably not knowing how to react to Mark’s obvious tumultuous emotion and expression, or show his condolence appropriately and sufficiently. They all pretty much died for Nick, after all.

“What about…” Nick hesitates, so Mark turns to him, “…your team?”

Mark breathes out heavily, relieved but also forlorn.

“We all survived,” he starts.

Nick’s eyes widen and he breathes out in relief too. “That’s… that’s really good to hear. I’m glad.”

Mark turns to him with slightly raised eyebrows.

“Oh, god, I don’t mean… I’m not glad about the other non-surviving agents,” Nick blurts out nervously with his raised hands waving frantically, “don’t get me wrong!”

Mark gives him a reassuring smile, although still tinged with mourning.

“I understand.”

Nick waits for a while in silence. He then asks, “But all 10 of you in team 1056 survived?”

Mark nods. “Yeah.”

“I’m relieved,” Nikolai says again, body slightly sagging against the car.

“Even for Don and Anna?” he jokes lightly.

“I’m not heartless, Mark. I never wished for any of you to die even if I’m angry,” Nick responds with a slight frown.

Mark chuckles. “I know.”

“Although you and I saw Anna and Angie in the end anyway, so I know they’re okay,” Nick tells him.

A silence passes where they just look forward to the other side of the road, then turn to their right to the safehouse far away from them.

“But…” Nick hesitates again, “…are they… okay?”

“Mostly…” he hangs his words, not sure about how to continue.

“Is anyone in critical condition?” Nick asks worriedly.

“No, not really.”

Nick still seems puzzled, waiting for more explanation.

“Horace is doing better with his shoulder after getting shot,” he recounts, “Anderson almost died of blood loss… had to have his burst spleen taken out… and Luke is still doing physio after his knee got shot.”

Nick raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“But I don’t know if he’s going to be recovered enough to still be a field agent. Fractured knee is kinda hard to repair, you know?”

Nick keeps silent to give Marcus the time he needs to collect himself.

“George… had to be resuscitated in the medic facility,” he informs more. “He survived, but… being dead for around 2 minutes gotta leave some chronic and permanent damage. For now, the Medical agents say just to wait and see.”

Nick bites his lips, unsurely asking him, “The rest?”

“Mary and Lena are thankfully pretty much unscathed. Somehow. Only bruises here and there.”

Nick sighs in relief again.

“And Don?”

Mark gives him another reassuring and somewhat cheeky smile.

“Of course, that son of a bitch survived despite getting shot in the spleen too. Why wouldn’t he?”

Nick laughs loudly, seemingly surprised by Mark’s sudden change of tone.

He drinks in the sound and tries to etch it into his mind deeply, sensing that he is probably not going to be able to hear it again for a long time.

“I mean, they’re probably not going to be fully okay-okay, you know?” he continues again with a somber voice after a while. “But they live.”

They both look down again in sedate silence.

“And are you… really okay, though?”

The way Nick says it tells him that he is not just asking about Mark’s physical condition.

That battle is the biggest conflict he has ever faced so far, seeing as multiple circles of Helga were all swarming them at once. He knew that he trained for this, but looking at the chaos and even some agents shot dead right in front of him still rattles his mind sometimes. He has never been in a collision that chaotic in all of his D.E.A.N history, short as it is.

The fear too that he might not be able to get Nick to safety—that he would have to watch Nick down a full vial of morphine just so that he wouldn’t be taken back by Helga—still haunts him too. It’s as if the fear when they got separated kept surfacing in his dreams all the time, making him this worried and obsessed with seeing Nick again despite direct prohibition from the higher-ranked agents.

That’s why he is here now.

Still, he nods anyway, a silent reassurance that he is fine.

“How about you, Nick?”

He knows that aside from his prior trauma in Helga and at the beginning of his time with Mark’s team (he shudders at the reminder), Nick also had to witness the chaos in 1034’s headquarter, running for his life and then separated and alone with his old handlers several times. He also had to escape with Mark, Anna, Angie, and Doctor Lowe until they eventually ran out of bullets, at one point considering doing a suicide pact with the morphine vials.

