#do they really have this effect on whumpee? they wonder

[whatiswhump]

Whumper kidnaps Whumpee, not realizing they were on psychiatric meds, thus inadvertently cutting them off.

They're horrified watching Whumpee go into withdrawals- anger, mood swings, vomiting, unable to sleep, agitation, losing touch with reality rapidly.

Whumper wanted to have some fun... not... this. They’ve barely even touched them yet!

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #41: Magnum Opus

Masterlist

content: lab whump, needles (blood draw), immortal whumpee

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

“I’m certain that, with a few more years of research, I could discover why your body doesn’t kill it off. If I figure that out—“ She didn't finish that thought. “But there’s no guarantee. That’s only if everything goes according to plan.”

“I’m sure it will,” he said.

They were in the laboratory again. He was sitting in her office chair, as he always did, and she brought a folding chair up from the kitchen. There were peaches for breakfast. Jackie mentioned that he wanted to eat them a few days ago. He was surprised that she remembered. It snowed again the night before, and the morning was less sunny than usual. Gray clouds painted the sky instead. He wondered if it would storm.

“I should write a paper about this,” she said suddenly. “I will write a paper. These notes are practically incoherent.”

"You can’t publish it, though, can you?”

“I can’t publish it. It would be nice if I could, but I would also have to explain how I met you.”

Yes, that little detail. “What are you going to name it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I always get someone else to come up with the titles. I suppose we’ll need to name the organism, too. You should name it.”

“I don't have any ideas."

“Neither do I. We can think of one later. I’ll start writing soon. Though, I do want to ask you a few questions first.” Hence, Heather was holding her journal and a pen. “Have you ever experienced issues with your immune system?”

“No.”

“Do you recall anything abnormal about your birth? Anything at all? Even if it seems small, tell me. We’re grasping at straws here.”

“No, it was normal.” 

She wrote these findings down. “And I assume you never experienced any sort of… I don’t know, rare event? Nothing in your life that could have caused this?”

“Not really.”

“Then I presume it’s an innate condition, ever since you were born.” She set the journal and pen down on a table. “But you can’t be the only person with this organism. The species couldn’t possibly become this far developed in a single host. There must be other immortals out there, somewhere, whether they’re aware of it or not.”

"If you're right about the parasite thing, then I guess it’s possible. Maybe we’ll find someone like that."

“I wouldn’t mind having a larger control group. By the way, I did a complete blood count…” Her tone shifted to an air of professional curiosity, and Jackie recognized that she was about to lecture him about some new discovery she found. “On the blood samples from when you were starving. I noticed average levels of red blood cells and hemoglobin, but the platelet levels were slightly higher than normal. Platelets are there to—“

“Wait, I know this one. They clot blood.”

“Exactly.” She nodded. “They create clotting. But I barely saw any white blood cells. Even in healthy samples, oddly enough. There’s more organisms in your bloodstream instead. They take the job of killing infections, like I told you. I also noticed what seemed to be eggs in your veins.”

“Really? Eggs?” Though Jackie had mostly detached himself from all these biological miracles, he still felt some discomfort at this idea.

“It’s what’s keeping you alive, so I suppose it can’t be helped. There was an excessive number of organisms, actually. They reproduce faster when the host is unhealthy. I believe that’s what gave your blood that dark, viscous quality.”

“There’s really no way to get them out?”

“If you find one, let me know.” Out of the blue, she picked her journal up again, clicked her pen open. “Actually, I wanted to ask—have you ever donated blood before?”

“No.”

“Interesting.” She wrote this down. “Your blood is O positive. I tested it earlier. You could hypothetically transfer it to about seventy percent of the population. The organism doesn’t survive in foreign organic matter, so there’s no adverse effects. It would be worthwhile to test it in a living human body, though. My blood is B negative, unfortunately, so I haven’t been able to try it out.”

“And B negative doesn’t mix with the positive types, right? That’s why you can’t test it?”

“Right.”

He remembered that much from his scarce education, if nothing else. Jackie always felt a little lost when she spoke of such concepts. What a complete blood count was, he had no idea. He didn’t want to ask her and interrupt.

“It’s honestly absurd,” she continued. “It’s such an extreme case of specialization. As far as I’ve seen, at least. I still don’t know how it would react to dehydration…”

“I would rather not,” he interrupted. “If that’s possible.”

“No, it’s alright. I understand if you’re not up for it. I…” She closed the journal, gently. “I feel like these tests are too harsh, sometimes. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, but…”

"I'm okay. It's for science."

“That’s good to hear.” Her conflicted expression was gone at once. 

And he was okay. He had been allowed everything he could ever want… well, almost everything, with some heavy restrictions, but he could settle for that. There wasn't any reason to rock the boat. It had been a peaceful few weeks, all things considered.

Heather glanced at her watch. "Would you look at that? You've been here for an hour, and you're still alive. It appears that my experiment is going very well."

Jackie was, in fact, currently hooked up to a blood bag in Heather’s laboratory. A needle inserted into his arm drained his blood through a clear, thin tube. The sight of so much of his own blood would have made him nauseous, once, but this rich scarlet was now a familiar color. It was a more sanitary method of bloodshed, at least, and relatively painless. 

So far, he had filled up about nine bags. Jackie was not a scientist, but he was fairly certain that wasn’t a normal amount of blood to extract. The bags were arranged on the table, weighed down by the gravity of all that heavy red liquid, entire pints of it sagging at the seams. Heather set about removing the tenth one.

“How many liters is that, doc?” He asked.

“About five.” She slid the needle out of his arm, before applying a band-aid over the gap left behind. “Most people would have died by now.”

He watched her unhook the bag from its thin steel stand. “What are you going to do with all that blood?”

“It’s too complicated to explain.” She forced a juice box into his hand. “Drink that. Your blood sugar must be through the floor. Are you feeling lightheaded?”

“A little.”

She forced a package of biscuits into his other hand. “Nauseous?”

“No.” He regarded the biscuits with suspicion. “I’m not hungry.”

“Keep it, at least. Eat when you feel up to it.” She placed the tenth blood bag onto the table. “You know, you don’t have much of an appetite lately.”

“I guess.” Hunger was a point of contention. But he was starting to feel thirsty, oddly enough. He stabbed the plastic straw through the juice box. 

“Yes, ever since…” She paused. But she carried on without a second thought, as if she had never mentioned it at all. “I do wonder where all this blood is coming from.”

Now that his arm wasn’t attached to the needle, he could move it freely. He shook his wrist out for a few seconds. “Hey, where’d you learn all this stuff, anyway? Harvard?”

He said it as a joke, but she replied, “Harvard? Don’t insult me like that. I studied somewhere reputable, thank you.” 

