#cw: minor whump

[shion-yu]

Ice Cream for Dinner

Chicken pox sucks. Some Shu and Alex father-son caretaking with a shocking lack of angst. This is pure fluff folks. To the anons who requested stories with Shu and Ryo sick, they’re in progress! But this is Alex’s turn, lol. 2,275 words, no TWs, CW sick 13 year old.

It turns out that having a kid in school for the first time means getting sick with every nasty school kid disease they bring home, and it doesn't matter if that kid isn't in preschool - middle school works just as well. In the year since Alex has come to live with Shu, Shu's been sick enough to miss work at least five times and had the sniffles on and off for the rest of the year. 

He doesn't blame Alex, who seems to find Shu’s pathetic immune system somewhat amusing as long as Shu's relatively okay. Shu would rather Alex not worry about him anyways. However it definitely doesn't soften the blow that Alex stays healthy almost no matter what. He was sick once with that upper respiratory infection but that was it - otherwise the kid's been the picture of health and Shu wonders how such a skinny kid has such an immune system of steel. 

"What did your mother feed you?" Shu asked him after he was diagnosed with yet another round of strep throat that had left him absolutely miserable for the past several days, but had somehow completely missed Alex.

"Mostly cereal," Alex said dryly. It came with a heavy undertone of 'if at all.' Shu sighed and went back to blowing his nose miserably. It seemed there was no secret there other than youth and a big attitude. 

It was annoying to be sick all of the time, but Shu just kept telling himself that at least it wasn't Alex. Plus, on the bright side, he had pretty much infinite PTO to spend on sick days since he'd barely taken a vacation in the past ten years working for the same company. His most important job was to take care of Alex and as long as he could manage that while ill, he could avoid calling his mom to take over. That had only happened twice so far, which seemed like a win all things considered.

With all of this in mind, Shu was quite eager to enjoy the days when he was neither sick nor being called into the principal's office to discuss the behavior of his unruly charge. Both had been true this week and Shu told Alex that they were going to enjoy the Fall leaves with a walk on the Hudson. Alex rolled his eyes and told him he'd rather sit at home and watch paint dry.

"Well, too bad because there's no paint to watch dry," Shu said cheerfully. "Unless you'd like to change our activity to painting your bedroom together, those walls could use it." A fresh coat of paint would hide all the plastered-over holes Alex had punched through. But Alex seemed to think a walk was less painful (or at least significantly faster) than painting a room together, so chose the walk.

It was a bit cold out and Shu bundled up in a scarf and his warm peacoat. He encouraged Alex to wear his own warm coat and a hat, but of course that meant Alex did the exact opposite and wore his light Jean jacket, no hat, and what seemed like useless fingerless gloves. Shu didn't argue though, he was just glad they managed to get out the door. 

It was a pleasant walk on the river side, despite the cool breeze. Shu was happy about all the bright orange and red leaves, something Alex wasn't that used to given he'd spent most of his childhood in California. Shu did the vast majority of the talking, but that was to be expected. However after a while he noticed Alex shivering and subtly cut their walk short by crossing the closest bridge and turning towards the direction of the car to complete their loop.

"Want my scarf?" Shu asked casually. 

"Nah," Alex said. He looked distracted and kept scratching the back of his neck. 

Shu kept an eye on Alex as they walked back and noticed Alex seemed to be dragging his feet more and more the longer they walked. "You okay buddy?" Shu asked him.

"I'm fine," Alex responded predictably and picked up the pace. Shu went back to talking about Avatar the Last Airbender, hoping Alex would relate to Shu's fondness of it since it was known to be a popular cartoon. "Will you stop? I don't know that show," Alex snapped irritably. Well, that didn't work, Shu thought. They fell quiet until Shu caught Alex trailing behind again, this time itching his head.

Suddenly the thought of lice popped into Shu’s mind. He stopped and waited for Alex to bump into him. 

"What now?" Alex scowled. 

"Anyone at school have lice? Or scabies?" Shu asked cautiously. Alex made a disgusted face, though whether it was regarding the vermin or Shu himself was unclear. Possibly both.

"I don't have lice," Alex snapped. "Those don't feel like this."

"Then what does this feel like?" Shu asked, leaping on the fact that Alex had inadvertently admitted that some discomfort was present at all.

Alex growled and started jogging towards the car. Shu tried to keep up, but the kid was way too fast for his own good. At least, usually he was, except today by the time he reached the parking lot he was panting as hard as Shu was. He looked pale - well, paler than usual - and Shu frowned, moving his hand forward to check Alex for fever. Alex yelped and dodged him, glaring. "What are you doing?! Don't touch me!"

"I wanted to see if you had a fever. Bud, do you feel okay?" Shu asked.

"No, I feel like you just forced me on a stupid walk in the cold. Let's just go home already!" Alex snapped. Shu tried not to smile at the use of the word home as it most certainly would not earn him any points right now. He relented instead and got into the driver's seat, making sure Alex buckled up (once, this was another heated point of contention) before he pulled out of the gravel parking lot. 

The drive home was about thirty minutes. Alex leaned against the door and pulled his knees close to his chest, making him look ever more childish. He was thirteen and as gangly and tall as a mung bean sprout, Shu's mom said, but he still acted like a kid. He wasn't mature and given everything he'd been through, Shu expected it might take him longer than other kids to get a handle on his emotions. That didn't mean it was easy to get through all the fighting and outbursts, but Shu told himself it was just something they’d have to work through together. Alex was already doing so much better than when he'd first come to live with Shu, after all. Progress felt slow at times, but it was there. 

Progress was Alex admitting to Shu as they pulled into the driveway, "I don't feel good." 

Shu made himself not-smile at Alex trusting him to know that and said, "Let's get you inside and in bed then." Alex went straight to his room and changed into comfortable clothes, then dove under the blankets, shivering. Shu brought in the thermometer and Tylenol and sat on the edge of Alex's bed. Alex was scratching his chest and looked flushed.

"Can we take your temp?" Shu asked. Alex grumbled but obeyed. 100.8. Shu cringed - Alex really was sick. Shu felt bad he'd forced Alex to go out for a cold walk with a fever, but he hadn't known. "Sorry bud, you're definitely sick. Now what're you itching, can you show me?"

Alex reluctantly dropped his hand. Shu delicately peered at Alex's neck and down Alex's shirt. There were a handful of red marks that looked like pimples. Shu tried to think of what they would be and came to a quick conclusion: "Alex, have you had chickenpox before?"

Alex shook his head no. Shu grimaced. "Well I think you've got them now." Alex should have been vaccinated, but Shu suddenly remembered the long list of 'religious' waivers Alex's parents had signed to get him into school with the bare minimum of requirements. He'd been meaning to get those updated but they'd just been so busy that Shu must have forgotten to reschedule that vaccine clinic visit they'd missed. Crap. If Shu remembered correctly, there wasn't much to do for chicken pox other than stop Alex from itching and keep the fever down. "I think I'll call the pediatrician. Maybe we can avoid a trip to the office for you, okay?"

That seemed to earn Shu a few points and Alex nodded. Shu called the doctor's office from his spot on Alex's bed and managed to get a nurse on the phone who went over the list of symptoms, which Shu then relayed to Alex before confirming or denying. Headache? Check. Sore throat? Check. Itchy rash that looked like little red bumps? Definitely. 

"Sounds like chicken pox, and if he does have them it's better you keep him at home away from any other kids at the office," the nurse said. "No school until the blisters are gone, about a week. Keep him from scratching. You can do Tylenol and calamine lotion and Benedryl but as long as his fever stays under 102 after meds he should be fine. Good luck." 

Shu didn't know if he liked the sound of her good luck, because that meant she thought he'd need it. Shu sighed and hung up. "Well, guess you've got all of next week off school," Shu said. "Any requests? Books? Soup?"

"I wanna sleep," Alex said grouchily. Shu had expected that. He made sure Alex took his Tylenol and gave him a bottle of calamine lotion to dot onto the pox and then left him alone to stew in his teenage misery. He was sure Alex’s friend Ryo would be getting a slew of upset texts any second now. 

Shu mostly tried to let Alex be alone like he wanted, but the problem was that Alex got bored very quickly and soon wandered out to the rest of the house, scratching and whining about anything and everything. Shu tried to remind himself that Alex probably felt like crap and wasn’t purposefully being a pain - probably. After Alex’s third pass through the living room though Shu made him sit on the couch and insisted on putting calamine lotion on Alex’s back where he couldn’t reach. He supposed it was a testament to how uncomfortable Alex really was that it didn’t become an argument.

By the next morning Alex’s spots had turned into angry looking blisters and he got upset every time Shu told him not to scratch. Shu tried to tape oven mitts on Alex’s hands like his mom suggested but Alex was too old to put up with that and nearly decked him in the face. “Alex, don’t hit me,” Shu said sternly. Alex glared but didn’t try it again. 

The fever was worse. The headache was worse. Alex could barely talk because his throat hurt so much. When Shu took a look down Alex’s throat with his phone flashlight he could see how red it was; google said he probably had chicken pox in his throat and that liquid Benadryl could help. He set Alex up on the couch and took a quick trip to the pharmacy, purchasing basically everything he could think of to get Alex to settle down and came home with two bags full of supplies. Alex was napping with the TV on, and Shu didn’t think there was any point in waking the beast before he had to so just sat next to him and let him sleep.

Alex looked particularly young with chicken pox blisters all over his skin and limp, messy hair that was damp from a tenuous fever. Shu sighed fondly as he watched him and thought to himself that this week couldn’t go by fast enough. Eventually Alex woke up, predictably grumpy, and Shu pulled out all the stops. He made vanilla pudding on the stove because that always tasted better than the pre-packaged stuff. He served Alex tea and Gatorade with a curly straw, which Alex called stupid but didn’t remove. He slathered Alex’s entire body with calamine lotion and probably gave him a bit more Benadryl than was strictly the correct dose, but he felt terrible about how miserable Alex seemed. The fever stayed manageable though, so Shu was able to keep him at home at least.

Around dinner time, Shu made Alex soup and served it on the couch. “How’re you holding up, bud?” He asked, sitting next to his miserable, blanket-covered kid.

“This sucks,” Alex croaked. “I hate chicken pox.”

Shu couldn’t help but laugh a little, which earned him a glare from Alex. “I know, it sucks a lot. But this is the worst day, it’ll get better. In the meantime, let’s have some soup.”

“I don’t want soup,” Alex grumped. 

“So what do you want?” Shu asked patiently.

Alex looked away, pulling the blanket closer around himself. “...Ice cream?” He mumbled.

“Alright,” Shu said easily.

Alex looked at him in surprise. “Really?” He asked, his voice rising one tone in excitement, although he was clearly trying not to get his hopes up.

“Sure. Ice cream for dinner it is. You get special treats when you’re sick, you know?” Alex hadn’t known, it seemed. Shu served him a large bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup and Alex ate the whole thing. Then he fell asleep next to Shu as Shu ate the now cold soup, a satisfied, sugary smile on the boy’s face.

[whump-in-the-closet]

prompt idea: Whumpee with daddy issues accidentally calling Whumper ‘Dad’ which leads Whumper to mock them for it.

okay so this one was hard to write but here it is

cw: implied parental abuse, implied abuse of a minor, beating with a belt, manhandling, kidnapping, implied torture and some actual torture, implied forced captivity, begging, creepy/intimate whumper, failed escape attempt

The basement door swung open and a swath of light fell down the stairs.

Whumpee threw their arms up to shield their face, curling up against the wall, desperate for any semblance of protection.

Whumper's footsteps dragged down the concrete steps and stopped a few feet away from the pile of limbs and bruises that made up Whumpee.

Whumpee trembled. The cold seeped through the wall and from the floor, pulsing against their skin. Their comfortable clothes had been taken and traded for thin basketball shorts and a shirt that belonged to Whumper, and it did little to keep out the cold. They glanced through the gap in their arms at Whumper.

Whumper stood above them, arms folded, dark hair pulled back in a low-swinging braid. They frowned, their mouth cinched in a downward expression.

Whumpee recognized this look. They were far too familiar with it. A deep pit opened inside them, a threatening hole that gaped in wrenching fear.

Oh fuck.

"I'm-- I'm sorry," Whumpee started to apologize, their teeth chattering.

Whumper lifted a hand, silencing them. "Shut. Up."

Whumpee ducked their head, swallowing hard.

"You thought you could escape? Really, Whumpee? I knew you were stupid, I just didn't think you would fuck up this badly." Whumper was calm, their voice measured as if they were talking to a child. If anything they sounded disappointed.

Whumpee's hands spasmed, head suddenly spinning.

And Whumper went on, "Are you unhappy here? Is that what this is? Do you think you have it badly? I have been nothing but kind to you."

Whumpee stiffened, something flashing in their eyes. "You-- you kidnapped me! You took my clothes, you sick fuck--" Their hands flew to the metal collar around their throat and yanked on it. "What the hell-- you chained me in your basement-"

Before they could get any further, Whumper slapped them across the face. The blow left them dazed, ears ringing. Whumper grabbed their chin, forcing Whumpee to look at them. They crouched next to them to hiss, "So you do think this is bad. Ungrateful, tsk." Whumper's grip relented, only to stroke Whumpee's smarting cheek with calloused fingers.

Whumpee's skin crawled under Whumper's touch.

Still, in that soft voice, they whispered, "I guess I'll have to teach you a lesson, won't I?" Their breath was hot against Whumpee's face. "And you're going to thank me for it."

Whumpee flinched back. "No, no, no! I'm sorry, I am!"

Whumper straightened, "Yes, you will be."

A wave of nausea enveloped Whumpee, induced by spur-of-the-moment terror. They fell onto their hands and knees, shaking. Half-formed words fell out of their mouth and onto that cold concrete. "Please--"

They heard the soft clink of Whumper undoing their belt and dry-heaved, a gut reaction they had no control over. They begged, half-senseless and desperate. "Please, please, nonono-- don't-- please no--"

Whumper wrapped the soft part of the belt around their hand and snapped the buckle over Whumpee's shoulders.

"Sorry! I said sorry--"

The belt buckle cracked against their hand and they yelped, collapsing in on themself. One of their nails had been ripped loose from its bed and dangled, barely attached. Whumpee sobbed, holding it tight even as blood squeezed its way out of their hand.

Whumpee looked up at Whumper through tear-stained vision, distorted and fractured into a hundred pieces. "Please," they begged, voice cracking, "Dad, please--I'm sorry--"

Whumper exhaled a breathless laugh, pausing with their arm still in mid-air. "What?"

Whumpee shrank back.

Oh fuck.

"Aw, does this hit a little too close to home, Whumpee?"

Whumpee looked away, flushing a brilliant red. Not ashamed, not ashamed, not ashamed--

Another thwack of the belt against skin.

Whumpee bit back a scream, squeezing their eyes shut. They clenched their jaw until they tasted iron blood pooling in their mouth.

"I asked you a question."

The belt flicked through the air.

Another flinch.

"Yes," Whumpee spat out. "Yes! Happy now?" Silent tears still blurred their vision.

Whumper smiled slowly. "Very much." They wiped off the belt and put it back on with slow, exaggerated movements. They bent over Whumpee, who trembled at their touch. Whumper yanked their head up by their hair, throat exposed and vulnerable.

With their free hand, Whumper spun a small knife. They traced its tip down Whumpee's jugular, watching how their Adam's apple bobbed in apprehension.

Silver blade tickled Whumpee's throat.

Whumpee inhaled shallowly, eyes locked on the ceiling, even as Whumper smiled down at them in their canine-sharp way.

"No more escape attempts, alright?"

Whumpee swallowed, something dying inside them. The light drained from their eyes. Empty blue, aching with dilated pupils. "Yes."

"What do you say?" Whumper prodded, the blade moving in small circles up and down Whumpee's throat.

"Thank...thank you," Whumpee whispered.

[stagesofkiller]

need more of the gang taking advantage of killer’s dehumanization right now. 🙏 We always see talk about how killer dehumanizes others and not enough about how he is both dehumanized and dehumanizes himself.

he is very easy to take advantage of, his conditioned apathy was never for his own benefit besides avoiding the things that hurt him and not caring about how he is abused and used (normalizing it) and about himself and consequences after all.