Nikolai experienced all of those hells too.

Even from the livestream before, Mark can see that Nick is still deeply anxious and mentally fragile. With how public his rescue is and how ruthless the reporters and harassers are, it’s bound to be another source of trauma for Nick.

“I’ll… I’ll be okay,” Nick hesitates with a small voice, “I think.”

Mark tilts his head so that he can still see Nick’s cast-down face.

“You’re out of there now. You can get better now, yeah? Try, for me?”

Mark says it with such a weight, a pleading at the reminder of what Nick did the day before that collision. He stares again at Nick's abdomen, coldly remembering the sensation of dripping blood on his thigh and Nick’s scream when he had to be cauterized.

Nick raises his head to stare back at him, slowly giving a nod and a small smile. Not completely happy-looking, but a smile nonetheless. Mark has to believe that it means Nick will be okay in the end.

Their silence is interrupted by another vibration on Mark’s phone. He sighs in irritation again.

“Where are you gonna go after this?”

Mark turns to Nick again at the deceivingly casual-sounding question, although he still can tell it’s a loaded one. Nick isn’t just asking where he is going to drive after seeing Nick here, but also where he is going to do his mission next.

He sighs.

“Pretty far,” he simply answers.

Nick looks down again with a frown.

“Central put together 100 new Offensive Department teams. Said it will probably be a good idea if I’m a deputy this time. But we’ll have to see from the preliminary meetings.”

Nick looks almost scared when he faces Mark again as he bites his lip.

“Where?”

Mark stays silent with his own melancholic look, the heaviness in his heart at the possibility of not seeing Nick for a long time settling deep. He doesn’t want to assume, but he senses that Nick is feeling the same about that possibility.

“North Dakota.”

“Oh,” Nick simply says, trying hard not to seem crestfallen as he fiddles with his fingers. “That’s halfway across the country from Oregon.”

“Yeah.”

They are quiet again. Mark doesn’t know what he should do or say now, with Nick not giving obvious hints as to what he wants from Mark.

“They… um…” he begins again at Nick’s silence, “…made the decision based on your story… to us before.”

Nick seems like he is working hard to not show any reaction, or even weep, but Mark can see the slightest movement of his jaw at the implication of what happened to him when he just turned 18. What was done to him before and after his attempt to escape at that time.

Maybe Mark shouldn’t have brought that up because he can sense the tension between them now, with Nick’s eyes glistening again despite his efforts to not seem affected. Mark decides to look away again to the safehouse instead.

Maybe he should end this before he makes things worse.

“You should probably go back.”

Nick follows suit by looking at the safe house, the place he is going to have to live in until whenever D.E.A.N decides he and his family can fully live as civilians again. Until they’re allowed to freely live wherever they choose with only having D.E.A.N agents check in on them once in a while, instead of watching them constantly.

“Your family must be worried sick about you. They might think you get kidnapped again.”

Nick stays looking firmly at the safe house, this time obviously trying to avoid facing Mark. He doesn’t know if Nick takes it as Mark indirectly telling Nick to go away.

He sighs quietly, mourning the gloomy and tense moment they’re in now. This is possibly the last ever moment they’re going to be together for a long time, and yet, this is the mood they’re currently in.

Eventually, Nick looks back at him with a smile that seems rough around the edge. Forced, even.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says quietly too. “I should.”

Still, they both don’t move from leaning against Mark’s disposable car, not until a while when Mark decides to be the one to end the moment. He straightens up and faces Nick fully, so Nick slowly does the same.

“Take care of yourself,” Mark says to Nick, earnest with a hint of desperation. He feels worried now that he realizes he cannot make sure Nick will be okay with his own eyes and hands.