“Somewhere reputable.” He wasn’t sure what that would even entail. Nicer jars for their organ collections, maybe. “What did you get? A PhD?”

“Yes, a doctorate. Did you study anywhere?”

“Nowhere, really. I graduated high school, but I didn’t do anything after that. I just started working.” 

He had never seen his education as a priority. When the police took him in... anyway, they had him in and out of the hospital, then sent him to a couple different homes, and that didn't leave any time for him to care about school. He wanted to study language, if he could, but he didn't think that was possible anymore.

Besides, it was expensive. He could barely scrape together the cash for rent. Getting work as a waiter had been incredibly lucky, in hindsight.

“So you didn't receive further education,” she said. “I assumed as much.”

“You assumed right. I’m not that smart.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I’ve taught you a few things.” She leaned back in her chair. “Natural talent doesn’t count for anything, you know. There’s a brilliant mind born every day that goes to waste. That’s not enough to get you anywhere. It’s about perseverance and discipline, in the end.”

And a lot of money, he thought tartly. That wasn't Heather's fault, though, and she really was good at what she did. He decided to just let her talk. She could be quite talkative, actually, once she got started.

"I can tell you’re irritated,” Heather said.

“I’m not,” he said. “Continue, please.”

“You don’t have to lie. It's obvious. You should know I appreciate your presence. Even if I don’t express it very well.”

“Yeah, you don’t.”

“I don’t. I can be… harsh. But I meant it. I just can’t say it like you do. I’m terrible at that.”

That was true, despite all her other talents.

“You're my crowning jewel,” she said. “My—my magnum opus, even. But you’re also my friend. You’re the only person I care about.” 

“I know that.”

And he couldn’t hold grudges, when she spoke that way. It was all so stilted, so artlessly sincere. For once, the words were slow and careful, purely meant for him. He had already forgotten the rest of their conversation.

She fell silent. It seemed as though she had been distracted by something.

He looked up at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you ever want to leave?” she asked.

"Do I have a choice?"

“No.” She searched his expression intently. "You don't."

He stared back with the same intensity. "Then stop asking me stupid questions."

She didn’t move away, and for a moment she was completely still. Her gaze lingered, as dark as night, burning like distant fires. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. 

It didn’t matter. She knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Perhaps that was for the best. His circumstances had always been difficult, but he used the cards he was given the best he could. He would be happier this way. Playing his role until the bitter end.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl @lthrboy @whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation @creppersfunpalooza

@vidawhump @dont-look-me-in-the-eye

[paingoes]

Crash Out

Nimrod I

see attached graphic here :)

(Content: royal whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, immortal whumper, blood, stabbing, a gun, death?, drugs, paranoia)

The whole planet was an experiment. They really weren’t supposed to be there. It was ecologically irresponsible. Her curiosity was too piqued to just drive by it, though. The conservancy didn’t have the budget to secure the entire perimeter; it was too easy to get inside. 

The climate was held in permanent stasis. The whole environment was in permanent stasis. The displaced grass quickly replaced itself. The daisies sprung up again wherever they were plucked. The energy that went into maintaining the project was extravagant. By her own estimate, Lorelai guessed it wouldn’t last another year before shutting down. Then the rock would be barren again. The thought helped her to justify the breach; nothing like it would ever exist again.

The ship was tucked safely beneath the treeline, obscured from any drones. They were halfway in between it and the hot springs — deathly heat, the kind that’d melt all your skin off if you ever dipped into its waters. She’d skirted the edge of it nonetheless. Her dress was damp at the edges. The sky was still bright. 

She was taking notes in the field journal, the same one she’d saved from her school days. She wished she could send the revised version back to her advisor, but that would raise more questions than it was worth. She was content saving it for her own personal record. She glanced up at Paris, who was visibly disinterested in the experiment. He yanked out the grass and the flowers restlessly, watching as they were regrown each time. He ripped out one dandelion over and over again, tying all of its clones into a chain. He had the start of a crown in his lap.

“Who taught you how to do that?” Lorelai asked, her voice heavy with suspicion. No other girls, yeah, totally.

Paris looked up guiltily. “…My mom?”

She shrugged and looked back out to the horizon. Four legged and horned creatures with legs taller than her entire body walked about the tall grass. Slow-moving. Easy. She wondered if the regenerative effect would work the same on the animals. She readjusted the shotgun on her back, hearing it thud against the soil.

“Is it weird that I want to go hunting? My dad offered all the time when I was little, but I always said no. I should’ve.”

“What, you have a taste for it now?” Paris asked.

He was joking, but he’d been dangerously close to the truth. She thought of death a lot — death and violence. All her childhood, she had dreamed of the things she did not see. By now, that gap had been closed with no abstraction. She was on the other side of it – and she wanted to be good. She wanted to see that she still had control of it, to make sure she could roll it around in her fingers and see it without flinching. Without crying afterwards. 

Not that she herself was violent. Never sadistic. Two bullets straight through the heart. She could not have been more efficient. She kept thinking about CTRL.

“Little bit.” She smiled and adjusted her hat to cast a shadow over her face. 

“I don’t know how to close it.” Paris looked down at the long chain of flowers in his hand. 

“Just knot it?” She took it from him, trying to knot the stems together. They were weirdly slippery. 

“Fuck,” she said.

His laugh cut off mid-breath. He had straightened up so abruptly that made her flinch, his expression turning deathly serious. His eyes were set on the forest, each line of his body drawn in sharp tension. She looked over. A figure was emerging slowly from among the rows of trees.

“Warden?” She raised an eyebrow. They’d been surprisingly good at not running in with the law, all things considered. You don’t break the law while breaking the law, as the old adage goes. Even a minor trespassing charge would be major trouble just as soon as the cops realized who they were dealing with. They’d have to flee. 

Paris didn’t even hear her. His hand slowly withdrew the sword from its sheath. Her eyes widened at the escalation. But when she looked back to the figure, she realized why.

Two long braids, two leather gloves, pacing unbidden and unhurried. Lorelai recognized her from her gait more than anything else. The girl from the show – many, many shows back. The one who’d gotten her torso slashed through and the one who’d been walking around again straight after. The one who had waved goodbye at them so unselfconsciously, without any finality at all. The bounty hunter.

Mechanically, Lorelai slid the gun off her back. She aimed it square at Johanna’s heart.

“Do you want me to take the shot?” She asked Paris. He looked at her with his brow furrowed, no doubt remembering last time. It would not be like last time.

“I said I’d do it.”

It was almost hysterical how slow the threat was approaching. It had to be deliberate, Lorelai thought. Her way of drawing him out. And he did move out. Lorelai scooted back some, putting space between herself and the coming carnage.

“Hi-i-i.” The voice rose and fell strangely. Close enough to see the whites of her eyes, then to see them winking. She was unarmed again. What did she expect, really? 