[unforgivenn]

16th HOUR — #3 Slaughterhouse

Masterlist/ Previous

CW: gore, suffering, dehumanization, violence, captivity, death

When Samuel awoke, it was to a harsh, sterile light that seemed to sear into his retinas.

His vision swam, and he barely registered the guards on either side of him, their grips unyielding as they dragged him down a cold, sterile corridor.

"Move it, livestock," one of the guards snarled, his voice a harsh growl in Samuel's ear.

His body felt like it had been dragged through hell and back, every inch of him screaming in agony. The seared flesh on his shoulder throbbed with relentless, burning pain, the twin brands marking him as both an 'L' and an 'S' class.

His vision gradually focused, revealing a cold, sterile room through a large, transparent glass wall as they rounded a corner. His heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of the room beyond it. . Through a large, transparent glass wall, he saw a room filled with people—men, women, even children—trapped like animals their face twisted in expressions of terror and despair. They were crammed together, some clawing at the glass, others pounding on it with their fists, their cries muffled but still piercing.

The people inside were a picture of raw, unfiltered despair. They pressed their faces against the glass, their eyes wide with fear and desperation. Some were sobbing uncontrollably, tears streaming down their faces, while others pounded on the glass with their fists, their cries for mercy muffled but still audible through the thick barrier.

"Please, let us out!! This is insane! W-We didn't do anything wrong!!" a woman screamed while hot tears streamed down her cheeks, her voice breaking with anguish.

A man beside her was on his knees, tears streaming down his face. "I have a family! M-My children need me! Please, I’ll do anything!" His voice was hoarse, broken by sobs.

A young boy, no older than twelve, was curled up in a corner, his body shaking with silent sobs. Another man, his face gaunt and bruised, stared blankly ahead as if he had already accepted his fate.

Samuel's stomach churned as he witnessed the harrowing scene.

Samuel's stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as he watched the horrifying scene unfold. The people inside the glass walls were herded like cattle, their fear palpable. Mothers clutched their children, old men collapsed to their knees, young men and women clawed at the walls, their nails leaving bloody streaks. A conveyor belt ran along the back of the room, leading to a set of massive, menacing doors. He realized with a sickening jolt that the doors led to the meat processing area.

Samuel's breath came in short, shallow gasps, his heart pounding in his ears. The box stopped for a moment, and a hissing sound filled the air. Gas began to pour into the enclosure, a noxious, yellow-green cloud that spread quickly. The people inside began to choke, their hands flying to their throats, their eyes bulging in sheer terror.

One by one, they fell, their bodies twitching and convulsing as the gas took hold. The screams turned to gurgles, then to silence.The young boy's lifeless body slumped against the glass, his eyes still open, staring blankly into nothingness.

Samuel felt a wave of nausea wash over him, his legs threatening to give out. The sheer horror of the place was overwhelming, a relentless assault on his senses. He couldn’t understand how anyone could be so cruel, so.. so utterly devoid of compassion.

The guard on his right gave him a rough shove, forcing him to keep moving. "Don’t look, livestock. You’ll get your turn soon enough."

The guards yanked the man forward, forcing him to turn away from the horrific scene. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat.

Samuel's mind reeled, the words a cruel reminder of his own fate. He felt a cold sweat break out on his skin, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The corridor seemed to stretch on endlessly, each step a journey deeper into a living hell.

As the glass box moved through the metal doors, a sense of finality washed over him. Those people were gone, consumed by the machine, their lives reduced to nothing but another cog in this hellish system. He wondered if that would be his fate too, if he would end up another nameless, faceless casualty in this nightmare.

Tears burned his eyes, but he forced them back, swallowing hard. He had to keep going, had to find a way out. For those people, for himself, he couldn't give up. Not yet.

"Move it, scum," one of the guards growled, shoving him roughly.

He stumbled, but kept his eyes forward, a steely resolve hardening in his heart. They might break his body, but they wouldn't break his will. Not as long as he had breath left in his lungs.

He didn't know he would be regretting that line soon enough.

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[somber-sapphic]

Training Day

〖Summary: Alex takes care of Lena while Kara is away.〗

〖Word Count: 1k〗

〖Pairing: Alex x sick Lena (platonic)〗

〖Notes: Please forgive me for my very little knowledge of military training. I've been trying to write this for a very long time so I also apologize if it's a bit iffy in places but I do really hope you enjoy it. Also were not discussing the title, I don't have anything better in me today.〗

Lena huffed and crossed her arms, glaring down the short-haired DEO agent in front of her. She had been forced to wake up at the ungodly hour of five am to beat Alex in a fight. For some reason, the DEO decided that even a scientist would need to go through the same extensive training as the field agents. 

It had started a few days ago and mirrored what she imagined Navy Seal training would be like plus a few extras directly on how to fight aliens. That included assembling special guns, a written test about which alien had which fighting styles as well as a basic course in how to treat different poisons the aliens might possess and which would kill you in an instant. These weren’t the only things but they were the ones she cared enough to remember.

The thing that had really gotten Lena was the mile swim. In what world would she need to swim a mile she had no idea but apparently, it was a requirement. She wasn’t a bad swimmer but she wasn’t fantastic either. She’d managed to complete the mile swim in just under the allotted time. The salt in the icy ocean clung to her clothes and hair making the experience all that much worse.

That was thankfully the only test of the day but it left Lena freezing, unable to warm up no matter what she did. The cold also reminded her of the scratchy throat she’d had for a few days and brought more attention to other symptoms that had remained milder. The barely sore throat quickly turned to something much more painful and it was like over the span of a few hours she had developed what she was sure would be an awful cold. 

Her nose was running nonstop to the point where she had just decided to hold a tissue against it so that she didn’t have to keep throwing them away. Her head throbbed with every beat of her heart and she’d wrapped herself tightly in a soft blanket before falling asleep on the couch, her hair still wet. 

None of that mattered. She couldn’t let it matter, there was just no time for that. She wasn’t sure when they would let her go through this training again. No matter how much she argued about her close combat skills she was still told that she needed to fight the second in command that of course being Alex. 

It had been a long time since she’d squared up against such a well-trained opponent and knew that in her current state, there was simply no way that she’d win. Her goal was just to go for as long as she could before either her body gave out or Alex got bored. She was hoping for the latter which would save her some embarrassment. 

So far that plan wasn’t working. Alex had pinned her four times, the rounds lasting only a few minutes each. The longest she’d managed to hold her own was five minutes and she knew that she’d need to prove she could last longer if she ever wanted to be officially allowed in the field. The field being her lab in the DEO.

“C’mon Luthor, let's go. One more then we break.” Alex ordered, raising her fists. Lena did the same, assuming a fighting stance. The world was swimming around her, making it difficult to keep her eyes focused on the brunette in front of her. She was trying to track Alex’s movements but the woman kept doubling and shifting, her movements glitching in and out of Lena’s view. 

When the kick swept her legs she didn’t put her arms out to stop herself much to Alex’s surprise. The young CEO began to fall, her eyes wide and bewildered. Alex reached out quickly and grabbed Lena’s wrist, managing to catch the bit of skin that wasn’t covered by her sleeve. 

Just by touching her wrist, she could tell that the heat was more than a normal higher temperature caused by exercise. Lena's skin was clammy and slick with sweat. As Alex examined her closer she noticed the red nose and hair stuck to her forehead with more sweat. Her friend was shivering hard, curling in on herself. 

“Geez, you’re burning up.” Alex moved the back of her hand from Lena’s cheek and laid her palm against the shivering woman's forehead. The sleepy woman sniffled quietly and shrugged, not speaking. She was too tired to talk, there was just not enough energy in her body to pretend anymore. 

“Alright. I’m going to take you home, did you bring a change of clothes?” She asked, wrapping an arm around Lena’s waist to take most of her weight. The younger Luthor sagged heavily against the agent, barely able to stand on trembling legs. 

“No,” Lena answered, offering no further explanation. Alex rolled her eyes, smiling fondly down at the woman she assumed would be her future sister-in-law. She’d seen the box in the drawer of Kara’s bedside table and her sister had sworn her to secrecy. 

“Okay. I’ll get you home soon, you won’t have to be in these clothes for very long. And, you’re showering as soon as we get back. You smell.” She teased, getting a little whimper from the woman leaning against her. With another eye-roll, Alex scooped Lena up so that she was carrying her bridal style. 

“Why?” Her charge asked, not hesitating to rest her head on Alex’s shoulder. She was pretty sure that she had no other choice, her body was utterly devoid of strength. 

“This is just easier Little Luthor. As soon as we get you settled I’m going to call Kara, alright?” Lena nodded, closing her eyes as she was carried out of the training room. She’d fought hard against this virus but for now, she was down for the count. At least she would have Alex there to look after her until the woman she loved got home.

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[pigeonwhumps]

Overdose

Sanctuary masterlist

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Augusnippets day 30: self-harm | addiction | overdose

Anita overdoses.

469 words

CW: minor whump (Anita's 15), medication (tablets), overdose, suicide attempt, past rape (not explicitly mentioned but this takes place in the aftermath), transphobia, PTSD, Anita's pov which I think needs warning for here

Anita pops the pills out of the foil one by one, dropping them into the little cup beside her on her bed. She doesn't like taking pills. But after today, she won't have to again.

She won't have to do anything again. Or feel anything ever again.

Her heart will no longer pound every time she catches a glimpse of school uniform. Her stomach will no longer threaten to exit her body at the sound of raucous laughter. She won't have to take the long route to the park if she's ever brave enough to go because the normal route passes the alley where–

Well.

She can't take this anymore, she can barely leave the house, can barely breathe even on good days. Every time she looks at herself she hears the words of her– the others. She's not a proper girl because she can't take it, and she looks like this, but she isn't anything else either so what is she? Not human? Not worth anything?

Will she even bother to defend herself if they come back? They could, they're not in jail, maybe not ever. They could attack her any time she leaves the house. And everyone knows, they could hurt her too.

Not that it doesn't all hurt, inside her head, all the time. And her injuries haven't healed yet either.

She just needs everything to stop.

That's all the pills ready. The whole packet. That should be enough.

It has to be enough.

Anita takes a swig of grapefruit juice and holds it in her mouth, then sits a few pills on top and swallows it all down with some more juice.

And then she does it again. And again. Until all that's left are two empty cups.

That's it, then.

She leans back against the headboard and closes her eyes, drifting for a little bit. She wonders how long this'll take to work.

There's a soft, "Mrrp," and she opens her eyes, frowning.

"I thought I shut the door."

Mittens jumps on the bed and brushes up against her, headbutting her side with a more insistent, "Mrrp."

She chokes on a sob as she scratches the old cat. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry. It's–"

"Fine" is what she means to say, but she can't. She can't. It's not fine. And she's not sure she's as ready to leave as she thought she was before Mittens came in.

She's so tired.

She doesn't want to stop petting Mittens. Ever.

She reaches out her free hand for her phone and dials three numbers, strength waning.

"Emergency services, what service do you require?"

"Ambulance," she slurs, eyes slipping shut.

"What's your emergency?"

"Overdose. Address is 2B Crescent Building, SE6 5SG."

When did it go dark? She doesn't remember it going dark.

And then she doesn't remember anything at all.

[deluxewhump]

Erik's Journals pt 4 (2016-2018)

Content Warning for entire series: institutionalized slavery of a minor (11-18), emotional abuse and manipulation, dubious comfort, pet whump, disordered eating, violence, guns, mutilation (off screen, no main characters), corporal punishment, sexual content/dubcon ( character is 18+), broken bones, death of a parent, unreliable narrator

6. From the Palm of Your Hand

December 2016 

I regret to report I am in a battle of wills with my own (and only) pet. Perhaps you can sift through these archives and find where I went wrong, but I can’t pinpoint my own mistake. I am likely too close to it.

A year ago, in protest of being made to go out in the warehouse for a meager twenty hours per week or so, Carlo stopped eating. He would drink only water. I noticed this probably a day or so after it began, and my staff confirmed he had not touched anything served to him, nor had anything appeared to have been taken from the fridge, or the pantry. Upon questioning, they informed me he said he didn’t feel well.

I questioned him myself. We were snowed in thoroughly on Wednesday, the day before Christmas Eve, and I did not require my workers to report. Nor had I sent Carlo outside. If he was sick, I wouldn’t have made him go outside anyway. I knocked softly and let myself in. He didn’t look up.

“Lo,” I said, sitting on the side of his bed and feeling his forehead. He was cool to the touch. “What’s wrong?”

He wouldn’t look at me. He didn’t close the paperback he was reading, just slid it over a foot to make room for me.

“Are you sick? I’ll call Doctor Stern to have a look at you.”

“No, Sir.”

“Why have you not eaten? They say it’s been several days, by their estimation.”

“Whose?” he asked irritably.

“The staff, Carlo,” I answered, letting some of the gentleness drop from my voice. I put my finger under his chin, forcing his face up.

“I don’t want to eat,” he said, moving his lips as little as possible. “I’m not going to eat.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

He rolled his eyes. Rolled his eyes. At me. “I have a bet with Keith.”

“I don’t care. Keith answers to me, too.”

“So you tell him to force feed me rotten food?”

I removed my hand from his chin. He dropped his eyes back down to the book, but they didn’t move across the page. His cheeks grew slightly pink.

“What?”

He shrugged an insolent shoulder.

“Well now you’ve told me, so go on and tell me. Keith forced you to eat spoiled food?”

“He watched,” Carlo said reluctantly. “Helped.”

“Did any of them touch you? Besides Keith? Any of the men on the grounds?”

He gave a resoundingly teenaged response. “What do you care?”

My eyebrows raised. “You’ll find I care very much. They are under strict orders not to lay a finger on you, Carlo. I made it very clear. Need I remind you what happened after the time with your finger? That little accident?”

I had reviewed the footage and corroborated his story, temporarily dismissed Keith without pay, and promoted another in his stead. Keith’s ego was bruised, but he is an asset to me. After a sufficient length of time, I let him return. 

“One of them just touched my face,” he mumbled, like he wanted nothing more than to backtrack, now that he had my full attention. “Grabbed me, kinda.”

“One of the men grabbed your face?” I asked for clarity.

Carlo reached up and took my own face in his hand, about the mouth like he was going to try and force it open. Like one would hold a dog to try and get it to swallow a pill. There was no force behind his cool, soft grip. “Like that.”

I held his wrist, pulling his hand down enough to press a chaste kiss to his large, bony knuckles. His mouth parted in surprise as I lowered his hand back down. I rarely kissed him, and if I did it was on the top of his head, or more rarely these days, on his soft cheek.

“You’re going to come with me,” I told him. “And I’m going to feed you, and you’re going to eat. Don’t look at me like that, this is not a punishment. Then I’m going to fire the man who touched you, and suspend the Christmas bonus for the rest of them.”

“Don’t do that,” he whispered, pleading eyes lifting to mine.

“Why? Are you feeling sentimental now?”

“They’ll take it out on me,” he replied, a concern that was both practical and correct. I had to smile. He was learning out there, after all.

“Fair enough. I won’t punish all of them, for your sake.”

I ordered a plate of small, plain sandwiches sent up to my study. I sat in a wingback armchair and put the food on a table between us. 

He sat with his legs tucked under him and ate three small rectangular sandwiches, cold white bread and thin cuts of prosciutto, pale cheese. When he was full, he sighed and laid his dark head on the side of the armchair. 

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

I had not expected to hear the familial nickname he had sometimes called me years ago, when he was still small and sweet. “For what?” I asked. 

“For ratting on the guys.”

“You didn’t. I asked,” I told him by way of absolution.

At the time, I thought I had ended his hunger strike. But a year later, they have grown to be his favorite form of protest, of self harm. I have threatened to put him on a feeding tube, threatened to beat him, threatened to take away water until he relents. I have not done any of these things yet, as I am deciding which is the best course of action, and I do not like to act in anger. A pet must see their master as calculating, capable, and rational. Failure at that level brings failure at all others.

I lectured him, asked him gently, tried to coax him into eating something from my fingers. I’ve guilted him, scolded him, and tried to appeal to his higher reason until, caught up in my own rhetoric, I slapped him across the cheek and tears ran down his face, but still he did not relent.