Nick just nods, turning around to see the safe house and then to Mark again, almost like he is debating whether he should stay or go. He still ends up taking half a step to walk away, so Mark puts his hands into his pockets to prepare to watch Nick until the heterochromatic-eyed boy is safe inside again.

But he didn’t expect Nick to turn around quickly to face him again, launching himself to Mark with arms tightly embracing him. His eyes widen in shock before he processes what is happening, feeling Nick’s face burying into his shoulder with a sensation of moisture on his clothes.

His face softens eventually, and he raises his own arms to hug Nick too. His arms are careful—gentle, but also tight around Nick’s thin body—while he is drinking in Nikolai’s presence in his arms that he knows is going to stay deeply in his mind in years to come. It will be his lifeline to tether him to Nick, at least for several months, or maybe even years.

“You stay safe too,” Nick whispers with muffled voice to his shoulder, “give me a sign once in a while that you’re still out there.”

“Nick—"

Nick pulls back quickly with almost frantic and desperate eyes, some tears visible on his cheeks while his arms are still linked behind Mark’s neck.

“I know that you’re probably not allowed to contact me directly, or be stationed close to me,” Nick quickly says, “but just try to give me hidden signs somehow.”

Nick searches his eyes, almost like he is begging Mark to say yes.

“Tell me you haven't forgotten me. That you’re still alive somewhere doing your mission.”

Mark inhales and opens his mouth to explain some protocol, but Nick doesn’t let him.

“Promise me!”

He stares at Nick, and he loathes just how easy it is for Nick to bend Mark’s emotions to his will, even right now after not seeing each other for weeks. It feels like his attachment to Nick hasn’t worn out at all throughout that. He can’t look at those teary swirly blue-brown eyes and say no. He just can’t.

So he lets out a soft breath with crumbling defense, unknowingly getting close to Nick until their foreheads touch, his arms around Nick’s waist tightening. Nick doesn’t rebuff him.

“I promise,” he eventually says, “It’s not like I can forget you.”

They stay like that for a bit, letting themselves dip their toes into that… forbidden… place for once, even if Mark knows he can’t fully jump in and stay there indefinitely.

Just once, he’ll let himself take this moment.

After a while, they both let out heavy breaths and reluctantly separate from each other, their arms letting go of each other too.

“I really need to head back home,” Nick says as if trying to sober them both up.

Mark nods again, already feeling heavy in his heart, but he still lets Nick take several steps back, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. He wants to keep the sight of those captivating swirly blue-brown eyes permanently in his memory.

Eventually, Nick turns around and jogs away, and Mark tries to gulp down at the tight feeling in his throat.

Why is it this difficult?

As if to torture him even further, Nick pauses his jogging to turn back for a second, tantalizing Marcus again with the offer he knows he cannot take. Then Nick continues jogging again before slowing down to walk away, steadfastly no longer acknowledging Mark now.

Nick’s back to Mark gets smaller and smaller until he can no longer see him unless Mark uses his binoculars again. He chooses not to. He knows he’ll get hooked again if he can see Nick clearly.

It’s only when he can tell that the small dot of Nick’s body is walking into the house—welcomed by his family again—that his logical mind finally catches up.

Regardless of what he feels right now—or even later—he knows making sure that Nick stays safe is important. He knows that taking down the people who hurt Nick before—and can hurt Nick again, if he doesn’t do his job right—is his biggest priority right now. Whether one day he can see Nick and have him by his side again or not, what matters is making sure that Nick will be safe and sound permanently, whatever he needs to do to achieve that.

So, he opens his car door as he receives the call on his phone.

“Agent Hayden speaking,” he says to the agent on the phone professionally, “Yes, I will arrive in 40, Sir.”

Now, his real work begins.

-----

Masterlist and overall summary of the whole novel is here. | AO3 series link is here.

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Who was your first ever OC? Do you still “use” them? How have they evolved over time?

What story are you the proudest of? Why?

What are your favourite relationships between your OCs? (romantic or platonic!)