It wasn’t immediate, to be fair. Johanna danced away from the first lunge, her boots treading surprisingly lightly against the soil. She did a needlessly showy back handspring, inverting the pursuit, drawing him in closer. Cartwheel — meaningless. Even from a distance, Lorelai saw Paris’s nose wrinkle in disgust at the frivolity of it all. He cleared the distance between them and stabbed her through the heart, just as gracefully as if it’d been a drill. 

Johanna fell like a play actor. The sword was briefly the only thing holding her up — and then it wasn’t. She crumbled into the grass without having landed a single hit.

The fall had not been very convincing, despite the grievousness of the injury spelling certain death. When he stepped closer to the body, she almost warned him to stay back, as though the dead hand would spring out and grab him like in a monster movie. He too wavered before he touched her. But when he felt at her wrist, he shook his head. Dead.

Lorelai felt it too. There was no pulse in her arm or in her throat, not even a faint one. Dead.

Johanna was still smiling when they turned her limp body over.

=======

Old Fort Kroll - stabbed through heart - seven days to reappear

Aloquois - multiple bullet wounds - four days to reappear. paris got lightly stabbed.

Mercollie - punched in face, not downed - two days to reappear. broke my nail.

Gilynigh - stabbed through heart and neck 

two weeks of absence

=======

Paris felt his hair stand on end only seconds before the blow came; she must have been moving very quickly to trip up his alarm like that. Not that he’d seen it. The first he saw of her, he was already on the ground, just glimpsing the worn leather of her boots. He rolled forward, pushing back with the hard side of his forearm when she tried to kick him back down. She was briefly off-balance –  not enough to fall completely, but it gave him enough space to stand. He could draw the sword again.

She was holding a chain.

He gave a short, choked laugh. The joke was lost on her. There wasn’t any time to explain it.

It was a common enough weapon, but unsophisticated enough that he’d never been taught to fight against it. The closest thing he’d fought was the net. In that case, he needed to have the advantage of proximity. His body desperately resisted this, having a deep instinctual urge to get far away from her. He suppressed it.

She dodged just the same way she had the first time, neatly dancing aside. She pushed him back with surprising torque, but she’d had to expose her arm to do it. The blade drew blood. She seemed excited by it. 

“Your H-i-i-i-ghness,” her breath was all sing-song. Her veins twitched right beneath the skin, squirming around like worms, “You always fight the same.”

A little frown, like she was bored of him. He was fucking exhausted of her.

The chain came down fast and hard over his weapon hand. The impact of steel on his knuckles alone would’ve made him lose his grip, even if she hadn’t yanked the chain back. His own fingers slipped out before they could be broken, but the shock of pain had made them useless. 

She was happy to let the sword clatter to the ground rather than keep it, so she still had one weapon instead of having an offhand. It was still unfavorable. Even if she was unarmed, it was still unfavorable. They hit with the same amount of force. Her injuries would heal before the bout had even ended; his wouldn’t. 

She must’ve thought he’d be easier to handle if he was on the ground, because that’s where she kept forcing him.

She was on top of him again, trying to pin him down by the shoulders. He guessed he should count himself lucky that she was only trying to subdue him, not actually hurt him, but she was quickly learning she could not do the one without the other. He thrashed around too much, ready to injure himself against the restraints if she was too slow to do it herself. It was a bloody business.

It was interrupted as one heel cracked straight into the side of Johanna’s head. He rolled out from under her, using the chain to garrote her. It was only partly successful; she’d managed to slip a few fingers in to protect her neck. Lorelai watched just a few feet away, blood on her shoes. She had the gun on her, but it was no use with their bodies intertwined so close. 

Johanna slammed the back of her skull into Paris’s face. He had to release her to avoid repeated impact. Enough distance was created. Lorelai pistol-whipped her.

Paris moved for the sword again. Johanna growled. Lorelai waved him back. He listened; his nerves were spent. Johanna somersaulted back onto her feet, pushing herself up.

“Who are you again?” She squinted at Lorelai, her arms held out with a gymnast’s posture. 

“Back up.” Lorelai leveled the gun. “Don’t follow us.”

“You look expensive!” Johanna replied.

Lorelai must have interpreted the hands up for surrender, which Paris never would have. She got into the ship without firing, but without ever losing her target. Johanna folded her arms, looking very annoyed as the ship pulled away.

Paris pressed the already bloodied handkerchief tight against his nose — not broken this time. Just painful. He felt the blood in his throat when he spoke.

“Don’t get involved,” he said.

Lorelai’s eyes shifted right, “If I didn’t get involved, you’d be dead ten times over.”

“No I wouldn’t,” he shook his head, then it made him dizzy, so he stopped, “She isn’t trying to kill me. There’s nothing stopping her with you, though. I don’t want you in the middle of it.”

“Well, it’s a little late for that.”

=======

Drea - hand cut off, not downed - three days to reappear

Epsilon-55 - shot in head - seven days to reappear

Baleen - false alarm - paris cut himself :(

Perseye - shot through chest - ten days to reappear. burnt my fingers.

Lutal - stabbed in heart and stomach - five days to reappear. not doing well.

======

Paris was falling apart. He was trying not to show it, but the anxiety revealed itself in each twitch of his fingers, each jump at sudden sounds, each flinch at sudden movements. His hands moved up to protect his chest whenever Lorelai so much as reached into the backseat too quickly. 

He had been paranoid before. It seemed impossible that he could get any worse. Apparently, that assessment was premature. The knot of tension was so tight in his body that Lorelai was sure he would drop dead of fear before anyone else ever got their turn with him. Maybe that would have been a mercy.

She supposed she could understand. She too was always waiting for the eruption, even if her body didn’t bear the marks of it. She only slept while he kept vigil. When she awoke, he still kept vigil. She guessed it had been days since he last slept.

Out on the motel balcony, she found him with the pills in his hand.

“Don’t take that,” she said tiredly.

“Fuuuuuuck you????” He’d already taken it. He looked at her crookedly, red-eyed. His neck was bleeding through the bandage, though he hadn’t noticed yet.

“You are too wound up to be taking meth pills. Your heart’s gonna stop.” She almost begged him. He did not need to be tweaking any harder than he already was. 

“It’s not meth.”

“Then what is it?” She hoped against hope it was some kind of downer, anything to cool him out some.

“I don’t know, but it sure as shit wasn’t meth,” he laughed.

A car alarm went off in the parking lot. He jumped so bad he knocked the side table over, breaking glass onto the balcony, spilling the cigarette ash. A thin cut appeared on his calf. He took a deep breath.