In a way I admire him for this. He grows ever more difficult to control, and yet has never lost his temper, never screamed at me or attempted violence, like he has with Keith. He likened me to the Gestapo the other day, which genuinely made me laugh despite my mood. But these days and days of not eating, I cannot allow to continue. He is visibly thinner, and it pains me to watch. I think I will go the way of the feeding tube, and have him sedated for a while. If it happens again, I will try another approach.

Footnote:

I told him of my plan for the feeding tube and explained how it would work. Dr Stern was on his way before Carlo believed me— it took him hearing a conversation on speakerphone. He begged me not to do it, and said he’d eat. I reminded him that Doctor Stern was a busy man, that he was on his way with the equipment and had cleared an afternoon for me. Carlo apologized, frantic, pale, even breaking out his old word Papa as a whispered plea, hoping to appeal to my love for him. 

I should have forced him, to make a point. I should have ordered him to allow the doctor to sedate him, puppy dog eyes and all, to endure the humiliating lack of autonomy in having a tube pushed down his throat against his will, forcing calories into his bloodstream, but I did not.

I called Stern and apologized for the inconvenience. I didn’t say why, or tell him that Carlo had capitulated, because Caro was listening and I wanted him to feel like I was the merciful and considerate keeper of his privacy. He pressed himself against my chest and whimpered in relief in my arms. That evening, he ate dinner with myself and Mathilde at the table, and locked eyes with me as he spooned a forkful of red velvet cake the color of fresh liver into his incorrigible little mouth.

7. What Village

July 2017 

I try to keep Carlo away from Martin Olsen. Martin, the other half-owner of O&H, has always been too interested in him. But the other day, their proximity happened by chance.

My first floor study is a long, rectangular room with dark walls of mahogany wainscoting and recessed bookshelves, a stone hearth that lies cold and dormant in summer months, and a wide arched window on the far wall that looks out to the lawn. Carlo likes to sprawl across the green chaise lounge in front of the window to read, which is where we happened upon him as we entered. 

He looked up and saw me first, then Martin. I saw his eyes change when he realized my friend was with me. He knew Martin, knew the way his pale eyes followed him around a room. He hurried to push himself off his belly and sit upright. 

“A reader,” Martin observed as we entered. “Interesting hobby for a pet.”

I had Carlo serve us each a drink from the bar cart on the far wall. Martin waited a little too long before accepting the glass, forcing Carlo to make eye contact with him. 

We continued a conversation for a while about goings-on in the company, Carlo standing like a servant a few feet from where I sat, hands folded in front of him and head demurely down. 

At a lull in our conversation, Martin regarded Carlo and looked as if he’d put a candy in his mouth and found it too sour. “He’s a bit… well… willful isn’t the right word. He does all the right things, but there’s contempt when he looks me in the eyes. He could learn to hide it better. Or better yet, have it pulled out at the roots.”

Carlo maintained all his composure, but I knew his tells, saw the way he dropped his eyes to the floor and the way his breath came tighter, self conscious of every cell of his being. I pulled him closer to me by the sleeve, wrapped my arm around his slim waist.

I loved his contempt for Martin, in that moment. Maybe because it wasn’t for me. Maybe because he knew in his bones Martin would be a worse fate for him. I loved that little fire in him, so carefully guarded. 

“Your own pets may be numb to your snipes, Martin, but mine is still quite sensitive to both criticism and praise. Both of which should come exclusively from me.”

Martin shrugged, smiling. “It takes a village.”

I laughed at his odd use of the phrase. “It absolutely does not. Does it, Carlo?”

Carlo looked at me imploringly, begging not to be put in the middle of any of my conversations with friends or colleagues. 

“No, Sir.”

“A non-answer,” Martin grinned, and Carlo dropped his eyes again. 

“A good answer.”

“Do you punish him?” Martin asked casually. 

I felt him tense under my hand. 

“My views on the carrot versus the stick is not something I wish to discuss,” I answered. “With you, or anyone else.” 

I like to let him keep his little fire.  Martin sighed and kicked one leg out to rest his shoe on my table. “I had to break my little Sola’s heart the other night. He broke my espresso machine, you know that one I had imported? Snapped the steamer clean off. Careless. I hate carelessness. I put his hand to the stove burner for a few seconds, maybe that will help him remember his focus in the future, but I doubt it. At my wits end with that one.”

Carlo, usually so in control of his expressions these days, flinched visibly. I saw the flicker of horror in his eyes before he masked it. 

“Sola doesn’t strike me as willfully belligerent,” I said. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to.”

”It’s not belligerence I was reacting to. Like I said, carelessness. Do you want to borrow him? Maybe you’ve got tactics I don’t. I’m sure this one wouldn’t break a three thousand dollar machine. Why is it you never share?” 

“This one? Oh, afraid not.”

“You could’ve gotten one just like him, good to go. Why the long game?”

“I don’t think that’s strictly true. I couldn’t have gotten one just like him. You can’t buy something you handmade yourself— it’s already yours.”

Carlo’s neck had grown warm under my hand. Was it because of the way we were speaking about him, or had I simply noticed his body heat after sharing it with my palm?

"Is he in your will?”

“Are you hoping I die now?” I might have been annoyed if Martin wasn’t such an old friend. 

Martin laughed. “No. No. Just curious what would happen to something so dear to you in the unlikely event of your demise.”

“Don’t worry about my legal affairs,” I said lightly. “Or my pet.”

Later, when Martin was gone, I invited Carlo to eat with me in the dining room.

“I’m sorry,” he said, fork poised over a flake of salmon.  “Are you? What for?”

”What Martin Olsen said.”

I admit I wanted to hear him say the word. “What part?”

”The…contempt. I didn’t…” he trailed off when he saw my smile. I took my time chewing, took a sip of water.  “Martin keeps his household with fear. He needs it as much as he enjoys it. I know you sense that.”

He watched me carefully. “He burned his pet on the stove for a mistake? An accident?”

“Yes. And do you know what that gets him?”

“Obedience?”

“Hatred. Fear and more fear, the serpent that consumes itself. I’d prefer to think I have a piece, a little sliver, a moonbeam of your love.”

He looked at me guardedly, like he’d never seen me before and was afraid I was an apparition. “You have it.”

I reached for a slice of bread. “I enjoy your contempt for men like Martin. You’re a spitfire at heart, Carlo, I know that.”

He blinked at me, unsuspecting of this strange praise and unsure how to handle it. “I…I don’t have contempt for you,” he said, sensing a veiled danger. 

“You do. But. You also give me your softness. Your thoughts. Your trust.” “Does that cancel out contempt?”

I laughed softly. “In this case, it may. Don’t look so worried. Eat.”

July 2017, Post Script

Martin sent Sola to me the following week. I told him I wasn’t interested in the armchair psychoanalysis of his pet, or any of the “different tactics” he had spoken of. He said that was fine, he just wanted him out of his sight for a while. 

So I gave Sola a cot in the laundry room (it’s a spacious room, has a window and is rather pleasant smelling due to the laundry) and told him to shadow Anna, and do whatever he could to help her out. 

He stays out of the way. He speaks only when spoken to (in my presence at least). I don’t know what is between him and Martin. Martin can be obsessive, perhaps it’s just as simple that. Sometimes I think he takes out what he cannot take out on our business on his son and his and pets. 

Carlo had a twinge of jealousy about another pet in the house, even after I told him it was probably only going to be a week, two at most. 

We played our usual Sunday night game in my study, which started when he was younger with Gin Rummy and lately was 7 Wonders Duel. He sat with his legs drawn up in a pale green Charlemagne chair, resting his chin on his knees to study the board. 

“Have you talked to him?” he asked unassumingly. 

“Sorry?”

“Sola.”

“Ah.” I placed two coins in the bank to procure a Garrison card for my city. “Not in the way you mean. I have no interest in playing therapist or referee for Martin and his pets.”

“Do you like him?” 

“He’s fine. You’re sorely neglecting your military operations, Lo.”

“They aren’t as important as you think.”

I took a sip of brandy. It was near midnight, and raining so hard the study windows appeared covered in a single sheet of water rather than rivulets.  “You’re right. I should diversify my efforts.”

“It’s your Army background.”

Despite his willingness to joke, he still looked drawn and distracted. “You don’t need to worry about our guest,” I said with a quiet air of finality. 

“I’m not. That’s just it. I probably should be. I should talk to him. I keep thinking about if I were him, how I would feel getting abandoned in Mr Olsen’s house for a few weeks. It’d be the right thing to do.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I don’t want to. I want to ignore him.”

“Only-child syndrome.”

He pouted openly.

“It’s a short visit. A favor.”

“You’re not going to keep him, are you?”

I laughed humorlessly. “No. I don’t need or want another pet. Besides, I don’t care for dead-eyed blonds.”

He failed to suppress a grin, recognizing the slight as a backhanded compliment to himself. 

“Now draw, before I get impatient,” I said with utmost tolerance.  

He drew, considered, and purchased a courthouse. 

“What good is a courthouse when I invade and raze your city?” I asked. 

“I can try you for war crimes in it.”

“Your dedication to civic growth is commendable, but it won’t stop me from winning.”

“You’re not winning.”  He perched his chin back on his knee and added, “Respectfully.” 

8. It's Torn Where There's Mercy

January 2018 

Carlo does not dare outright refuse to eat, because he knows I will have him sedated and tube fed. Regrettably, one night, I threatened to intubate him as well, because I could tell he was undereating as a way to self harm. A way to control his own body, his surroundings. Me. The threat was baseless, but hit a nerve. He got angry with me and said Dr Stern was a fake, and that his old doctor, Amalfi, had been too.

Calmly, I asked him where he got this idea. Dr Stern’s credentials are not only adequate, but impressive.

“What kind of medical doctor would sedate someone in their house, against their will?” he asked hotly. “For no medical reason? What happened to ‘do no harm’?”

Now he was misapplying the Hippocratic oath at me— as if the conventions of free society applied to him. “There is a medical reason. You are harming yourself by refusing to eat anything at all.”

“It’s only been three days,” he said, ready for me.

I closed my laptop to give him my full attention. Sometimes that was too much for him, and he would back down.

“I’m not medically underweight. I’m not in danger of anything. And even if I eventually was, they’d need to evaluate that first.”

Quaint. He did research.

“Dr Stern is going to evaluate you.”

“Here? Who does that!”

“I do.”

“Not in a hospital, or a psychiatric ward?” He huffed, and the agitation was admittedly charming on him. Would be charming, if it weren’t so troublesome. “Fucking quack.”

“Carlo,” I hissed at the language. “Absolutely not.”

He gave me a guilty glance. He was silent, his temple jumping with the strain of keeping his mouth shut. I let a period of silence stretch out for what might have been sixty seconds, but felt like much longer. I wasn’t angry with him until he swore. The boy is smart, he’s going to take issue with things now and then. What he doesn’t need to do is adopt the grammar of the men in the warehouse and bring it into my house like muddy shoes. I can say fucking, but in the mouth of a pet it is ugly and uncalled for. At least in my presence.

When I spoke again, I let a detached coolness dictate my tone. “You will break your little fast tonight. In addition, you will take only cold showers until I tell you otherwise. And I mean that you can use the dial on the left only. Not lukewarm. Not mixed. Cold. If you defy this, or appear unbathed at any point, or if you continue to undereat in an unreasonable way, I will find something else for you to do that you will like a lot less.”

He looked as surprised as if I'd slapped him. “It’s the middle of winter.”

I raised my eyebrows and nodded. 

“You can’t do that,” he said weakly. We both knew I could, and much worse.

”Tell me you understand, or you can double your hours in the warehouse this week as well.”

”I understand.” 

“Good. But it still stands. Consider it a metaphor. I have always provided you excellent medical care every time you had so much as the sniffles, and this is how you behave? Over something I didn’t even do to you? Do you know how many pets are left to bleed and fester and die on their keepers watch? Do you know how they are treated in hospitals? That’s why I give you private care. That’s why I pay a highly qualified doctor a pretty penny to make house visits for you.

”You think you like starving? Think it’s a game? I could lock you in a room til you were begging on your hands and knees for scraps from my table. Ungrateful brat.”

I let that hang in the air for a moment. I resented him for making me compare myself to other pet owners, comparing him to other pets in the process. I know he knows the ways of the world outside these gates. I shouldn’t have to remind him of my relative mercy, how much autonomy I give him. 

“Convince me to give you the privilege of my hot water back.”

I half expected him to argue with me. I think part of him wanted to. The gentler, better trained half of him won out, and he nodded.

“What do you say?”

“Yes, Sir.” Reluctantly, he added, "I'm sorry."

“I’m not interested in that just now. Go.”

Obediently, he left the room.

I don’t want to hurt him, to cause him undue pain. But he is seventeen, and soon will be whoever he is going to be, for the most part. I don’t hold it against him entirely. These things happen. I’d have been more surprised if they hadn’t. But I am exasperated. 

I could have pointed out there are no psychiatric wards for pets, they get thrown into basements if they’re lucky, and shot in the back of the head if they’re not. Or sold to the lowest bidder to be tortured to death by whoever would pay for a turn. Need I remind him of the things he’s seen? 

But again. I am not trying to break him so badly that he is not something I want to spend time with, when I am finished. It is, regrettably, an art.

He could still go either way.

Postscript:

It is worth noting that Carlo got sick several days after I implemented the cold shower rule. I feel he may have opened his window at night to encourage this. It has been a bitter January. I tended to him, and I made him take a warm bath that I drew myself in the clawfoot tub on the second floor. 

“I didn’t get it back yet,” he said weakly, his head pressed against the porcelain ledge of the tub. I knew he meant the hot water.

“Shh. You have whatever you need right now, Carlo.”

I pet his head. His curls were not yet wet. “Do you need help?”

He lifted his cheek, red from the indent of the tub. His eyes were bleary, poor thing. He reminded me of when he was small. “No,” he said. “M’okay.”

I left him alone to finish, and when he was done he came into my office and curled up in the armchair by the fireplace until his hair dried in soft clean waves about his face and he fell asleep.

He could’ve gone anywhere. It felt like a truce.

9. Rare Stars

"They put me in mind of those wild things we would try in the desert to tame and that would stare at us, eat the food and drink the water we set out for them, and would spring at our throats when we made a move to stroke them. " -Antoine de Saint-Exupery; Wind, Sand, and Stars

July 2018

I’ve never punished Carlo in the sense that most people who keep a pet mean it. I’ve always tried to have clear rules, so that he would not constantly be breaking them or displeasing me without fully intending to do it. I’ve spoken to others who purposefully make the line hard to discern, simply to have a frequent reason to punish or beat or torture their pet. They think this is the only way to maintain control, to keep them in line. Maybe it is, if that’s what they truly want.

I remembered one of my colleagues talking at a party, long ago now, about a jar he filled with slips of paper. On the folded scraps were written punishments, from the tame and familiar to the rather medievally horrific. When a pet missteps in his household, he makes them draw their own punishment from the jar, not knowing what sort of consequences their indiscretion might bring on them. He told me, his mouth full of shrimp cocktail in a way that left me wanting to take an impolite step back so I would not be able to smell it, that he once hung a pet upside down by his ankles for four hours for breaking a dish. Shaved the beautiful golden head of his girl pet for forgetting to call him Sir at the dinner table.

He seemed proud, in the telling of it. “It seems to me you’ve cut off your nose to spite your face more than once,” I told him as he scooped another anemic comma of shrimp into a dish of cold sauce. “On their toes,” he said as he dropped it into his mouth. “Keeps them right on their toes. Only way.” 

It did surprise me when Carlo left my property without permission. He didn’t go far, and I believe him when he says he wasn’t meeting anyone. I did check the devices he has access to for any breadcrumbs. No correspondences that I could find. No searches or material indicated he had larger ideas of making some ill-advised break for it. He’s smart enough to know he faces greater danger out there, without any paperwork and legally belonging to me, than he faces inside the walls of this house.

But rules are rules. If I don’t enforce them, they are just requests.  