Thank you for the ask! From this ask game.

Who was your first ever OC? Do you still “use” them? How have they evolved over time?

Hell if I know. That's such a weird term. Just comes with making up stories, you know. Even my neopets had personalities.

One of the earliest OCs outside of trying to be a fantasy author and dying of terminal worldbuilding was a role playing char I made for my first awkward attempts in a browser game - I was 19, so long past me making up and throwing away casts for the never gonna happen fantasy epic and nightly daydream self inserts :P

She was a blind hobbit falconer and uh, let's say, she's been through it. I don't even remember how long I played her - 1 year? 2? 3? - and then it just fizzled out. People quit, I renamed her and started over with another char, and that was that.

To this day I still use her name online, have registered a domain under her name which I use as primary email, I'm known by that name to a lot of people online, my mom knows it. Unfortunately it's pretty unique, and I didn't want to connect that with my torture fandom blog (:

What story are you the proudest of? Why?

All of them??? 🥺

Thorns for being the normal looking child.

Glass Shards for being the first (and what I needed.)

Heal my Wounds for happening in three weeks. (Still don't know how.)

Undeserved for actually pulling off the graphic stuff.

What are your favourite relationships between your OCs? (romantic or platonic!)

Wouldn't you like to know. So would they. They can't figure it out exactly, but it works, and that's all that counts.

[montammil]

Wait until Lawrence discovers the adoption/ fostering system

All these kids want him as their father

Like bro stop kidnapping people already

Evil Lawrence be like: I adopt kids legally and parent them in a healthy, ethical way :)

[reid-whump]

New Spencer Reid Whump Fic

Characters:

Vivienne Frank- mother of Castor Frank, Whumper of Spencer Reid. Diagnosed with OCD and BPD.

Stephan Frank- father of Castor Frank, whumper of Spencer Reid. Diagnosed sociopath and narcissist.

Audrey Frank- sister of Castor Frank, whumper of Spencer Reid. Mother of Marceline.

Castor Frank- arrested by Spencer Reid and put on death row, causing his family to seek revenge.

[whumporama]

Villain/criminal Whumpee who is finally captured by the government. They're tied to a chair in a holding cell, waiting for the interrogation.

Whumper walks in, a smug smirk on their face as they observe them, Whumpee's face finally revealed, no more mask to hide behind. Whumper grabs Whumpee's face, turning it left and right to inspect them.

"How pretty you are," they muse, "you could've become something, with a face like that. Such a shame it's wasted on the life you chose."

Bonus points if Wumpee didn't exactly 'choose' this life, but the government's actions forced them into it.

[whumpalicious08]

Public humilliation whump🫡

---

Hired gun once-defiant whumpee being 'disciplined' in front of Criminal Whumper's colleagues.

Kingpin Whumper is holding an informal meeting in a private study. Genially drunk business associates are chattering about.

The heavy wooden doors are pulled open and a guard by Whumpee's side wrenches them into the room, one hand around their upper arm.

Whumpee is shirtless and shivering, sanguine leaking from the disorderly lines cut into their back. Fresh wounds layer on pale pink scars which layer on paler brown ones. Their arms are bound in front of them.

The sight of Whumpee sobers everyone up, but all are frozen in inaction from the threat Whumper presents.

Whumpee never cries in front of anyone.

But Whumpee's eyes are red rimmed and leaking now.

They're brought to Whumper. Whumpee picks a spot on Whumper's leather shoes and focuses on it, determined to avoid everyone's pitying eyes. The spark of anger burning within them turns it's flames inward, shame rising from the ashes of Whumpee's dignity.

Whumper smiles, and lifts Whumpee's head with a gentle press of his fingers under their chin. "Anythin' you want to tell me, pretty?"

Whumpee knows the answer he wants to hear. They meet Whumper's eyes for a moment, but rapidly abandons the challenge.

Their raw throat struggles to form the reply.

"Thank you, sir."

---