Paris freaked out. He said he’d earned it. Truth be told, she was surprised it had taken this long. She didn’t see the meltdown, but she could hear it through the open window. It amazed her just how long it could go on. How long he could sustain the yelling. How much he could find to break. The abruptness with which it stopped.

He came back in out of breath, ready to leave again. 

…………

tags:

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

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

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

Quick!! Link a scene or piece of work you're created that you're proud of! First one that comes to mind!!

*bounces in place* ohohohohoho you've gone and done it now!!! Feast your eyes on this scene from one of my many WIPs - I hope I'll finish it one day. It really is one of the Big Three of my Magnum Opuses.

Below the cut:

Female whumpee

Mute whumpee

Disabled whumpee

Female Caretaker

Recovery

Mentions of Scientific/Medical Trauma

Bruises and bandages

Collapsing

Fatigue/Weakness

Samira slept for another day. Until the pangs of hunger and other necessities grew to be too much to ignore. She drew in a slow breath and sighed, then lifted her arms in a stretch. The skin of her elbows pulled uncomfortably and she stopped at the telltale sensation of scabs beginning to split. Even now, days later, she felt the bone-deep ache from her journey here. The dull throb of a lingering headache. The pulsing pain in her knees. Her hands still held a tremor without the slightest provocation. More than anything, she wanted to go back to sleep until the soreness went away, but nature had other ideas.

Turning her head, she saw she was alone. The lights to the room were dimmed low, and the only other source of light came from the glow of a safety light in the bathroom five feet away. Blessedly, she saw the IV pole was on the same side of the bed. All she had to do now was walk. Piece of cake. Pulling the blanket back, she slung her legs over the side of the bed. She stopped long enough to wonder at the sight she saw.

Socks. Soft, fuzzy yellow socks with grips on the bottoms. She turned her attention to her gown. It, too, was buttercup yellow, decorated with bumble bees and daisies, and the hem - stopping at her knees - even had the tiniest decoration of white lace. She longed to rub the material between her fingers, but the bandaging on her hands prevented her from doing so. It would have to wait. Besides, the thick wads of cotton taped over each knee ruined the effect. Her skin, she noticed, was far paler than its healthy cinnamon color, and even the patches of vitiligo, normally rosy, held a sickly shade. She frowned, feeling like the ghost of her former self.

Gripping the IV pole for balance, Samira scooted forward. Tentatively, she settled her feet on the floor. No fear driving her to move. No dizziness. It didn’t matter how many times she had tried to stand on her way here. She was stronger now. She was rested. She could do this. Carefully, as if to balance on an egg without breaking it, she put weight on one foot. Her knee began to quake and she grabbed the IV pole with her other hand, clinging to it, and the momentum of doing so forced her full weight forward. Quickly, she brought her other foot forth to catch herself.

For the briefest of seconds, she teetered, awkwardly poised between the IV pole and her fawn-like legs. She could feel the cuts in her palms reopening as she clung to the pole, the gauze slackening her grip. Then the wheels of the IV pole rolled. Samira flailed, gasping as her crutch moved before she was ready, and tried to snatch it back. It fell, and she followed, knocking a metal tray and its contents to the floor with a great crash.

She might have cringed at the noise if she hadn’t instinctively tried to catch herself. Though the gauze cushioned the fall somewhat, it didn’t stop her knees and elbows from cracking against the hard tile - biting through the cotton and clawing at her already-shredded skin. Tears sprung up and a mute yelp rattled her throat before she could stop herself. She bit her lip until she tasted blood, and still a hoarse sob wrenched itself from her chest.

Hurried footsteps sent a dart of panic up her spine, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. The lights switched on, then a set of hands were on her. She flinched, but they didn’t release her.

“Samira.” Jean. Jean was there. “Samira, it’s alright. It’s just me.”

Without waiting for a response, Jean lifted her back to the bed as easily as a child might lift a dropped doll. Samira tucked her hands beneath her chin, arms pressed against her chest, and tried to control her breathing - all while fighting the urge to curl in a ball right there. Hot, thrumming pain rolled up her limbs, coiling into tight knots and biting, clawing, digging into her bones. Why did it hurt so much? How could things go wrong so quickly? She opened her eyes from where she’d squeezed them shut, peering between wet lashes at the mess she’d made. Fresh, unused medical supplies lay strewn about on the floor. The IV pole lay on its side, and the tray had skidded a couple feet away. She drew in a shaky breath, shame heating her cheeks.

Automatically, an apology tried to leave her lips. Instead, it came out in a pitiful wheeze.

Mistaking the gesture for one of pain, Jean smoothed a hand over Samira’s back. “It’s alright, Samira. Do you want something for the pain?”

Samira shook her head and hid her face behind her hands, the gauze absorbing her tears.

“It’s okay if you do. You don’t need to be brave, not here.”

Samira shook her head again, gulping back another sob before it could surface.  She already owed them so much, and it shamed her to anticipate their response to her inability to speak - and now, it seemed, the inability to walk. Had the Team left any part of her untouched?

[aswallowimprisoned]

Restless far from a Wine Dark sea - Sedation

Nurse Brunel checks in on a post-sedated vampiric merman to find their captive with significantly fewer inhibitions than normal..

Tw captivity, sedation, medical whump, drugging, injury, Dead Dove Jewish vampiric whumpee, religious whumpee

RestlessffaWDs' timeline is going off piste for @medwhumpmay

masterlist

≪ °❈° ≫

set maybe a month or two into Nathaniel Fogal's captivity. This is the first snippet that features Dr Elias Freid, a psychologist/therapist who is Nathaniel's main interrorgator alongside Logan.

≪ °❈° ≫

“This is Nurse Ivan Brunel, Post Sedation check on the merman known as Fogal, mer patient #3.” Ivan went through the familiar recording of medical protocol. “Due to the negative after effects of thiobarbiturates on the wellbeing and mood of the patient, anaesthesia for this set of tests was achieved using Propofol.” He snapped on fresh blue gloves as the pneumatic doors hissed open to reveal the sleeping form of the merman bound to his hospital bed. “It has been 30 minutes since the cessation of anaesthetics and removal of airway support, so patient is expected to be still experiencing significant sedative effects… And our resident mer psychologist Elias Freid is in observation bay to assess behaviours and provide therapeutic guidance if required...”

Ivan gave one last check of the monitor displaying the mermans blood oxygen, before unhooking the oxygen mask from his face and replacing it with nasal cannulas. Within moments, the sea monster’s face crinkled with the start of wakefulness at the smell of a human in the room, and he rolled his head to regard him, blinking sleepily.

“Glad to see you awake Fogal. We put you to sleep for a while, and I know you are probably still pretty sleepy.” Ivan kept his voice soft and calm, a familiar routine for waking patients from their deep sleep. Fogal murmured something unintelligible.