I confronted him about the unauthorized wandering. He knew he was caught, and admitted to it immediately. He’d been to a bookstore, the park, and a restaurant before returning. He’d been gone for four hours. 

I sighed as he stood there, caught and not fighting it. Resigned as a prisoner. “Carlo, you should’ve asked me. I would’ve let you go. I would’ve given you my driver for the morning. It would be safer than walking and public transportation. Too many powerful people know what you look like in this county. Know who you belong to.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“Why, then? Why the secrecy? I thought you’d had a change of heart.”

I’d given him back his use of hot water. He’d been too stubborn to ask, so I’d simply told him all was forgiven so long as he didn’t stop eating again. 

He thought about it before answering me. “I wanted to go on my own. I didn’t want to take an authorized field trip. I just wanted to go to the store. Hang out somewhere where it was busy.”

Hang out. I can understand that. He’s a smart boy. He knows enough of the world to want to interact with it in normal ways. I knew this would happen when I let him have his internet, his books. When I took him into cities with me as a companion. Even when I put him out with the men in the warehouse. This is the price for the way I chose to educate him. And halfway between eighteen and nineteen, he is looking more and more grown every day.

“I understand,” I said coolly. “But you must understand the position I’m in now.”

He didn’t look at me.

“I have to punish you for this, Lo,” I said with a chilly calm I knew was frightening to him. 

He did glance at me then. 

“Yes?” I asked. “Speak.”

“I know. Yes, Sir.”

“Alright. Now, then. C’mon. Up.”

I took him into the master bedroom and had him strip to his underwear. His hands shook as he undid his pants. I chose a belt from my closet and had him lie on the end of the bed. He pressed his cheek to the comforter, took a steadying breath and let it out slowly, like a man sentenced to a whipping. I brought the belt into his line of vision to show him.  

“I’m going to give you thirty strikes with this,” I said calmly, though my own heart rate had picked up. Hurting him was not something I am used to. It is not a normal occurrence, in our relationship to each other. 

“When I’m done, that will be the end of it. If you do it again, I will have to think of another punishment, and it will be more severe. I don’t like that I’m doing this, Carlo. You’re better than this.”

With no comment, he lay his arms at an angle, elbows bent above his head. 

“I’m going to hit you here,” I said, placing my hand on the back of his thigh. “If you stay relatively still, you will ensure I don’t hit your back by mistake.”

“Buckle?” he asked nervously. 

I was disappointed he would even ask me that. “No, Carlo. Of course not.”

He nodded, and closed his eyes. 

I adjusted my grip on the belt and struck with half my force. The leather end landed across the backs of his thighs with a crack that echoed off the corners of the room. He flinched. 

The next time I put more force into it. The skin began to turn pink. By my fourth blow I had gotten the force right, and my aim, and he whimpered sharply on impact. Five, six. He cried out, turning his face into the comforter and grabbing fistfuls of it in his hands. 

I struck him six more times, until the skin on his left thigh broke, just a nick that revealed slightly pinker skin beneath it. It did not bleed. He sobbed into the bed, but did not move. His arms were shaking. 

I dropped the belt to the floor. He flinched at the sound. 

“Easy,” I murmured as I set a hand on his back. The skin of his thighs was bright red, striped with rising welts. 

I rubbed circles on the small of his back. He went quiet but kept his fists balled in the comforter. 

I thought of when he was small and stole those sweets from my office. His little cherub face crying after I struck him on the back of the legs for it. My heart softened, as only he could seem to do to it anymore. 

“I changed my mind,” I told him. “Twelve is quite enough.”

He lifted his face to look back at me, eyes wet. “What?” he sniffed. It is not often I go back on my word. 

“That last one broke your skin, angel. I made my point. I have no intention of beating you bloody.”

His fists relaxed, knuckles white. He whimpered and set his cheek back on the bed. 

“Sit up.”

Slowly, gingerly, he pulled himself to a sitting position, wincing as the backs of his legs made contact with the bed. 

I stepped closer and put my hands on the sides of his face, tilting it up. 

“Let’s not repeat this anytime soon, shall we?”

“No,” he whispered, looking nakedly into my eyes. He’d taken the abbreviated beating without complaint. In my very few experiences giving Carlo corporal punishment, he accepts it stoically, but the pain itself is something he climbs under, feels deeply, and allows to run its course. This was no exception. He melts under a hand or a belt, masochistically accepting the punishment and coming out the other side of it temporarily meek, more open to me when he looks at me than before. 

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

And now he was looking for absolution. Comfort. 

“It was a very calculated act of disobedience you did, Carlo. It was not something simple or accidental, like a slip of the tongue.”

“You’ve never hit me for a slip of the tongue,” he said, and leaned his cheek into my palm.

I raised my eyebrows. Did he want me to hit him? Is that what this was about, even subconsciously? Did he want his little field trip and to be punished, too? I wondered, and not for the first time, if my corporal punishments are something akin to a staged BDSM scene for him, rather than a pet's punishment. He knows I don’t want to scar, maim, or seriously injure him. Perhaps I’ve made that too clear too many times. Even the smaller punishments I gave him when he was younger seemed to wake something up rather than discourage anything in him.  

“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you enjoyed what just happened. Do you want the other eighteen I let you out of?”

He looked at me with those dark eyes, lashes still wet with tears. “No, Sir. Not… not that hard.”

I laughed. “But you’d take it if I was a little gentler? You want me to hurt you just the right amount, Goldilocks?”

He actually shrugged. God, I thought. This boy, this pet, had led me right to water and I’d taken the drink. I am in fact a terrible Master. Too lenient, too familiar. You should never buy a pet you love on first sight. That love will never leave you, and you will be as much slave to them as they are to you. 

“I ought to flip you back over and beat you bloody,” I told him smoothly. “Until you’re begging me to stop. Until your legs look like ground meat. You’ll have to beg me for an antibiotic just to keep your wounds from getting infected.” 

His eyebrows knit, unsettled by the image I’d painted for him. “N-no. I didn’t…”

“You didn’t mean that,” I finished for him. “Just that you’d like a little more of my attention than you’ve been getting lately. Is that it?”

His face reddened in my hands. I loved to draw his half veiled desires out in the open, tease at them until he was on the knife’s edge of want and shame. 

I thought of leaving him there. I thought of saying something to embarrass him, something about being eager or needy. But I would only be punishing him for my own weakness. 

Instead I took his shoulders and guided him back facedown on the bed. Unsure of what he’d done, he went down stiffly, his whole body tense as a violin string. 

“He wants his cake and to eat it, too, I muttered, grinning despite myself. 

I retrieved the belt from the floor and hit him higher up on his thighs this time, the most soft and sensitive skin available to me. I’d have made him strip naked, but I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. Sexual humiliation was not a punishment I intended for him, regardless of whether he’d enjoy it or not at this point. 

The belt made a satisfying little snap. He flinched. I didn’t hit him as hard as before, but rather over and over, with just enough force to make him begin to whimper and turn slowly red. 

Soon he understood what was happening. I was not going to hit him harder, but I was unrelenting. The cumulative effect began to take its toll. A few times the belt snapped over the harsher hits from before, over his broken skin. After a while, I even aimed for it. 

His whimpers drew out longer and turned to moans. By the time my shoulder was fatigued, his entire upper thighs were as red and blotchy white as if he’d been burned. The broken skin was bleeding, though just enough to well up with blood like a scrape from asphalt. 

He was whimpering and mewling openly with each impact, though making no effort to get away from the relentless licks of my belt. I loved those pained sounds from him, the twitch of his hips on each impact, and the fact that some part of him wanted it from me amused me deeply. I always underestimate him. 

"Enough?” I asked finally. 

He shook his head yes against the bed, having cried and drooled a wet spot onto my covers. 

I sat on the edge of the bed next to his head. I put my hand in his curls and squeezed a tight fistful, drawing him up to look at me. He was a mess now, eyes bright and tears streaking down his cheeks, nose running, lips swollen and cherry red. 

“The next time you crave my attention, sweet thing…” I ran my forefinger up his cheek, through his tear tracks. “Ask me for it, and I’ll see what I can do.” 

He watched me put the tip of my finger to my tongue, tasting the salt.

Did I do it for him, or me? The first twelve were meant to be a real punishment, and I think they were, he didn’t like it when it was that hard. But he wasn’t afraid of it like he might’ve been when he was younger. Which begs the question: Did I want him to be? Not really. I’ve worked very hard for him to trust me on some levels. With his basic bodily safety and well-being, for one. With my touch, for another. 

To badly harm or to torture him would undo so much work. And I’m not a torturer. Even if I was, I wouldn’t do something so violent to an innocent boy. My innocent boy. 

But the second part, that was a game. I’m sure it hurt, and I’m sure it’s hurting today as I write this. But he asked for it, which I cannot get over. It surprises and amuses me to no end. I was done before he goaded me. If he’d asked me to stop, I think I would’ve. I suspect he wasn’t crying so much from pain but from the emotional heights and releases it brought along with it, at my hand. 

If he pulls more stunts just to be “punished” I’m going to find things he truly will not like. No books, no internet. Five AM twelve hour shifts in the warehouse and solitary in his empty room after that. I can go for weeks, little Lo, it hurts my feelings not at all. How long can you go? 

If he asked me to hit him again, I might. It’s not like it’s unpleasant. Quite the opposite. I just don’t want him doing idiotic stunts to get my attention. I’ve been neglecting him lately, more than usual. I’ve been busy. I suppose he just let me know— too busy. 

I’ll bring him with me to New York next week. Take him around, buy him a new coat. I’ll even let him go out on his own for a few hours, be a tourist. Hell, New York is safer for him than Baltimore. No one will recognize him in New York. It’s too big, and plenty far enough from home. 

Next

[whumblr]

Weapon

So, a lil while ago, @whumpedydump asked about Zayne working with Emery and why Zayne says it's better to be tortured by him than by Emery. Here we go.

Warning: Dead dove. Don't want to spoil, so if you're not sure, check the tags for warnings, if ya don't care, keep going.

Home is where the hurt is: Part 1

-

“What the hell happened to your hands?” Jay gaped at the bruises and scratches over Zayne’s knuckles.

Zayne instantly pulled back and turned away.

“Punched a wall because I have to put up with your stupid questions.” His left hand – unconsciously – slid over his right, covering the worst of the bruises, the raw, reddish split skin, and lightly rubbed over it.

“Yeah, sure, a little one-two combo to a brick wall.”

“Now you’re just begging for a one-two combo to your face.”

“Just saying,” Jay held his hands up, “if you found someone else to torment, be my gu—"

Zayne sharply turned. “Don’t ask,” he snarled and pointed a shaky finger in Jay’s face. “Okay?”

-

“Did I say you could stop?”

“Sir, he’s… he can’t take much more.”

Zayne took another step back, revealing the man kneeling in front of him to show Emery the state he was in. He was quite sure that another hit would knock him clear out. Which, honestly, would probably be a mercy at this point.

The man barely had any strength left to stay upright on his knees, his clenched fists ziptied behind his back were trembling, blood poured from his nose, and even with gasps and heaves he couldn’t get his breathing under control.

Emery remained unimpressed and stayed where he was, just a few steps behind Zayne. He merely glanced down at the man, who struggled to look up but glared at him with all he had left. “Yes, he can. Keep going.”

Zayne hesitated. He felt disgusted having to do this. It wasn’t like he hadn’t beaten on someone before. But this was… different. Too random. Impersonal. He had no idea who the man was, what he’d done to deserve this, what Emery wanted from him. He’d just shown up to this warehouse as Emery had ordered, was presented with nothing more than a man tied up on his knees and the task to ‘make him talk’. That’s it.

But the man didn’t talk. And by now, Zayne wished the guy had actually passed out like half an hour ago. But he was stubborn, like a certain someone he knew. Emery, unfortunately, was also stubborn, and Zayne knew the guy was going to be the first to break.

And he had to do the breaking.

Emery never lifted a finger. He had others to do his dirty work for him.

While the man was obviously nearing a limit, he was not hitting a breaking point. He remained silent, unwilling to give up a scrap of information, and with the bits of strength he did have every now and then, just glared past Zayne right at Emery.

But Zayne felt that he was nearing a limit as well.

His hands were trembling and not just from the pain of bone striking unrelenting bone. But also from the sickening crunch that followed every strike, the blood that stuck to his hands, the grunts of pain followed by agonising silence in front of him, judging silence behind him. How much longer was this going to take?!

A coughing sound escaped the man’s lips, along with some blood as he tried to speak and Zayne found himself hoping he’d finally spill. But when the man found his voice he merely said:

“Yeah, man, keep going.” His voice was soft, tired, but the defiance in it was thundering loud. “Knocked out you’d get just as much out of me as you are getting now.”

Zayne peeked a look at his boss to see how he’d take this.

Not well. Emery’s face darkened.

“Your knife,” he merely said, narrowed eyes still on the man.

Reluctantly, Zayne reached into his pocket. He didn’t go for his actual knife, the one he used with Jay. That was his favourite, meant for play. This one was a spare, meant for work, to be put away after everything had ended and snap it closed to keep the memories of the job contained. All kept separate.

He held it out for Emery.

But Emery refused it and took back a step, making room for Zayne to stand over the kneeling man and positioning himself in just the right spot to watch over the whole spectacle.

Zayne wasn’t really sure what he expected. Of course he was going to have to do it.

He made a show of slowly folding the knife open, but his heart wasn’t into it. Usually he’d love the twitches of fear, the widening of eyes, the flinch as the knife clicked. Here he was just furiously hoping it would make the man relent. When he didn’t, he stepped behind him, kept him in place with a hand on his shoulder, and pricked the blade over the side of his ribs.

Last chance, man!

The man tensed under him, flinched hard when skin split and red soaked into the cut fabric of his shirt. But the warning by just cutting skin deep was not enough to make him either scream or talk. And before Zayne had to make himself go a step further, he heard a tutting sound.

Emery sighed, shaking his head, and stepped forward.

Before Zayne could pull away, Emery’s gloved hand was on his and pushed the knife deeper into the cut.

The blade sank in deep. Way too deep. Zayne startled and meant to pull back, but Emery’s hand clamped over his and actually pushed harder, dragging it along. The blade slid in up to the hilt, carving through skin, muscle, blood vessels; indifferent to what it severed. Blood immediately gushed free. A sickening scream rose up and Zayne had to force himself to keep the man down by his shoulders before his trashing made things even worse.

Emery finally withdrew his hand. “Stop petting him and get him to talk.”

With some effort – and with a disgusting squelching sound – Zayne had to actually pull the knife free. Blood kept running down the man’s side, sticking his shirt to his skin. If he had to dig that deep, the man would probably bleed out after about three or more cuts. This was no longer threatening a man to talk by torturing him; this was ‘talk fast or die’.

And the guy seemed to realise as well that he wouldn’t be able to walk away with this.

“No… no, don’t do that again,” he wheezed. “No!” He bucked again when Zayne held the knife under the first cu— he couldn’t even call it a cut; it was a full on open stab wound.

“Talk,” Emery said over the begging.

And something burst. Along with his tears, the man’s words spilled out of him, talking as fast as he could through gasps of pain and in-between heaving breaths.

Thank god. Zayne let him go and stepped away, relieved he didn’t have sink the knife in like that himself, that it was finally over.

Emery nodded, seemingly satisfied with the info he got. “Good.” And before Zayne could even fold his knife, he followed up with his final order:

“Slit his throat.”

Zayne froze up. “I… I don’t think that’s necessary—”

“I do,” came the cold reply, effectively ending any further protest.

The knife nearly slipped from his grasp. His heart skipped a beat and it felt like it just plummeted down into his stomach, dunking into the pool of dread that started to violently swirl around. It didn’t. After that world-stopping split-second it kept going, thundering against his ribs. Wide eyes shot from Emery to the man and back until Emery’s patience ran out.

“If I have to do it myself, I will do it twice. Do you understand me?”

Zayne clenched his jaw and tucked away all feelings before a hint of the despair whirling through him could slip free. When he turned his back on Emery, a tiny bit did slip out as he couldn’t help but glance at the two guards Emery always had with him, estimating his chances. Slim. And he had no doubt that the man wouldn’t follow up on his threat.

Something hardened inside him. Him or me. Or rather, him and me or just him. Survival instinct took over, wrapping all around him like a cloak protecting him. He did hear the man’s pleas, but the words just bounced off, like arrows against armour, never fully registering in his brain so that even if he wanted to he wouldn’t remember them later.

Besides, begging him was useless. He didn’t call the shots here. He was just the—

He stepped behind the man again, so at least he wouldn’t have to see the shock and betrayal in those eyes turn blank when— He firmly grabbed onto the man’s hair and dragged him back up on his knees, holding him up. All part of his determined, cold act.

But when he bent over, settling the knife just under the man’s jaw, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Then he let the blade sink in, immediately going in deep – letting him bleed out as fast as possible was the least bit of mercy he could offer – and he dragged the knife over his throat all the way to the other carotid artery, cutting both.

The trashing stopped as the finality of the act hit them both. The pull of gravity on Zayne’s hand turned heavy and he let the strands of hair slip from his grasp. The man slumped to the ground, wrists digging into plastic as he struggled against the zip ties as if reaching for his throat could somehow stop the bleeding, and Zayne looked away. Would rather look at even fucking Emery than watch the final moments of the man under him.

Emery watched impassively and with a certain disdain, cold eyes fixed on the man, following every twitch until he finally stilled. Then he abruptly turned and walked outside to his guards.

Taking just the slightest moment to compose himself, Zayne took a deep breath – that did fuck all like putting a band aid on one of those cuts he just inflicted – and followed.

Cold air swept over the river towards him. He didn’t notice the cold as much, but the breeze tickled over the cuts on his hands and he found that he was still holding onto the knife, fist clenched around it.

Emery glanced back at him, almost surprised that he was still here. “Someone will be along shortly to dispose of the body,” he said, tone dismissive and colder than the night air around them. “You are done for the day.”

A vague sense of immense relief that he didn’t have to clean this mess up hit him, but not as hard as it should. It was dulled, along with everything else. Zayne went along as if on autocue, making eye contact and nodding, hoping it would uphold a stoic pretence.

But as soon as Emery turned the corner, his mask shattered.

Every emotion that he had kept at bay all night burst free in a whirlwind of chaos, battling each other over which one would get released first. It was overwhelming. He didn’t know whether to cry or to scream his rage.

Because what even just happened?! Was he—did he just—

He refused to look back inside, just wanted to forget about that image as soon as he could. But even if he wanted to, to get confirmation on what he just fucking did, he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot. Completely paralysed, making him just stand there watch over the dark churning water.

The protective cloak of survival instinct ripped away. Immediately making way for something dark bubbling up, taking hold of him.

Guilt.

It clawed up inside him, whispering to him, calling him names, calling him murderer.

No…

No! This was not on him. It was not! It was Emery. It was all Emery!

If he hadn’t been here, Emery would have killed the guy himself. If Emery had called some other pawn to order around, the guy would still have been killed. Even if Zayne had refused, the guy would still be dead. And so would he. Every possible outcome ended up with the guy bleeding out on the ground.

This was not on me. It was on him, on him, not me! On him!

Because Emery already had his mind made up. And any bit of mercy Zayne’d tried to—

His breath caught.

If you hadn’t tried to spare him… If you’d just knocked him out… maybe…

No!

The blood was on Emery’s hands! Not his!

His knuckles ached as his fist clenched around the handle of his knife. Split skin burst open further, stinging, making him look down.

It wasn’t his blood… coating his knuckles, running over the flesh of his thumb.

And with a scream, he threw the knife as far as he could into the river.

-

Continuation here

Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror @susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime @freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion @afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8 @itsmyworld98 @scribbelle

[whumpsmith-participates]

Medwhump May 2024

Day 1 - Under Anaesthesia / Dislocation

TW: minor whumpee (16), organ theft, blood, strong language, verbally abusive whumper, physically abusive whumper, toxic familial relationship, tobacco

@medwhumpmay

Erick liked to think he was accustomed to pain. Living with someone who lashes out over the smallest things or locks you in the kitchen pantry for fun tends to do that to you. But hey, it could've been worse. He knew damn well what his short-fused caretaker saved him from, so he kept his head down, did what he was told, and tried not to complain. Though, sometimes, that still wasn't enough.

Fetch was a large man. Tall, well-built, with a decent exercise regime of carrying kidnapping victims or pushing Erick around to do the heavy-lifting for him. He was a doctor, once upon a time, still considered himself one. Not having a license to practice due to one misplaced liver was just a minor technicality if you asked him. And it certainly didn't stop him from misplacing even more organs...for the right price.

It also made him feel less guilty (read: not at all) about the way he treated Erick. He was more than willing to admit that he could go a little far sometimes, but the kid had nothing to complain about. He always patched him up afterwards. In fact, he should be grateful that Fetch not only could patch him up, but always did so. No matter how he got injured. It usually was his own fault, after all. If he didn't want to get hurt, he shouldn't have mouthed off.

Today was no different. Fetch had picked up a relatively simple job. All he needed was a kidney, and all he needed to get that kidney, was for Erick to get some more ice from the motel's ice machine. But he had the fucking nerve to complain about it.

"Even more?" he asked.

Fetch rolled his eyes, getting up from the bathroom floor and wiping his hands on a towel, leaving the white fabric stained red. Erick already knew he had messed up, quickly getting up from the bed and heading for the door with the empty bucket.

"I'm going, I'm going!" he said.

Fetch wasn't having it, following him outside and catching him at the top of the staircase, grabbing a hold of his shirt as he yanked him back and forced him to face him.

"You have one job!" Fetch hissed, "and that is to follow orders! You don't know how much ice I need, so who the fuck do you think you are to question me?"

"I-I'm sorry, sir—"

"Shut up, and get me the fucking ice!" Fetch hissed, before pushing him away as he let go.

Erick tried to catch himself, but the floor behind him abruptly stopped and he tumbled down the stairs. It could be worse, he'd probably feel it in the morning, he thought, until he tried to catch himself on the pavement at the end of the stairs. First it was the scrape on his palm that bothered him, that first burning sting of freshly broken skin. Then he tried to pick himself up, and he felt the most immense pain in his shoulder, spreading throughout his arm. He bit his lip to stop himself from crying out, letting out the most pathetic whimper instead.

Fetch cursed as he realised what he'd done. Great, now he probably had to get his own ice. With a sigh, he first pulled a pack of marlboro red from his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and clenching it between his lips as he searched his other pocket for his lighter.

Erick choked out a sob as he watched Fetch's face light up from the small flame that ignited his cigarette, trying to at least sit up while Fetch slowly made his way down the stairs. But the pain made it hard to move. He tried holding his shoulder, but that just made it worse. He tried supporting his arm, but that also made it worse. Everything he tried just fucking hurt.

"Don't tell me you broke something, I don't got fuckin' time for that," Fetch said, having reached the bottom of the stairs.

"I-I don't know," Erick said, trying not to cry. Fetch ignored him, though. Picking up the bucket he dropped and going to get his ice first.

Erick tried to sit up again in the meantime, alternating between holding his breath to stop himself from crying out and gasping for air, the occasional sob escaping along with some breaths. He finally managed, scooting backwards slowly to rest his back against the stair railing, while his injured arm dragged uselessly over the floor.

"Figured it out yet?"

Erick looked up. Fetch had returned with the ice, taking a drag from his cigarette as he towered over the teen.

"I-I can't move my arm," Erick said.

"Great," Fetch grumbled, crouching down and putting a hand over the teen's mouth. Erick was a bit confused as to why he started with that, until he also grabbed his injured arm and moved across his chest. Erick yelped, the sound muffled behind Fetch's hand.

"Hold it like that," Fetch ordered, "keep it across your chest like that, with your other hand under your elbow— That's it."

He carefully lowered his hand, making sure the teen would stay quiet, before grabbing the back of his shirt and pulling him to his feet, nudging him to get back upstairs while he picked up his bucket of ice and followed closely behind.

Erick stumbled back towards the motel room, waiting for Fetch to unlock the door and let him in. Then he sat down on the edge of one of the beds, holding his arm while Fetch finished up with his victim.

When he finally finished, he stepped out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on the towel again, before placing a coolbox on the dresser next to the TV. He glared down at Erick, not an ounce of pity on his face even though the teen was trembling from the pain at this point.

"Learned your lesson, kid?"

"Y-yes, sir," Erick just said.

Fetch seemed satisfied, putting the towel down and pulling a chair closer, pulling Erick's sleeve up to see how his arm was dislocated. A bruise was beginning to form around the joint, but other than that it didn't look too bad from what he could tell without an X-ray.

"Okay," he said, unbuckling his belt, "I'm gonna put it back into place, and it's going to hurt like a bitch, so bite down on this."

He pulled his belt off, and folded it a couple of times, holding it up so Erick could bite down on the leather, before bracing himself as Fetch grabbed his arm again.

We've all seen at least one scene in an emergency room, or even in the middle of anywhere, where dislocated shoulders are pushed back with a quick but very painful move, right? Well...Erick wasn't so lucky.

Fetch didn't pull hard enough on his first try, so all he really gained was to inflict more pain on Erick, who bit down as hard as he could on the belt, but he couldn't help but to cry out in pain a bit.

"Shut up!" Fetch just hissed, before trying again.

Erick really tried to stay quiet, but the pain was so bad it dizzied him. He even tried to just pull away and bury his face in the sheet to at least muffle his cries. It felt like Fetch was trying to rip his arm clean off, when suddenly he stopped.

"Breathe," he said, to which Erick realised he hadn't been breathing. He lifted up his head, gasping for air a bit, coughing as he accidentally breathed in some saliva. Fetch helped him sit up, giving him a second to calm down, before making him support his own arm again while he looked at his shoulder.

"It's back in," he said, "it'll be sore for a while. Keep supporting it. I'll get you a sling after I finish this job, okay?"

"O-okay," Erick said, "I-I'm sorry..."

"You're fine," Fetch said, "c'mon, let's get out of here before he wakes up. And before his kidneys expire, or I'll give them yours."

Erick nodded, taking another second to breathe before getting to his feet. While wondering how to carry his own backpack, Fetch already picked it up for him along with his other things, before holding the door open for him.

"Come on, we don't have all fucking day," he hissed impatiently, to which Erick quickly followed him out, briefly glancing back into the motel room over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the blood left on the bathtub through the open bathroom door.

So,,,if you haven't read Villian's View on DA, meet Fetch and Erick. I wanna try using them for all the prompts, but might change my mind later ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The rules didn't say a valid MD was required for this event, so I decided to grab my whumpiest doctor :3

Also immediately had to switch out with an alt prompt because frankly, I just have no clue about aneasthesia. Never been under it and dislocating something just drew my attention way mooore

ok rant over, thanks for reading!

Masterlist Main account

[cutwhipburn]

Mistake (Chapter One)

WARNINGS: Mental Fuckery, Dehumanization, WRU/Box-Boy Universe Themes, Medical Torture, Mental Torture, Human Expirementation, Dissociation, Alluding to Food Withholding, Fake News and the Spread of False Information, Illiteracy/Illiterate Whumpee

Mistake’s legs burned. It felt like millions of fire ants were biting into their legs-no, like a million fire ants were burrowing into their legs, biting and crawling through their skin and deep into their muscles. Into their bones, even. The latest of their mother’s inventions was proving to be a success, unfortunately for Mistake. 

It was a shot, one that Shannon planned to have used on boxies who failed escape attempts. Mistake could confirm that it would undoubtedly be very effective. Just two needles, one in each leg, and that boxie would likely never want to run again. Mistake didn’t think it would even be able to stand for at least a few hours afterwards, let alone walking or god forbid running.

Mistake winced, crying out in pain as her mother prodded them, writing notes in her inventions notebook. They wished it’s mother would let them be finished for the day, preferably sending them to their father so they could curl up in a ball and let him hug it until the pain passed. But they knew that was wishful thinking. They had been in pain for so long they’d cried out all the tears they had, had screamed themself near hoarse. 

Shannon would keep them through to the very end of the pain, and probably still have critiques on their reactions after. But Mistake didn’t know what else to do. They were hurting so much.

Time dragged on like molasses, until eventually the throbbing pain died down enough for them to stop silently crying, and they were able to curl up into a ball on the floor.

“Can I see papa now?” Mistake mumbled into their legs, their body shaking in exhausted pain. Their legs still occasionally jolted with aftershocks.

“If you can get up and walk there on your own.” Shannon allowed with a nod, turning to her assistant. “Lets get this to the lab. I need to test the effects on a few of the boxies, see if it differs based on age, weight, and gender. Pick out some troublemakers for me.” The assistant nodded, turning quickly on their heel and speeding from the room.

Mistake started to slowly drag their body across the floor, it’s body aching too much to even try standing. They supposed they would maybe feel embarrassed, if they weren’t so used to the humiliating feeling of needing to get out of the lab, now.

They found its father Norman, predictably as ever, standing in Shannon’s enormous kitchen, spaced out and distant. Mistake felt cold sweat down their back, leaning against the cool cabinet and tiles.

“Papa, I’m here,” Mistake said, childishly quiet. “Mama let me be done now.” They tuck their head behind their curls. “I'm tired.”

“Missy?” Norman snapped out of his daze, hurriedly bending down to lift them off the floor. “You’re shaking.”

“Mama tested a new shot,” Mistake mumbled, curling into their father’s chest. “Supposed to punish bad runaways.” They were careful with their words, softly methodical and clear. “Made my legs hurt for a while.”

He carried them into the living room, laying them down on the couch. “Want to watch cartoons, love? Do you want something to eat? I-I can make something as soon as I ask your mother if you’re allowed.”

“Not hungry,” Mistake said quietly, curling up in a ball and shaking their head. “Just wanted to be with you.” They latched onto him again like a small koala bear. “I feel better when I’m with you.”

Norman looked like he was about to be sick. “Oh-Okay, but I have to sit on the floor, remember. I’ll just sit by you, okay?”

Norman wasn’t allowed on the couch. 

Mistake whined softly, sliding themself onto the floor next to him and nestling into his side. “Wanna be with you,” they mumbled stubbornly. The carpet was plush at least. Mistake was used to sitting on it with their father, though even the plushest carpet starts to hurt when you’re ordered to kneel on it in complete stillness for half a day.

“Missy, please, the couch.” Norman begged, but his voice wavered, already used to loosing any argument he dared have. “I’m sure it feels a lot more comfortable, and you’re in pain.”

“I want you, not couch,” it insisted quietly.

Norman was silent for a moment. “Cartoons?” He asked again, his voice dulled. The only cartoons Shannon allowed them to watch were the ones with a silly little box-boy constantly getting into trouble, usually with the reminder at the end that staying indoors and with your owner was the only safe places to be. Or there would be the episodes where the box-boy’s owner would randomly shout out a command for the boxies watching, just to make sure that even when relaxing a boxie should be ready to obey their owner and listen to their authority.

“No thank you,” Mistake mumbled. “Too tired. Just wanna rest.” Norman wrapped his arms around them, gently playing with their hair. Mistake drifted asleep in his comforting arms, only awaking to the sound of Shannon’s return. It was not quiet or pleasant, but it rarely ever was.

“Norman, get dinner started!” Shannon called from the front door as she took off her coat. “We have company coming. Get Mistake upstairs and into a nice outfit when you’re done.” Mistake rubbed its’ eyes as Norman gently removed them from his lap, placing them back on the couch and hurriedly going to do as he was ordered.

Mistake could feel the pain subsiding more from their legs, lightly dangling them over the edge of the couch. It wasn’t so painless they could walk yet, pressure still sent an electric pain running up its’ legs, but they could tell it almost was the case. They fidgeted with its  hands, waiting patiently for their father to return and hoping their mother left it be for now.

Shannon, thankfully, didn’t even seem to notice them as she breezed past the living room, going upstairs to change herself, most likely. It was after a long time of silence before their father joined Mistake again, carefully lifting it back up and going upstairs to the attic.

Mistake had exactly two nice dresses. A black one and a dark blue one. Still, Norman rifled through the two in its’ small closet, pulling them out and holding them up as if it was a big decision. “Which one do you want tonight Missy?”