“I am just going to flash a light in your eyes now,” Ivan gently steadied Fogal’s head in his hand as he checked his responses. The merman’s pupils were blown wide, barely reacting to the light shone on them.

“Pupils are dilated and slow to respond to stimuli, but he seems both semi-aware and calm.”

Fogal closed his eyes and pushed his head into the palm of Ivan’s hand, chittering softly.

Ivan stalled for a second, before brushing his fingers though the young man’s hair. No - Fogal was not a young man, he was an ancient bloodsucking sea monster who just looked like a young man. And who, going from the delighted whirring noises, really liked getting skritches.

“Is this ok?” Ivan asked, more to the psychologist on the other side of the 1 way mirror than to the snuggly merman.

“Yes,” Elias’ voice came through Ivan’s earpiece, “Though still be careful with those teeth. Drugged means unpredictable. This behaviour is fascinating to watch. Even if he would not normally engage in such displays of affection with any of the staff here, it does suggest that he may exhibit this behaviour towards loved ones in a less stressful environment.” Elias was contemplative, "I wonder if he would be the same with someone he doesn’t like, say Dr Rana?” He was tapping information into the computer, the keys audible over the comms. “I mean, we know mer live in groups, so he is likely to be… touch starved. I do hope we can allow the captive mer to have social bonds sometime later in the project, but allowing touch when semi-sedated may be a good sign he trusts you to some degree...” 

 “I guess someone really likes Propofol.” Ivan smiled softly, “It is nice to see him calm. Even if that calm comes out a bottle.” Ivan moved to stroke the top of the merman’s head, and he let out another slew of chittering squeaks, drooling effusively.

“Indeed.” Elias hummed, “Do you reckon he is going to remember this next time he wakes up?”

“Vaguely. The levels of sedative in his system shouldn’t be high enough for complete memory loss, even if they have affected his behaviour...” Ivan replied.  

“Ok Fogal,” he raised his voice, and the merman focused his gaze on him, “Do you think you can describe how you are feeling right now, and if you are in pain?”

Fogal frowned comically before slurring out an affirmative noise.

“Ok…” Ivan swiped the merman’s doll out of the box at the end of the bed. The communication doll was one of the first tools Elias had introduced when he had started as the merman’s therapist, “Can you point on the doll where it hurts?”

Fogal groped clumsily at the doll’s arm, where Ivan knew the merman had a comminuted fracture to the ulna , then poked all round the top of the toy’s tail, mirroring the placement of the stab wounds on his body. All areas where he was expected to feel pain, but maybe some pain medication might not go amiss.

“Ok. And do you feel sick? or dizzy?”

A low hum for both assured Ivan that negative side effects of the Propofol seemed minimal. 

 “...And do you feel like you want to hurt anyone or yourself right now?”

Fogal shook the doll’s head. Then he started to stroke the stuffed merman’s hair. Ivan had to stifle a laugh as he ruffled his hair. “Good job answering questions, I just have a few more things to do, you can just doze off if you want.”

“That was good non-verbal communication!” Elias sounded impressed, “Propofol is looking good for the retention of awareness and reduction of anxiety.”

Ivan smiled as he put on his stethoscope and listened to the steady beat of the mermans heart. Fogal didn’t mind the cold metal, concentrating instead on wiping the plush merman doll’s head against his hip, crooning gently at the soft material against his bare skin. Ivan enjoyed the quiet - Fogal didn’t always wake up so calmly, the thiobarbiturates they had been using for anaesthetics triggering what appeared to be quite intense PTSD flashbacks. He peacefully allowed Ivan to use the tympanic membrane temperature probe, check his urine output into the box on the side of the bed, and other post-anaesthetic checks. 

“All done and looking healthy, Fogal. You can go back to sleep now. Can you give me the doll?”

Fogal looked up at him with watery eyes, glancing down to his doll then back up at Ivan.

“P’ease?” the merman asked hopefully.

“Dr Freid? Please advise.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Allow him to keep the doll Nurse.” There was a determined note to Elias' voice. “Unlike the previous situation where he tried to take something, the doll is not a choking hazard and has been requested fairly politely. Though this shall be discussed with Logan as his other handlers, I believe that having a possession will aid in a sense of security, and that the doll has great potential for further use as a communication tool."

Ivan gave the merman's hair one last ruffle. 

"Ok Fogal, you can keep a hold of it. Now let's get you back to sleep, ok?"

--888--

Nathaniel awoke theto the heavy tread of Nurse Brunel. Memories came back in dregs. Dr Rana had put him to sleep, so they must have done something to his body, though there were no new spots of pain...

“Hey Fogal, how are you feeling?”

His hands hadn’t cramped up as much as usual. They were clamped around something soft and thick, far better than the thin sheets he usually balled up in place of seaweed. He creased his brows and held up the item as best he could with his wrist still bound to the bed. 

The stupid rag doll stared back at him.

Nathaniel cocked his head in confusion, and looked up questioningly to his favourite nurse. 

“We sedated you for some tests, do you remember?”

Nathaniel nodded slowly, then wiggled the doll at him questioningly.

“When I went to check on you afterwards, you really wanted to keep a hold of the communication doll there. And Elias thought it may be useful for you to have him with you anyway.”

Nathaniel looked down at the soft little plush merman. His tail was the same pleasant deep red as Nathaniel’s own tail, his sewn-on expression one of peaceful neutrality.

He squished the doll’s head gently. A strange half memory rose of petting the doll's hair, and then of gentle fingers carding through his hair. Nathaniel scowled.

What would his interrogator think of him if he saw Nathaniel wanted to keep a toy?

- I. no. need. stupid. Communication doll. - He signed, trapping the doll under his wrist to form the words. 

“That’s ok too, Fogal.” Nurse Bruel spoke peaceably, “And you can let me know if you change your mind. Can you keep a hold of it while I check your eyes?”

Nathaniel nodded, and Nurse Brunel stepped forwards with a tiny bright light. Nathaniel surreptitiously shuffled Little Fogal under the sheet. He could barely see the little lump the doll made under the covers. He tucked it into the fabric and rested his hand back by his side. 

“Looking good, no post-sedation signs. I can take your oxygen mask off now.” Nurse Brunel took the bulky plastic off his face. Nathaniel wiggled his jaw.

- Thank you - He signed.

“No problem, Fogal. I’ll let you pray now, and Elias will be through for a session once you are done…”The nurse glanced down to Nathaniel's empty hand next to the little doll shaped lump, and the slightest smile appeared on his face. Nathaniel watched him warily, but all the nurse did was give him a swift gentle pat on the wrist before turning to leave the room.

Nathaniel squeezed his new possession once, and settled into prayer.

[letstalkwhump]

Let's Talk Whump No.5

Welcome to Let’s Talk Whump, a series of interviews that spotlight the amazing people in our whump community! ! I’m Malice and I’ll be your host. 

Today I’m talking whump with the wonderful @painsandconfusion! 

So good to have you here today, @painsandconfusion! Tell us a fun fact about yourself!

I'm a lawyer but don't seem like a lawyer at all - everyon'es always confused when I say so. I'm a fan of jumping between fluffy pink dresses, standard hipster vibes, emo styles, and who knows what else. It's different every day. I just like variety!

What does whump mean to you?

Oh dear, tricky to answer...

Whump is when a character is at their highest stress point (or...at least higher than average). I suffer from severe and vivid nightmares, but I found out that when I write whump, I can process my fears and anxieties through those characters and their experiences. I can only go about two weeks without writing before the nightmares start again. It's kinda amazing to see just how effective and healthy it is for me. I live vicariously through my whumpees for a moment, and they help my brain keep its shit together. Then I get to meet all these lovely people online and it just makes my heart so happy!

Wow, that’s really great to hear! Whump can be really cathartic at times. How did you find the whump community? What made you want to join? 

I think this is a standard story, but I discovered the hero x villain community first, and it wasn't /quite/ my cup of tea, but it was close. After I saw a few people reblogging things with #whump, I checked it out. 

I have a vivid memory of skipping class for the first time in my life, just sitting in my apartment, all but crying as I scrolled through everything. I was so relieved to find that I wasn't alone. I spent so much of my life hating myself and hating whumperflies and hating that I was drawn to violence and not understanding why. After I found this community I felt so much more at home. 

I made a blog and started reblogging.

Then of course, I relapsed into hating myself and deleted it.

Then I made another. Started posting gifs I made from my favorite whumpy movies.

The kink community kinda took it over - which is fine and lovely and I'm happy to share content, but....they were the only ones who saw my blog. So everything I made was taken in a way I didn't mean and I felt very isolated and unheard.

So I deleted it again.

A couple years ago, I tried again. I started just reblogging, then I impulsively added to a prompt list in one of my reblogs and people really liked it? So I made more. And more and more and more- eventually I started posting scenes, and I've been having a lovely time here ever since! 

Do you think your view on whump has changed since you joined? Are there tropes you now love/hate that you didn't at first? 

Absolutely. Like. Wow so much. I used to dislike pain a lot and only enjoy the fear leading up to it. While I still prefer the suspense, nothing really squicks me out anymore. I used to hate pet whump but now I'm a fan. 

I have started making whump art as of late, which has been a fun new adventure! I picked it up almost solely because there's so many fantastic writers in this community who deserve some good fanart. I'm having fun working through a list of my favorite creators!

Tell us about your favourite whump trope!

Dear goodness, do I love a chin tilt.

No no...hmmm.....I get to run wild with this question and there's nothing you can do to stop me! Muahhahahhaaaaaaaa~

Okay so. Picture this.

Whumpee stumbling slowly backward, breath catching in their throat and burning at their lungs. Their feet drag against the ground as they stare up at Whumper, eyes shaking and sparkling with tears that cling to their lashes, refusing to fall. Not /quite/ yet. 

Whumper strokes a knuckle down their cheek, drawing a twitch - not quite a flinch, no no, Whumpee wouldn't dare to pull away. Whumper's hand flips softly as it reaches their jaw, pressing to their throat instead.

Whumpee finally lets a sound pass their lips, a soft whimper as their back hits the wall. The momentum topples the wetness from their lashes, and Whumper's eyes roam down to follow them as they soak hot into the fabric of Whumpee's shirt. 

Whumper's hand turns up just /once/ more, curling a finger under Whumpee's chin to tip their head up, drawing hiding eyes back into place.

Then they say something whumpy, I guess - you get the picture.

LOVE that shit. 

Intimate whumpers? Slow pacing? Vivid sensation? Yes!

Absolutely loving the detail in that! It’s all about the sensations! And speaking of favourites, do you want to share a piece you've written?

Hard Question!

First one that comes to mind is The Party. It's one of my favorites because my hands were shaking so hard while writing it. It was a great way to kick off that event (@thewhumperssoiree) which I'm inadvertently yet shamelessly plugging by answering with that piece I guess! It's very very fun, I loved what that piece created. Everyone who wrote for it did such a great job! (Event is still open, I don’t know why I'm talking about it in past tense)

Do you have a standard writing style/routine or does it vary?

I absolutely change up my paragraph style depending on the intensity of the scene or the place in the scene. I'm a big fan of elaborating and writing moment to moment so the oc's sensations and emotions bleed into the reader. I don't write much on visuals at all - almost entirely on sensation, which I think works well in this medium.

When I'm writing, I kinda forget everything else exists, so I don't have food or drink or if I do, it's neglected. If anyone tries to talk to me, tough luck to them, I'm in the Write Zone and I cannot hear them!

I write solely when inspiration strikes which.......is a lot!

Is there a noticeable difference in how easily you write things? Do the words always flow or do you have to beat them out sometimes?

There's characters who don't get in my head nearly as easily, and ones that are effortless. Getting fucking Alec in my head? Impossible. He's a bitch, then does bitch things once there. Ethan? Dream. Miracle boy. So easy to write that emo little shit. For clarification, the seven chapters of Alec's series vs the thirty of Ethan's. Alec is a bitch. End of story.

But, I also do much better describing little moments rather than full scenes. I'm good at scenes, but it takes so many spoons. Hence why I have three hundred or so random drabble posts or lists, but only like fifty total from my series. It just takes more effort to have to think about plot and pacing and all that good stuff. 

Fun? Yes. 

But hard.

Is there anything you're working on at the moment? Finalising the final chapter of your series? Starting a new au? Trying a different style of writing/pov? Revisiting fanfiction? Maybe you've really gotten into poetry....

Oh dear goodness, I'm working on everything all at once and I need to stop!

I also need to roleplay less and write more for you lovelies! I’m so sorry I’m just really distractible…

Give us some writing advice. Bless us with your wisdom!

I have posts for this but:

1. Keep your descriptions to the textured senses. Less visuals, more sensation. Caretaker has brown hair? So what? Tell me about how Caretaker's hair curled at the ends, just barely tickling at the corner of their eyes until they flicked it away with a twitchy shake of the head.

2. Personify the shit out of your nouns. Whumpee bled? No. The blood soaked through Whumpee's shirt. Make it an external factor that's affecting them. Much more engaging.

3. Pacing. Whumpee got dragged into the car, then into a house and chained in the basement? That's not one scene, that's at least three. OR. It's a two sentence summary that Whumpee is musing about while already in the basement. 