“Black, please,” Maddie said, reaching out to grab the dress themself. In truth, they rather wished they had more colors of clothes, and maybe even some nice outfit to wear that wasn’t a dress. But they couldn’t be ungrateful. These dresses were nice, a great privilege. “Thank you papa.”

“Remember not to talk at dinner unless anyone sitting at the table speaks directly to you. Ask if you want to speak otherwise. Eat what’s on your plate but don’t ask for seconds if you want them. If you do, find me afterwards and I can get them to you when no one's paying attention.” Norman prattled off, all the rules long memorized. Mistake nodded their head carefully to each one as they slipped the dress over their head, wriggling out of their dirty lab clothes. Norman gently finished it off with a bow in their hair, slightly shabby but not too noticeable,

“I understand, papa,” Mistake said softly and clearly. “I’ll do what you said, promise. I’ll be good.”

“And if Shannon tells you to go to bed, you have to come right up, brush your teeth and change, and go to sleep.” This one Norman seemed nervous, almost on edge about. He always did. He said it was the most important rule Mistake had to worry about. “I mean it Missy, right to sleep. No book. No window.”

Mistake pouted softly. They rather liked their book, staring at the pictures and the stories they’d made up to go along with them. Ignoring the black squiggles on the page that it would never be able to read. That they’d never be allowed to learn. They liked the window just as much. It was nice, a way to imagine a world where Mistake wasn’t a mistake, but a normal child with a normal life and two whole parents who loved them very much. But they knew how important this was to their father, so they still nodded.

“Okay, papa.” They folded its’ hands on their lap. “I will.”

“When whoever she’s expecting gets here, remember to say hello ma’am or sir and then-” Norman mimed zipping his lips. “I have to get the food out of the oven. Can you please set the table? Remember to ask your mother how many plates you need to set out.”

Mistake pushed off the bed, standing on unsteady, wobbling legs and nodded its  head. “Yes papa,” They brushed off the dust from their dress, walking unsteadily down the stairs and hesitantly hovering outside their mother’s office. “Mother? How many plates should I set out on the table?”

“Three on the table set out nicely, four in the center.” Shannon said, not even looking up to acknowledge Mistake’s presence. Mistake tried not to wilt at the lack of attention, nodding their head.

“Alright, mother. Thank you.” Mistake ducked their head and hurried down to the kitchen to grab the appropriate table settings.

They set the table with a clean precision their father had taught them well, not a thing angled or out of place, before sitting down.

On the floor.

The dining room floor was wood. It hurt their knees more, but Mistake had a little pillow to sit on while they ate. That helped a little bit, even if it was only for a little while.

Their father didn’t take long in the kitchen, carefully bringing out the food so none would drop on the floor, and arranging it nicely on the table. Mistake watched him closely, taking care to mind his actions. They were to learn from their father as much as possible, their mother had insisted.

They noticed him pause briefly, eyes moving over the table. He was counting the plates. His face fell at the number, uncomfortable and tense.

“What’s wrong, papa?” Mistake asked softly, careful not to speak too loudly and have their mother overhear.

“It’s just…I think it’s Evelyn coming over.” Norman admitted. “If there’s three plates out on the table and four that will go to the floor.”

Mistake felt themself cringe inward. They didn’t like Evelyn much. Her daughter, yes. Her daughter seemed kind, and curious, and interesting and Mistake  longed to speak with her as though they were equals. But Evelyn, Mistake hated.

Anytime Evelyn came over, Mistake got into extra trouble and was punished. And besides, Cyrus frightened them. He was rather big, rather scary, and not quite nice. Papa said that was his job, since he was a designated Guarddog boxie. He was the only one Mistake had ever met.

The doorbell rang, echoing throughout the house. Norman hurriedly helped Mistake to their feet, muttering his own rules under his breath as the two walked towards the door.

The idea behind a Box-Boy cartoon was inspired by: @ashintheairlikesnow Post here:

[whumpdreaming]

Crownchain Hurtcember + Whumpcember Day 6

Behold, the first flashback chapter. Anything that mentions her being at the Academy is almost definitely in the past. Everything for this series so far can be found in my masterpost! To be honest I'm not super happy with this one but I'm going to refrain from overly heavy editing just to keep the ball rolling :)

Day 6: Touch Starved + "Please stop"

"..And that's the hold. I'm sure Kyrie will be willing to demonstrate?"

Kyrie looks up at Master Fen. He's waiting expectantly, looking at Kyrie, as if she hasn't "demonstrated" for the multiple past days in a row.

Hesitantly, she steps out of the line of acolytes, walking across the sand of the dueling arena, stepping in front of Master Fen, letting him turn her around.

In an instant, Kyrie's right arm is forced up into an awkward position, and Master Fen's arm is tight around her neck. Any attempt to move is met with harsh resistance. Again, she's met with the same feeling — she doesn't quite have the words for it, but..

It does hurt. It's also nice, faintly, to touch something warm. Maybe that's the most Kyrie can ever hope for.

"As you can see, the target is unable to get any leverage; now watch what happens when I take my other arm, and.."

Kyrie is forced down to the ground, her left arm held down by Master Fen's leg. It feels like her arm is about to snap with the pressue being placed on it, and she still can't breathe.

Kyrie is audibly choking. She can't see anything. Her head hurts. Master Fen continues lecturing, even as she continues struggling. She tries screaming, but barely anything comes out.

"Please — please — stop," she whispers, barely hearable.

Master Fen stops talking. "Excuse me? What did you just tell me?"

Kyrie knows better than to say it twice. She can feel the tears running down her cheeks.

Master Fen sighs. "You don't get to say those words." He doesn't relent. "You know the consequences. Everyone here does."

"I just — "

"Shut the fuck up, acolyte. Don't make this worse for yourself. That's fifty lashes for disobedience. Report to the preceptors immediately." He finally stops, letting Kyrie gasp for air, her throat dry and sore, grabbing her by the collar and tossing her forwards. She falls. He kicks her and barks at her again to get a move on. She can practically feel the gaze of the other acolytes, watching as she stumbles out of the grounds and towards her discipline.

[sunshiline-writes]

COLORS OF THE END #2: Silver of the Knife

Synopsis: Isobele gets revenge. CW: Child soldiers, stabbing, blood, GORE GORE GORE, hallucinations, bug hallucinations, really graphic description of gore and wounds, cauterization, lady whump, Ben and Isobele's ceaseless bickering even as one of them is dying, pain, passing out due to pain, I think that's it??? let me know if I missed anything Previous | Masterlist | Next Word count: 2.9k

It only took a moment. A moment's distraction. A singular glint of something familiar to pull her attention away from what was important. A flash of something from her past. It was just a doll. A singular doll made from cloth. Clearly hand stitched. Peeking out from under a tent. Isobele didn’t know why it called to her like so, but she couldn’t help herself. She crouched, grabbing it, examining it in her hand. Ben and Jeremiah were talking on the other end of the camp, she could hear their voices. Talking idly about something she couldn’t be bothered about. 

Isobele heard him before she felt him. His foot rustled the tent. She spun around to face him, if she couldn’t see him, her power wouldn’t work. But she saw his eyes, he was already too close. The knife slid in like butter. Just beneath her left rib cage. It slid out just as easily. Her hand grabbed the wrist, twisting. He grunted, kicking her backwards with a foot to her stomach. “You killed the kid. He was.. He was just a kid,” he whispered as he turned around, ready to run. 

There was nowhere to run for him. Her breath caught in her throat. Hand covering her wound. She ignored the burning pain, the way every breath seemed to send more blood on her hand. She was ripped apart from the inside. Isobele shook her head, she needed to focus. Focus on what was in front of her. Push through the pain. She’d done this before. She could do it again. “I don’t see any kids here,” Isobele said, voice soft. 

The man's head was not hard to get into, she ripped through it with relative ease. A name was in the forefront of his mind. Julius. Not his name. His name was unimportant though. She just needed a few pictures, some images and she could create something new. Something horrifying. 

“All I see is you.” 

His own hands were covered in blood. Not his blood. It traveled up his arms, under his shirt, up to his neck. Over his chin, into his mouth. He was choking on it. He wasn’t choking, but he felt like he was, hands going to his throat. Scratching at it. 

No survivors. 

Bugs crawling over him, into his mouth, the hand with the knife, glints in the light. Silver and red. A reflection. The knife carves into the soft flesh of his throat, splitting it down the middle. The knife falls into the dirt. His hands dug into the skin, poking and prodding. Pulling. Strings of muscle and she could see the bone in his throat. His trachea was open to the world. Blood spills down his front, completely covering his chest. Honestly, it’s a wonder he’s still alive as he falls to his knees. Gurgling sounds coming from him. One last push, more feelings of something crawling there. His own hand grabbed his trachea, fingers around the bone, and she saw him pull. More choking sounds, and the light in his eyes dies. He fell forward, his hand outstretched. His trachea was in his hand, covered in red and bits of pink. 

Her job was finished and the pain came back tenfold. Her breathing was labored and she finally mustered the strength to call out. 

“Benjamin! Jeremiah!” she calls, grunting as she forces herself to a standing position. “Come here for a second…” Her world spun and she took a step forward. The pain shooting down her leg, up inside her ribs. 

“Oh shit.. Oh shit. Issy,” Ben screeched, immediately rushing to her side, arm around her waist, holding her up. “Why the fuck would you get stabbed at a time like this huh?” 

“What like I had a choice?” she bit out. 

“Could have gotten stabbed closer to the train. You’d bleed less.” 

“You’re a dick.”  “Guys stop,” said Jeremiah, staring at the treeline. Probably gauging whether they could make it to the train before she bled out. That would be nice, she was actually quite keen on not dying. Besides it would be a real strike to her ego if she died from something as stupid as a stab wound. As Jeremiah calculated, Ben got to work. Pressing his own hand to her side. 

“Pressure Issy. Lots of pressure.” Isobele hissed through her teeth, groaning. Finally she let herself lean against him, her world spinning for a moment. Vision going grey. She bit down the nausea in her stomach, crawling its way up her throat. She was so tired suddenly and she slumped forward. 

“No. No. Come on Isobele. Do not pass out right now. I swear to everything, I will kill you if you die.” 

Oh, full name, she was in trouble now wasn’t she? 

“We need to cauterize it,” came the voice in front of her. Jeremiah’s soft and still cracking voice. God he was so young. “She’s bleeding too much. We need to do it now.” 

“Yeah.. Yeah.. Do what he says. For once the kid is right,” Isobele agreed, as Benjamin started to set her down. He left her sitting up against a box of supplies, she held her hand over her wound. Her throat felt like it was closing. Why did she want to cry? She was not going to die here. That was just an embarrassing thought.  

She didn’t realize that Ben and Jeremiah were arguing until she looked at them again. Oh, she must have blacked out a little. Their words came flooding back into her head. “Jeremiah you have to. Come on. You have to heat up the knife, Isobele doesn’t have her daggers and even if she did she’s too weak to charge it herself.” 

“No! I don’t want to. I’ll lose control and.. and.. I can’t control it that well.” “Yes you can. You have to Jem. Come on. If you don’t she will die. Do you want her to die, Jem?” 

Jeremiah stepped away from Benjamin, who was holding the knife that had been used to stab her. It glinted in the light. Even covered in blood it still shined. Isobele found herself wondering if she could be like that too. Still silver even under the cover of blood. 

“You’re scaring him Ben. You keep that up and this whole place goes up into ash. Including us. I actually plan on making it back to the rendezvous. What about you? Calm down, take a deep breath. I’m not going to die here if you just think for a moment, idiot.” 

Ben turned to her, eyes wide, then he glanced at Jeremiah. Jeremiah was panicking too, breathing fast, static was filling the air. Slowly, Ben approached the kid. One hand snaked around Jeremiah’s head, cradling it and he pressed his forehead against his. “Hey kid, breathe. I’m sorry. I got scared. Let it get the best of me. Won’t happen again I swear. But you’re in control here okay? You’ve got it. Deep breaths and you can do it.” 

Jeremiah’s hand shook but he gripped the sharp end of the knife. Static in the air once again. There was silence for a moment before the knife’s color changed from silver to the orange of fire. Ben smiled.

“Good. Good,” Ben said softly, as Jeremiah retracted his hand wincing. It was cut and it smelled like burnt flesh. “We’ll get you cleaned up when we get back okay?” Then Ben kneeled down over her legs, lifting her shirt to reveal the wound. She winced as the shirt stuck to it. It was open and as she uncovered it with her hand, more blood gushed out. Ben hissed through his teeth, holding the knife over the wound. So close she could feel the heat. 

Isobele couldn’t look at it, instead she just looked at him. She looked at Benjamins brown eyes that meant safety. Swallowing thickly she nodded. 

“Do you need something to bite on or–” 

“Geez, just do i-” 

Isobele screamed. 

Her world went black. She was back home in her hammock, staring at the clouds. Silver. They were silver. Not clean silver like the knife she could see her reflection in, but a grey silver that seemed angry and tired. 

She came to in Benjamins arms. He was carrying her with his hands under her knees, the other around the small of her back. Oh god, she was never going to live this one down was she? She could hear him now.��

I saved your life, blah blah blah. 

Gross. She’d never admit to it. 

It was a slow trek through the forest, mostly quiet save for Ben’s slow humming of a song she didn’t recognize. 

“I can see your eyes open, I know you’re awake.” 

“Barely,” she groaned, “tell anyone back at base about this and I will kill you.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, kill me when you can stand upright by yourself,” Ben said with a small laugh. He shifted her in his arms and pain shot through her body. Up in her stomach and down into her legs. She was on fire. Isobele whimpered and shook her head. 

“Ben,” Isobele whispered, “It hurts.” 

“I know. We’ll get you to Sonya and she’ll heal you up okay?” There was a tension in his voice. Worry? She ignored that. She always ignored it so that it didn’t have to live in her head that Ben cared about her. It was easier to deal with if she pretended that they hated each other.  

Jeremiah whistled lowly, signaling something. They stopped moving, listening, and waiting. A few seconds later a whistle came through the forest, sharp and loud. They all looked at each other, then stepped through the foliage. 

Zachary stood next to the train, leaning against the sleek metal flipping a coin in his hand. She never understood his obsession with that coin. They didn’t even use coins like that anymore. Only in areas where they held onto old ways, too afraid to change. But most people used batteries now, they were way more valuable than some old coin with a dead guy's face on it.

The man pushed himself to stand straighter, staring at them. The disappointment was written all over him. It made her stomach do a flip. Zachary was always disappointed in them. Somehow there was always something they could do better, something they could improve on. Nothing was ever satisfactory. 

Zachary walked up to them and looked at the wound for a moment, leaning down and pressing a hand gently on it. It set fire under her skin. She squirmed away and looked up at Ben, whose face was carefully neutral. Even if his grip had tightened slightly. 

“What happened?” Zachary asked, his voice smooth, brows furrowed in worry.

“She got hurt. We need Sonya,” Ben said, voice shaking a bit. 

“Jeremiah what happened to her?” 

Jeremiah seemed to appear from nowhere, stepping up beside Ben. Zachary always asked him for the truth, because he always told it. Jem was annoying like that. Always following orders perfectly and telling the truth. The good thing was, Isobele was the only one who truly knew what happened. She pictured the man’s trachea in his hand, covered in blood and muscle. There was a certain pride that she took in her work. In the way that she could make people do what she wanted, see what she wanted. She was strong enough to make a man tear out his own throat with his bare hands. She wasn’t strong enough to stop him from stabbing her first though. 

“I’m not sure, Sir. She was alone when we caught up with her. She had already been stabbed and the man was dead. Isobele killed him. Sir, he tore out his own throat. It was impressive. There was-” 

Zachary raised his hand to stop Jeremiah from speaking and the boy's mouth clamped shut. “That’s enough. Take her inside. I’ll have Terry set her up with an IV and pain killers,” he said sighing, “I’ll talk to you later about paying attention to your surroundings. You let someone sneak up on you. You could have died.” 

She almost did. Isobele cringed slightly at the reprimand. Ignoring the urge to hide her face in Ben’s shoulder. Resisting the urge to put a thought into Zachary’s head about crawling under the train and letting it cut him in half when it started moving. 