4. Speaking of, don't start with the boring, just get right into the action. You can weave the 'how we got here' bits in after a few sentences, but get your reader hooked right away. Don't start with "Whumpee got out of bed, glancing at their blaring alarm". Try instead "Their hands were shaking so hard they had to try three times to dial the number, fingers as clumsy as they were that morning, trying to slap their alarm off through the fog of blissful sleep." Or just don't mention it at all! Skip to the good stuff!

Lastly, let’s hype up some of your favourite blogs! Any friends, writers or just really cool people you want to shout out?

@whumblr was like my idol before I started! It's so cool just casually knowing her now? Still not over that, to be honest.

I always tag her but @distinctlywhumpthingmpthing is so good? Seriously, you want to see some god-tier writing, go over there. (minors read tws well please, its not all for you.)

@brutal-nemesisemesis is always a delight. Castys gives me life.

And of course,  I'm gonna give a shoutout to @wormwritinging, my beloved. We met here and as much as I adore this community, they're hands down the best part of it. 

Anything you'd like to add? 

I can't think of anything but thank you for doing this. This blog is so cool!

It’s been a honor to have you here, @painsandconfusion!

And to all you folks at home, have a whump-derful day!

[the-lark-ascending69]

lumaxramblings here (it's a sideblog so !!!) and thank u for the nancy whump, you've done the people a service <3 ouch. shit. fuck. that shit hurted <33

nancy's recovery must be pretty hard huh

@lumaxramblings !! Omg hii! I'm so happy you liked it i was worried it would be a bit too much/unasked for lol. But yes I love whump, I love ronance whump, regardless of who is in the whumpee/caretaker role. Robin and Nancy in canon have this dynamic in which Robin is kinda looking to Nancy for comfort, sacurity and guidance and Nancy is happy to provide that, so it's kinda intuitive to imagine whumpee Robin and caretaker Nancy but... whumpee Nancy just hits all the best notes too, because she's already gone through so much pain... Robin would be an amazing caretaker and exactly the person Nancy needs at the moment.

Nancy's recovery is a very rocky process indeed. Her whole family left when they thought she died, and the rest of the party still kept intermitent contact with Mike for some time, but I think that at some point the Wheelers must have changed their number without much regard for Mike and his friends and effectively cut short any way for Steve and Robin to contact them, so she's pretty much an orphan right now. Her mom and dad left. Doesn't help much. Though the kids (now entering highschool) are so excited to see her, especially Dustin, who always thought Nancy was really cool and is super happy to see her, but the three of them genuinely cry when they get her back. It's actually pretty overwhelming for her. Though I'm getting ahead of myself.

During the first day after her rescue Nancy is kinda like.. floating. Kinda peacefully going along with whatever Robin and Steve suggest. It's just the three of them in Robin's cozy little house in the outskirts of town. The doctor said she needed rest so Robin acts like a tiny helicopter parent always fluttering around her making sure she's well-fed and helping her get around the house, trying to keep her in bed most of the time and doing everything she can to keep her entertained. Afaik according to the book Robin doesn't own much technology other than her walkman and her language and music tapes, and her parents have a record player, so that's pretty much everything she has to offer Nancy, but listening to her parents' old Fleetwood Mac albums on repeat may not be the most entertaining activity for Nancy, so she offers her books instead - she even offers to read for her the ones in other languages, but Nancy seems uninterested in music and books. When she doesn't react to Robin's suggestions, Steve says she's overwhelming her, which is true, but really Nancy has become so accustomed to lying still in her cell with zero stimulation, that it doesn't even bother her anymore.

It's towards the end of the day that it dawns on Nancy that she's not dreaming, that they found her and brought her back and now she's in a strange girl's bed recovering from a few broken bones, soft and warm and safe for the first time in years. She unintentionally wakes Robin up in the middle of the night when she begins to sob. Robin doesn't know if something hurts or if she's having some sort of flashback or panic attack, and she can only think of holding her hands to ground her, but Nancy doesn't want to be touched. When Steve shows up and tries to hug her, she flinches away. She's crying why, why, why? As if she didn't understand why they took her away from her captors. Robin tries making some tea for her, but Nancy doesn't drink it. They wonder if she needs space, but when Steve asks her if she wants to be alone, Nancy holds onto his and Robin's hands so tightly they conclude she's asking for company, so they stay awake all night, next to her. She stops crying at 4am, and stares at the closed window until 8am, when she finally falls asleep. It's only been one day and it's already exhausting.

Steve and Robin wouldn't have it any other way though.

[whump-me]

Conquest, Chapter 17: Trust and Loyalty

Chapter 17 of Conquest, a novel-length fantasy whump story about a timid royal clerk captured by the disgraced prince who needs their help to rule their newly conquered country. This series is best read in order. Masterpost here.

Contains: fantasy setting, male whumper, royal whumper, whumper who is also a whumpee, emotional whump, abusive parent, psychological effects of parental abuse, punched in the face

---

Kezul

Mir did crawl—literally, their lopsided movements painful to watch. Kezul had to force himself not to look as Mir made their slow, halting way out the door. He was glad when his father slammed the door shut again before he had to watch Mir try to make it down the length of the hallway.

Mir would need that wound treated, and soon. Would any of his Wolves take care of it, if they saw? Probably not. They would likely assume the prisoner had deserved whatever they got. Kezul would have to order it done. And when he did, his father would know he had done it. His father had eyes and ears here, and Kezul didn’t know where.

After the door was shut, his father stood in front of it, legs wide, arms crossed. He faced Kezul the way he might have faced a defeated enemy, or one of his Wolves who had disappointed him. Kezul had to fight the unaccountable impulse to drop to the floor and present his weapon.

He didn’t, of course, because that was never what his father had wanted from him. His father didn’t want another obedient Wolf. His father wanted another son. And Kezul had never managed to give him that. How many times had they stood like this, over the years? His father looking down on him with those iron-gray eyes, while Kezul stood with his eyes on his feet, squirming under the weight of his father’s disapproval. No matter how many years went by, he was always a boy standing in front of his father, knowing he wasn’t good enough.

But he wasn’t a child anymore. He had been given charge of Danelor, and he had done well with it. Well enough to undo the damage his father’s army had done—damage he suspected his father had meant to be irrecoverable. Well enough to earn the respect of his Fangs.

He was not that boy. Nor was he the defeated soldier he had been, freshly returned from that disastrous battle.

He kept his eyes on the floor, but he straightened his shoulders. He took a long breath. “I have ruled Danelor for a season now,” he said. “When I arrived, its people were starving. Now they will eat for the rest of the winter. There have been no revolts. No whispers of discontent from our neighbors.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about your relations with your neighbors,” said his father, his voice sharp and unforgiving. “Was that the prisoner’s doing? Or should I call him the king? From what I hear, it seems you have elevated him to the throne. What does that make you? The court jester, like they have in Faraille?”