Ben huffed a breath, “Can we go inside now? She isn’t as light as she looks and my arms are going numb.” 

“You’re an ass,” she grumbled. 

Zachary sighed, stepping aside. Placing a hand on Ben’s shoulder and whispering something in his ear that Isobele couldn’t hear. Ben’s jaw tensed and he nodded, stepping up on the train steps and carrying her inside. 

__ 

The rest of it, getting the IV, everything was a blur. She blamed that on the painkillers. On the brightside, she was able to sleep through most of the train ride back. Sleeping ten out of twelve hours was something she didn’t do often and she was grateful at the opportunity. When she woke up, her head felt like it was filled with cotton. Everything blurred but there was one thing that was clear in her vision. Jeremiah, he sat in the chair across from her, one leg crossed over the other, book in his hand in the dim light. His hands were bandaged, again.

“Oh,” he said softly. “You’re awake. You slept a lot. Ben told Zachary to let you.” 

“How long have I been asleep?” she asked, moving to set up, fire spread through her abdomen and she cringed. Maybe sitting up wasn’t the best idea. “No Sonya?” she asked. 

“No she’s back at base, she’ll heal you when you get there.” “Oh.” Jeremiah hummed, closing his book and he looks up at her. He’s got odd eyes. The kid had always had odd eyes. One light blue, like ice, the other so black you could drown in them. He had a soft voice, a soft demeanor. He was soft all around. Jeremiah was also stupidly tall for a fourteen year old. Or perhaps she was just stupidly small. 

Jeremiah leaned forward and pulled something from his back pocket. It glints in the light. The knife. The one that stabbed her. She reached for it, grabbing it by the handle and looking it over. It’s heavy, heavier than she thought. The handle is carved from wood. In the wood is carved a V. She thumbs with the sharpness, impressed. It makes a soft sound when she flicks her thumb across. Perfect. 

“Thought you might want to add it to the collection,” he said, shrugging and leaning back. 

“Yeah. It’s a nice dagger.” 

“Shiny,” he agreed awkwardly. God he was so fucking awkward. What was it? The murder at age twelve? Or was it just his regular personality? Either way it was fucking strange. Jeremiah was strange. 

“You’re fucking weird kid,” She commented, flipping the knife in her hand. 

“Thank you,” Jeremiah said, tilting his head to the side. “I have something else for you.” 

“What is it?” 

Jeremiah pulled something out of his front pocket. A paper. He unfolded it slightly and it came to life. A small paper crane. Perhaps a homage to one of their first meetings. When Isobele was a grand age of eleven and Jem was a shy eight year old. She held out her hand and he gently transferred it to her palm. 

It was an old memory, a fond one. One of her only ones when it came to Jeremiah. He hadn’t talked when he first came to them. Zachary said that he was just adjusting, Isobele believed that he just had nothing to say. It was after a particularly hard day of pushing herself, of training too hard like usual. She sat in the hallway outside of the arena, catching her breath. Jeremiah came out to join her. Placed a paper crane in her hand. 

She made it look like it was flying, and had it soar around the hallway. Just like now as she made it look like it was flying around the room. It flew by Jeremiah’s head, and around her own. It flew toward the window and landed on the sill. They watched for a moment before the illusion flickered and the crane stayed still in her hand. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. Something digging at her chest, making her throat close. Jeremiah was a kind soul. If he had the choice he’d probably never hurt a fly. Yet here he was, making sure that there were no survivors in a rebel camp. And gifting her silver knives and paper cranes. 

“I figured you could use something good,” he said with a smile, patting the bed twice and standing up, moving to leave. 

“You don’t have to go. You could stay.” 

“And do what?” 

She glanced at the book in the boy's hand. “Tell me about your book.” 

Jeremiah’s face brightened and he sat down again, starting to talk. She was barely listening, she just didn’t want to be alone. He didn’t seem to mind as she stared out the window. She thumbed her finger over the carved V in the handle, vaguely wondering what the name of the man was that she killed. That she made carve out his own throat. 

It didn’t matter, she decided, he was dead anyway. 

__ Taglist: @coyotehusk

[justplainwhump]

Walk-In

Creating a timeline raised some questions; here's an answer. Backstory on Blanca. This is a heavy one, please heed the warnings. It's not necessary to read to keep up with the plot.

Blanca signs up with WRU.

[Pet Safety]

Content/Warning: BBU; minor whumpee (she is 17; there is no whump in this piece itself though); human trafficking; mention of teenage pregnancy; implied discussion of abortion; implied parental grief. Everything discussed from the outside by horrible people. This is a heavy one, even though everything is only implied. Please be safe.

"So, Miles. Tell me. What do we have here?" Raquelle peeked through the blinds of her office in the back of the WRU recruitment centre.

A young woman, probably still a teenager, sat on the edge of her chair, swaying forth and back like a seedling in the wind. She was short, almost petite, but well shaped. Tanned skin, fascinatingly light eyes, brown hair in a messy ponytail. And soft lips that would make any man break a sweat just looking at them.

She'd bring in a fortune.

"Why are you even here talking to me, Miles? Seal the deal. Girl is perfect Romantic material. Sweet face, pretty lips, big tits, barely legal? Get that signature, right now."

Miles bit their lip. "She's, um. That's the point. She's not."

"Not what?"

"Barely legal."

Raquelle spun around with raised eyebrows. "Oh?"

"17." They held up a dark red passport. "Foreigner, too. Spanish exchange student. Unwanted pregnancy. Doesn't dare get home like this. Doesn't dare do anything about it, either."

"That desperate, huh?" Raquelle clicked her tongue and looked through the blinds again. The girl was beautiful. Provisions alone would probably pay her that five star vacation on the Seychelles she'd clicked away just yesterday.

"Very desperate," Miles affirmed, catching her smirk. "We'd practically be saving her."

"Well then. We need to bend one rule, we can bend three as well. I'll take care of the identity, and schedule an appointment at the clinic. You do protocol C."

Miles grinned, as they picked up one of the glossy leaflets from her desk. "Gotcha, boss. The right thing to do, huh." They left, a spring to their steps, while Raquelle pulled out her phone to call one of the more discreet contacts in her book.

By the time Miles brought the new trainee in through the back door an hour later, everything was prepared for her intake.

"I, uh. I want to do this, become a pet. Just... Please, I just don't want to be a Romantic," she said, with the cutest Spanish accent.

"Of course, dear." Raquelle smiled warmly. "You're safe with WRU."

The girl looked up at her from huge gray eyes, tears shining in her dark eyelashes, and brought up a shaky smile.

Raquelle almost had to hold her breath.

Yes.

400168 would be fantastic.

--

The video clearly showed the leaflet and passport in the girl's hands, her looking up at Miles, half confused, as they pointed at the leaflet with an understanding smile and accompanied her to the door. The video also very clearly showed her leave, and Miles watching past her with the most caring sigh.

"This is standard protocol," Raquelle explained and pointed at the screen. "She'd shown her ID, and of course we couldn't accept the application of a minor, let alone a foreigner. My colleague gave her our curated list of contact points for teenagers in dire situations. Maybe your daughter showed up at one of those? I'm so sorry. Maria seemed like a formidable, brave young woman. I'm sure she caught herself, and she's somewhere out there." She gave her most reassuring smile. "I do wish you all the best for your search, Mr Romero, Mrs Garcia."

She looked past the grieving parents to the pinboard on her wall.

Ticket to the Seychelles. She'd be leaving on Monday.

She promised herself to drink a toast to Maria Romero Garcia then. Maybe even two.

[somber-sapphic]

Compromised System

〘Day 3- "What happened to that phenomenal immune system, huh?"〙

〘Notes- This is drastically unedited and thrown together at the last second. The colors are also different because I forgot to save them. Oops.〙

〘Summary- When Lena gets sick, she really gets sick.〙

〘Word Count- 550〙

〘Pairing- Sick Lena x Reader〙

〚Main Masterlist〛⌶〚Sicktember Masterlist〛

You sighed and tucked a stray lock of Lena’s raven hair behind her ear, out of her sweaty face. Her chapped lips were parted slightly, each breath a bit raspy. Every so often you would grab a tissue to wipe her runny nose, accepting the fact that the woman was in no shape to do so herself.

Lena wasn’t even protesting, in fact, she wasn’t moving. She would open her eyes every so often to prove that she was awake but didn’t seem to care in the slightest that you were coddling her.

You dipped the cloth that had been resting on her forehead back into the cool basin of water on the bedside and brushed it across her skin, wiping away the sweat. She smiled slightly at the cool touch and licked her lips, working hard on preparing to speak.

“Thank you, Y/n.,” Lena croaked, words a mere whisper over the sound of Titanic playing in the background. The brunette wasn’t watching, neither of you were, but she had insisted that you put it on before she collapsed into bed.

Not being one to argue with your girlfriend, especially when she was sick, you’d done as she’d asked. It was roughly three fourths of the way into the movie, and you were incredibly bored. When you had looked it up on IMDB and seen it was 3 hours you had hoped she’d fall asleep soon so that you could turn it off. That wasn’t the case.

“Of course, my love. What happened to that phenomenal immune system of yours, huh?” You teased half-heartedly, your heart heavy with worry and guilt. You had given her this flu; it had been your fault. Of course, you hadn’t been nearly as sick. Probably due to the wonderful care of the beautiful woman laying in front of you.

“Mmm.” She hummed, shrugging under the pile of blankets. You were being incredibly careful in monitoring the CEO’s temperature, removing, and adding blankets as her shivering changed in intensity and frequency. Thankfully, although she was basically a vegetable, Lena’s temperature hadn’t gone above 102 degrees.

“Yeah, I think so too.” You replied, repositioning the cloth across her forehead. She had fought you on it in the beginning, insisting that she was absolutely fine. That had changed after only about ten minutes of her being horizontal.

You could tell that she was beginning to drift off, finally giving into her bodies pleas to sleep. As you sat on the edge of the bed, watching her breathing slow and her chest rise with the deeper breaths, you relaxed. It was easier to calm down knowing that she was asleep.

With one more large sigh, you shifted to sit beside her with your legs on top of the covers. You settled back against the pillows and eased Lena’s head into your lap, smiling to yourself when she instinctively grabbed your pant leg.

Even though she was bedridden now, your joke about her immune system hadn’t been wrong. Typically, it was amazing, she could work for days without sleeping and crash for a day only to end up perfectly fine. You were sure she’d been back to full health in a couple of days and go right back to work.

Only Lena Luthor could go from miserably sick to bouncing around again in a weekend.

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[whumperwithwings]

Augusnippets Day 2: Platonic Bathing/Hair Care/Makeup

Content: Minor Whumpee (She's not being actively whumped), Lady Whumpee (She's not being actively whumped), not omnipotent caretaker, implied self-hatred, implied kidnapping

Thelessa's gentle touch felt like knives against Corrine's skin, as she molded and shaped her hair into two perfect buns. As if she were in an electric chair, Corrine's body refused to sit still, her head screaming at what she rationally knew was her mother kindly taking the time to style her hair, simply not being rational. Of course it would be her brain to not acknowledge common sense.

"Darling, are you alright? You seem stressed. You can tell me anything, you know." Stressed was an understatement.

Corrine shuddered at the nickname. "...I'm fine. And please don't call me that."

Thelessa gasped calmly, a sound that Corrine had only heard when she was very young. She could vividly imagine the prim and proper hand covering her mouth, in a way that made her homesick for years gone past. "Of course, Corrine. Your hair's almost done anyway. I just need to twist this ribbon over here..." She trailed off, wrapped the ribbon around her hair and spinning her chair around without warning, prompting a squeak from Corrine.

"Oh, I'm so sorry for the shock, Corrine." Thelessa muttered a swift apology, before expertly catching the back of the chair with her hands. "Anyway, what do you think? I'm excited to finally be able to do your hair again. Your sister, she's kept her hair short for a while now. She says that it's 'trendy' but I think that long hair is timeless."

Corrine was grateful for an excuse to be away from Thelessa's touch, even if it made her mind rush at a million miles an hour with bad words to call her for even daring to thinking that. She scooted to the very edge of the chair, before nervously looking up at the mirror in front of her for the first time.

Her hair was a much lighter shade then she had come to expect, with the dirt washed out, and it was shiny and glowed in the light. Thelessa had tied two pink ribbons in bows around perfect heart-shaped buns. It was like she was on the cover of a magazine, with how pretty her mother had made her. Her smile lit up, making her feel as pretty as she looked.

"Thank you so much, Mother! I'm really glad you did my hair."

"I'm glad you like it, Corrine."

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Multitudes Chapter Five Spider Pinned...

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> The team find out the worrying reality of Nat's condition, and things reach a breaking point.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 3927

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E) SA mentions, minor injury detail, mentions of figure, exercise desperation.

𝐀/𝐍 -> Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Please read the warnings, and proceed with caution. Check it out below, or on AO3 here! This snazzy divider comes from @firefly-graphics and I love it <3

<- Previous Chapter (4/72) Next Chapter (6/72) ->

My fingers trembled on the heavy bolt, knuckles scraping over the rusted metal several times before I finally managed to slam the catch home.

You’re running out of time. You’ll have to pick up the pace. You can’t be here for much longer, or they’ll never let you leave.

I nodded, dropping to the floor without complaint, lukewarm wedges of cucumber still stuck to the skin of my forearm as the protruding bones of my pelvis dug into the hardwood. I had no time to warm up slowly, but fuck it. Let the klaxon sound, if it must. The door was locked – they couldn’t stop me.

My sit-ups were rapid, driven by fury and hatred, spurred on by the look of disgust on the faces of my team members. Any guilt I had about lying had been assuaged; The Voice was right. They would never understand this.

They would never understand the profound yearning for the predictability, the rigidity, the comfort of knowing exactly what is expected of me. A place where emotions didn’t exist and heart never ruled over head.

A place where the only pain was physical – and I was adept at tolerating that, at least.

And besides… One day, they would come for me anyway, if I didn’t return on my own. But if I went back in peak condition, of my own volition… Maybe my punishments wouldn’t be too severe.

You deserve it, though. You’ve been away for far too long. You should have gone back a long time ago.

“I know,” I panted as I frantically went about my exercise, the base of my spine beginning to bruise from the repeated collisions with the floor. “I know.”

Right on cue, as my muscles began to scream and burn under my punishing motions, the klaxon wailed, accompanied by Friday’s melodic voice.

“Heart rate spike detected in the living quarters of Natasha Romanoff.”

I spat out a curse, my pace increasing further, pushing myself while I could in case they somehow managed to stop me.

Their intrusion came quicker than I expected.

The door flew from its hinges, propelled into barbed shards by a single shot from Tony’s outstretched palm, the blue ring of light still fading as my head turned.

Without the acknowledgement that they were about to get in, I hadn’t time to stop my desperate exercise, and was halfway through a crunch as their gazes found me.

I resigned myself to their pity, to their understanding of just how damaged I was, and screamed wordlessly, full of hate and rage as I continued my exercise.

There was a heartbeat hesitation while the men tried to understand the sight before them, followed by a flurry of movement. Tony bundled me in his arms, the metal suit allowing no give no matter how I thrashed and punched at it. The others spread out, poking through my things, invading my small scrap of privacy.

It was Clint who entered the bathroom, returning with a curled lip, food- and vomit-splattered clothes pinched carefully between two fingers, and a bloodied bandage from my trashcan in the other hand.

I howled hatefully, straining against the arms that restrained me, desperate to snatch my things from their gaze – to leave my sins hidden and unspoken.

“Medical lab. Now,” he informed Tony, his cold, unfeeling gaze on me. It was an expression he had directed at me only once before, when his eyes were an unnatural blue and his actions were not his own.

But this time… This time there was no puppet master. This time, the disdain was purely Clint’s.

That was how I found myself curled up on a medical bed once more, trembling with cold and rage. Bruce had offered me a blanket, but I merely met his gaze steadily, refusing to take anything from this mass of traitors.

The room had been cleared of all but the doctor and Clint himself, who stood to one side having a conversation I didn’t care enough to listen to, but for a few stray words that filtered through my disinterest.

“… weight … blood work … concerned … health … I’m not …”

I rolled my eyes in annoyance, lifting my head to glare at the pair. “You don’t need to be concerned about me. I’m not your problem.”

Clint turned to me while Bruce only sighed, ducking his head as the archer approached warily. “Nat.. We’ve gotta run a couple of tests. We’re worried about your wellbeing; you’re not a problem, you’re a part of this family.”

I scowled and muttered Russian curses, turning the air blue, but Clint was immune. “What tests?” I asked eventually, reluctance heavy in my voice.

“We need to weigh you. Do a couple of blood tests.”

I smirked, assured. “And when they show you that there isn’t anything wrong with me?”

Clint’s gaze trailed my body slowly, stopping on the bony protrusions of my one visible wrist. “If you let us do the tests, and they say you’re fine, we’ll leave you alone. You can do what you like.” He raised a finger warningly. “But, only if you co-operate.”

I let out a short laugh, full of confidence. “Deal.”

Those tests will only prove one thing – that you’re a fat, lazy waste of oxygen. They’ll be appeased, and you can get back to training in peace. Perfect.

“You’ll have to wear this gown,” Bruce murmured, offering the folded object to me without meeting my eye. I glanced at Clint, panicked.

“You didn’t say anything about that,” I countered, feeling panic and anger bloom in my chest.

He shrugged helplessly, sharing a glance with the doctor. “We have to make sure that you’re not hiding anything that can affect the results,” he offered, wincing minutely, but his jaw set firm. “I’m sorry, Natasha, but you agreed to comply.”

I let out another quiet curse, unceremoniously hopping off the table and beginning to drop my sweatpants. Bruce turned away, respecting my modesty, but Clint kept his eyes on me, making my hands stutter. “Are you going to watch me change?”

He nodded once, short and sharp. “I need to make sure you don’t have anything hidden, Nat.”

I laughed coldly, rolling my eyes. “When would I have had chance to do that? You carted me down here with no warning!”

The muscle in his jaw twitched with stress. “There’s also the matter of the bloodied bandages.”

“I’m a girl, Clint. We bleed sometimes, you know?” I prompted when he remained impassive. One eyebrow arched, and I looked down with a flush.

But you don’t, and he knows that.

“Fine,” I muttered under my breath, resigned, sliding my legs from my joggers unceremoniously. When they hit the floor I raised the sweatshirt over my head, leaving me in just my bra and panties, shivering with cold and anxiety, my arms clasped around my stomach as tightly as the cast would allow.

“Shit, Nat,” he breathed, stepping closer, fingertips reaching out to brush the bandages on my bicep. I backed away with a menacing growl, and Bruce turned, hesitating as he took in my mostly-nude body.

“Natasha… What have you been doing to yourself?”

I looked down with a frown, confused by the horror in his voice. Sure, my body was a tactile roadmap of scars and burns, uniformly etched and branded into lines across my skin. But it wasn’t that bad.

“Penance,” I replied eventually, simply.

“I-I’ll have to, uh… I’ll have to check any open wounds,” Bruce stammered, his gaze still devouring my flesh with morbid fascination. Rolling my eyes petulantly, I nodded my consent, and the doctor moved closer, his skin tinged green.

“Like what you see?” I whispered, leaning closer with a wink, trying to alleviate the tension of the situation.

“It’s not the big guy,” he replied under his breath as he began to unravel the bandage from my arm. “It’s nausea.”

I recoiled at his words, resisting the urge to lash out.

See? Even the virgin doctor thinks you’re repulsive.

He gently poked at the edges of my open wounds while Clint looked on, mortified, before moving to grab some supplies. “They’ll need a couple of stitches, Nat,” he explained as he returned, delicately applying butterfly bandages to the wounds and pinching the edges closed. “You’re lucky; you only just missed the brachial artery.” His finger traced the blue line down the inside of my arm lightly, eliciting a shiver.

“I’ll aim better next time,” I quipped, making him flinch.

“What was the difference?” he mused, moving on, as he took in the rest of my scars. “You’ve clearly been doing this for a long time, with very little variation. Why was this time so… Impulsive?”

I bit the inside of my cheek hard, declining to answer, and Clint scoffed under his breath. “It’s because we caught her.”

“No… I don’t think that’s it,” Bruce mused after a moment, watching me carefully, and I looked up in surprise.

“I… Felt guilty. For… What I did,” I added meaningfully, meeting his gaze. He recoiled visibly, guilt and grief warring across his face.

“Nat…” he breathed, his fingers finding mine, squeezing lightly. “I would never, ever have wanted you to do this. You know that, right?” I shrugged one shoulder half-heartedly. He’d probably have rather punished you himself. “I didn’t love what happened. But I never wanted you to be hurt.”

“What happened?” Clint repeated curiously, his eyes flicking between the two of us, the ghost of suspicion behind his gaze. Bruce looked at me for clarification, and I shook my head fiercely. Clint can’t know. He would never forgive me for doing that to Bruce.

“It’s… It was nothing, really. Why don’t you put the gown on now, Natasha, and we can get started?” Bruce offered, mercifully diverting the conversation. I obliged gratefully, eager to move on and get back to my life without them breathing down my neck.

I was sat at the lab table, the pair seated opposite muttering and pointing at facts and figures on my chart.

“Natasha,” Bruce started slowly, raising his eyes to find mine. “I won’t give you any figures – I’m sure you already know them anyway, but that stops now. It goes without saying that you are severely underweight and malnourished. Almost all vitamins and compounds that should be seen in your bloods are either incredibly low or non-existent. You’re also dehydrated and showing worrying signs of permanent damage to several internal organs.”

I laughed sharply, cruelly, and shook my head. “You can’t tell me about these things without the evidence to back them up.”

Which they don’t have, because it’s not true.

Clint rolled his jaw, dropping the clipboard in front of me. “See for yourself.”

My eyes devoured the numbers, skipping over the parts I didn’t understand, focusing on one key number in particular.

BMI: 16.9.

“That’s barely underweight!” I protested angrily, shoving the papers back across the table. “I’ve always been slender, anyway. It- It’s my build, is all. Plus, I’m a woman – we have less muscle mass, and muscle weighs more than fat.”

“You have very little of either,” Bruce countered, and I snorted, tugging up the waist of my sweatshirt and grabbing a handful of flesh.

“Oh yeah? That what is that?”

Clint stood, rounding the table, putting his own hands around my back. I blinked in surprise as his outstretched thumbs came within a few inches of one another by navel. “It’s skin, Natasha. There’s nothing to you. You are dangerously underweight, and I need you to see that. Please. I’m begging you to see it.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and I met his watery gaze, startled. “I…” My eyes found his hands once more, feeling the warmth of his touch on my frozen skin.

Is it true?

Of course not, The Voice snarled, snapping viciously against my dawning clarity. You know it’s not. They’re just trying to trick you.

“Tell me what’s happening to you,” Clint whispered raggedly, resting his forehead against mine. “I need to understand so I can help.”

“You can’t understand this.” My words were rough, full of repressed tears, and I felt my body tremble under his touch. “You could never understand this.”

“Let us try,” Bruce interjected, moving closer. “I - we – don’t want to force you into an ultimatum. But if you can’t talk to us, we can’t even try to help you. You’ll have to go somewhere else, Natasha; it’ll be somewhere far less personal, with people who don’t love you like we do.”

“I… I want to go back. I have to go back. I understood my life there. And they’ll be coming for me anyway, so… So it’s better to just go back on my own. To go back perfect,” I added, my words barely audible.

“Nat… They will never get you. I’d die before I let that happen,” Clint enthused, his voice full of venom and pain. “We all would.”

“They only loved me when I was perfect,” I continued, oblivious to my partner’s words; now I had started speaking, I didn’t seem able to stop. “I was punished for every sin, every imperfection, and every crime committed. If they came for me – if they learnt how badly I’d been keeping up with my training… The punishment would be…” I trailed off with a shrug, wincing at the very thought.

“What did they do to you, Natasha?”

I looked up into my partner’s aquamarine eyes,  remembering the stark blue, and shivered.

“Everything.”

He swallowed and glanced away, teeth visibly clenching. “And me? You said… You said that you know I remember. What am I supposed to remember?”

I hesitated, then shook my head sharply. “It doesn’t matter.”

He let out a soft sob, turning away as his shoulders shook. “Loki?”

“Yes,” I answered softly. “But it wasn’t you.”

“What did I do?” he repeated, still unable to face me.

“It doesn’t-”

“Please, Nat,” his soft voice interjected, quiet and emotional. “I need to know.”

My jaw worked wordlessly, and I glanced at Bruce, who simply shrugged helplessly, unable to make this choice for me. “I… Similar things. Nothing I haven’t had happen countless times. It’s no big deal.”

Clint laughed shortly, a hand running through his hair, sticking it up at odd angles as he looked to me with an unreadable expression. “No big deal?”

“Clint-”

“How am I supposed to help you, to comfort you-”

“Clint, please-”

“-with the knowledge that I-”

“Stop! I… I can’t, I don’t want you to-”

“-with the knowledge that I held you down, that I forced you to that floor, and had my way with you? That I am exactly the same as those men in the Red Room?”

He was panting as he met my eye, while I was dumbfounded into silence. “You do remember,” I whispered eventually. He half-nodded his assent, chewing on a thumbnail.

“How could I ever forget? I just thought… Hoped… That it was a dream. A nightmare,” he amended quickly, wincing as his hand dropped. “I couldn’t face the idea that it might have been real. That I could ever…”

“But you didn’t,” I interrupted quickly, moving to take his hands in mine, my cast-bound fingers feeling fat and useless in his. “You never would. You didn’t have a choice – it wasn’t you.”

Barton sighed and winced, shifting to press his forehead to mine. “Either way, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. Whether you already forgive me or not,” he added as I opened my mouth to interrupt.

“I’m going to make up a plan of action. A diet plan, strict instructions and limitations.” Bruce was typing as he spoke, half glancing to where I sat curled on Clint’s lap, cheek resting on his chest. For the first time in a long time, I felt like my partner truly knew me, and that gave me the strength to fight this.

For now. But I’m not done with you yet, not by a long shot.

I clamped my lips shut tightly, fighting the urge to sob.  Will I ever be able to escape you?

Don’t be a child, The Voice quipped in annoyance. I am you. I’m the part of you that knows that your return to the Red Room is inevitable, and that doing so on your own terms is the best way. You’ll never be rid of me, because you know that I am right.

I shook my head roughly, and Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You don’t agree?”

“Huh?” I glanced between the two, flushing lightly. “I… I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry.”

Bruce smiled sympathetically, and nodded. “That’s understandable. It’s been a long day. How about I print everything off, and you can peruse it at your leisure?” I nodded my agreement, deeply grateful. “Is she okay to stay with you tonight? I’d be uncomfortable knowing she was alone.” The last remark was addressed to Clint, and I felt myself stiffen inadvertently. He looked down, his oceanic eyes locked on mine.

“Only if that’s okay with you, Little Spider,” he pressed softly, holding me infinitesimally tighter. I nodded again, but he saw the hesitation and raised an eyebrow.

“It’s okay with me,” I assured him, nuzzling closer. “I… I don’t want to be alone, either.”

Clint’s living quarters were perfunctory, and it was a space I wished I’d spent more time in, wreathed as it was in the inevitable scent of bowstring and him.

He placed my trembling body lightly on the edge of the bed, reaching across to snag a pillow as he straightened. “I’ll just set up my nest for the night, and then we can think about a movie or something, if you’d like? But if you want to be alone, that’s fine, too.”

“Thanks, Clint,” I murmured, picking at the fraying cotton peeking from under my cast, and he offered me a tender smile before ducking from the room.

I bet he finds an excuse to share the bed with you.

Clint wouldn’t do that, I argued weakly, tugging my sleeves over the heels of my hands. He’s not like that.

He remembered what he did to you, didn’t he? If he was truly under Loki’s control, he’d have no memory. Maybe Loki planted the suggestion… But the behaviour was all him.

That’s not true, I countered, but the words sounded false even to me.

We’ll see, The Voice answered smugly, self-assured and confident, as Clint re-entered the room, his hands now free of bedding.

“So? What do you think, Little Spider? Movie night, or time alone?”

I shrugged one shoulder, unable to meet his gaze as The Voice continued to pour venom into my ear. “A movie sounds good, I guess.”

Clint extended his hand theatrically, and I chuckled fondly as he helped me to my feet. “You get comfortable, and I’ll get the popcorn. Half-and-half, yeah?” My face fell a fraction of a second before his own, and he winced guiltily. “I-”

“Popcorn sounds great,” I interrupted loudly, aiming to drown out the hissing in my brain. “Half-and-half. You got it.”

I felt Clint’s eyes on me as I brushed past him, keeping my back straight until I was out of sight, a ragged breath hitching past my lips. You’re not even trying any more, are you? You’re such a disappointment.

“Please… Please just leave me alone,” I whispered, running my hands through my hair as I made my way to the sofa, hesitating at the blanket folded up along the back and the pillow wedged against one armrest.

It's fine. It’s just for him later. There’s nothing going on.

I dropped into my customary spot on the left side, stubbornly flicking through the channels, trying to pretend it was just another, normal day. When was the last time I actually ate popcorn with Clint, though? I used to just put it back in the bowl when he wasn’t looking…

And now at the first hint of difficulty, you’re giving up. You might have lost a little weight, but you’re still a weak piece of shit. You’ll never be good enough for the Red Room. And when they find you…

“They won’t,” I argued weakly. “Clint won’t let them take me.”

Like that sparrow could stop the Red Room, The Voice scoffed, unimpressed.

“He got me out last time,” I protested, remembering the considerate expression on his face as he had taken me in, a slip of a girl, his demure target.

We both know they wouldn’t make that mistake again though, Natalia.

“Don’t fucking call me that!” I snapped, whipping my head toward my invisible tormentor just as Clint re-entered the room, concern furrowing his brow.

“Call you… What?” he asked as he moved hesitantly closer, the bowl of popcorn slack in his distracted grip. I just shook my head, and he sat beside me, our snack abandoned on the low table. “Nat?” he prompted, one hand resting lightly on my arm.

All I wanted was to do what I had always done – to reach up and wordlessly remove his hearing aids, communicating my needs without words.

But he broke the rules last time…

He watched me curiously as I shrugged one shoulder, picking at the edge of my cast. Silently, he took a hand, guiding it up to the thin strip of plastic hidden behind his ear, head tilted curiously. I nodded – a jerky, reluctant motion – and he removed his aids immediately, dropping them casually onto the table.

Do you want to talk about it? he signed, his knee bumping mine as he shuffled nearer.

See? He’s already getting closer.

I winced and looked away, sniffing against the tears that threatened to spill once more.

I can never make it quiet.

Clint’s head cocked, innocently inquisitive, before he gestured at his hearing aids. You… Want to be Deaf?

I laughed under my breath, shaking my head, then paused, wriggling my hand indeterminately. Deaf… On the inside. I wish I could take out my brain’s hearing aids, sometimes.

Comprehension dawned, and he touched his forehead lightly to mine. Bad thoughts?

A voice, I admitted, my motions muted and uncertain – whispering in ASL. All the time.

What does it say?

His fingers twitched, wanting to entwine with mine, but he settled instead for a gentle hand on my knee, leaving me free to speak. It… Taunts me. Says… Horrible things. About me. About the team, the Red Room…

And me?

I had to look away from the devastation on his face – entirely broken by the idea that anyone could poison me against him – as I nodded softly. Especially you. It… Knows that you make me feel safe. It knows that you’re the only one who poses a threat to its intentions.

What are its intentions? he asked, waiting with bated breath for my response as I hesitated.

It-

Don’t you dare-

It wants me to-

Don’t you fucking dare-

-wants me to go back-

Shut the fuck up, you useless piece of shit. You’re going to ruin everything. Can’t you do anything right?

- to the Red Room, I finished with a sob, tears flowing freely down my cheeks at the war raging in my mind. I don’t want to go, Clint.

His hands trembled as he replied, at odds with the fierce determination in his eyes. You’re never going back, Nat. I promise. No matter what, you never have to go back there. I’m going to help you out of this – whatever it takes.