“You left me little in the way of resources when you gave me this throne.” Kezul stopped short of saying it was a test he had been meant to fail. There was no sense in saying it aloud, not when they both already knew the truth. “I made do with what I had. Isn’t that something a ruler should do?”

“You seem to understand very little of what a ruler with my blood in his veins should do. Making deals with Danelor’s aristocrats! Letting them negotiate in your stead! Bribing them with the promise of food and a seat at the table. They’ll think they’re not conquered at all—and I wonder if they’re right. Who really sits on your throne, Kezul?” He shot a sharply mocking glance at the wooden throne behind Kezul.

“Danelor was in a desperate state when I came here. They had no food. I couldn’t even feed my own army.”

“Then if things were that hopeless, you should have razed the lot of it and started over. Turned it into farmland for Kyollen Naskor. There’s no need to worry about food if there are no survivors to feed.”

“You told me to rule.”

“Better to rule an empty land than to let these people think they have power. You are not ruling. You are eating the scraps they throw you from their table, and you are too stupid to see it.” With those last few words, his voice rumbled like distant thunder. Then the thunder arrived as his father stormed past him to the throne. He drove his foot down hard into the wooden seat. A crack ran up the seat, but the throne held.

Kezul tensed, but didn’t flinch. He was accustomed to his father’s displays of temper. He knew what his father wanted from him now—unconditional agreement, and an apology to follow it up. At least, from him, the apology would not have to be entertaining.

But he was not a child, to offer a child’s chastised agreements, a child’s apology. He was ruler of Danelor. He had passed this test.

“I understand your position.” Kezul tried to keep his voice even. He realized, as he listened to himself, that it was a habit he had learned from Mir. “But this way, Danelor will produce more for us in the long run. And making building good relationships with our neighbors may help our reputation.”

“Help our reputation.” His father went still, his voice low and deadly. “You intended to change our reputation? This was not mere incompetence? You mean to have us known as people who make deals with the weak southern lands? Who offer them concessions, who approach them on our knees with our hands outstretched? Is that what you mean to tell me?”

“Of course not.” But Kezul didn’t know where to go from there. It had made sense when Mir had said it. But he didn’t know how to explain it to his father, didn’t know how to explain it to himself. He had acted on faith and instinct, following Mir’s advice instead of Gyoras’s trusting Mir that being open to cooperation was more fruitful than the threat of violence. He understood it, could even half-verbalize it to himself—they had food, and they had relationships, and those relationships were resources, and wasn’t it best for him to make use of every resource at his disposal? What would more shows of force get him beyond a burned expanse of ruined countryside?

But that was what his father was saying he would have preferred. A destroyed land, emptied of people, rather than a reputation for cooperation. And Kezul had been taught, all his life, that his father’s desire was the axis upon which the world turned. When his father wanted something, his Wolves made it happen, or they suffered for it. When his father wanted something from Kezul, Kezul made it happen, or knew himself to be a disappointment.

It wasn’t even that he had been taught his father could never be wrong. Right and wrong didn’t enter into it. There was only his father’s desire, and his father’s will.

Of course this wasn’t what his father had wanted.

Of course he hadn’t passed the test.

“I should never have trusted you with this,” his father said. “Not after your previous failure. I should have known that even a small, insignificant country like this was too much for you to handle.”

Kezul—standing here in his throne room, beside the throne he had sat in for months—felt the sudden urge to shrink down into himself and apologize. Apologize for not passing his father’s test. For proving himself unworthy yet again. For not being the son his father wanted.

His father’s desire was everything. And Kezul, whenever he failed to be what his father wanted, knew himself to be nothing. He was nothing now.

But he was a son of the Unmaker. Should he apologize for doing what his father had told him to do? Should he apologize for doing a better job than his father had thought he would, than his father had thought he could?

He kept his shoulders straight and kept his apologies sealed behind his lips, although it cost him a lot to do it. It was his throne, and this was his palace, and he was his father’s son.

“Danelor will survive, thanks to my decisions,” he said. Even though we both know that isn’t what you wanted. He didn’t say that part. He didn’t need to. The truth lay between them as plainly as if it had been spoken. If he had burned the whole of Danelor, his father would have branded him a failure all the same.

“It will survive,” he repeated. “Give it a few years, and it will be thriving. I don’t even need a few years—give me until next summer, and I’ll prove it.”

He heard a hint of desperation in his voice, and inwardly cringed at himself. Even now, he was apologizing, even if he didn’t say the words I’m sorry. Even now, he was bargaining for his father’s approval. Give me until next summer, and then you’ll be proud. Then we’ll see how I’ve given you what you wanted. Only he could never give his father what he wanted, because what his father wanted was his defeat.

He, not Danelor, was the one his father had meant to destroy, to raze to the ground and begin again. Danelor was only incidental.

That made the rage rise again in Kezul’s belly. It felt like the madness coming back, like when he was in the courtyard doors and thought his Wolves were insulting him behind his back. They hadn’t been. They had praised him. They had offered him respect, true respect, for the first time in his life. He had earned it. He had earned his victory. He had—

The world spun, the walls tilted sideways, and then he was on the ground. A pain spread from his cheek out through his jaw and into his nose. His father stood over him, fist still clenched. His knuckles were streaked with blood. It took him Kezul a moment to figure out that his father had struck him. He touched his hand to his cheek. It came away dark red, a match for his father’s knuckles.

His father loomed over him like the mountains of Danelor, far above him and untouchable. His stern face looked like something eternal, outside the normal rules of time and humanity. Kezul tensed, embracing for the next blow, but it didn’t come in. His father looked down at him with a sneer of disgust, as if he wasn’t even worth bloodying his knuckles again.

“You’re as weak as I always suspected,” he said. “As weak as you proved yourself to be in battle. I should disown you now and done with it. I should give you to the people of Danelor you love so much, and let you see how much love they have for one of their conquerors.”

“Then do it,” Kezul said, his voice slow and distorted from the pain in his jaw. “Give me Danelor. Take your spies with you.”

His father’s fist clenched again, and Kezul thought that second blow might come after all. But still didn’t come. “I could have you killed for making such a demand of me,” he his voice was not angry—anger would have been better. It sounded like he was merely speaking a truth of the universe, like a god handing down knowledge from on high. The sun rose in the east, the snow never melted in the highest mountains, and Vorhullin the Unmaker could have his son killed for daring to speak to boldly.

“Danelor is mine,” he said. “It would take a war to wrest it from my hands—and you, my son, are not prepared for war. Your army belongs to me, just as your throne belongs to me. And we both know how well you would fare in on the battlefield. I gave you Danelor as one last chance to prove yourself. That does not make it yours to demand of me.”

Then do it, Kezul almost repeated. Have me killed. Put an end to this game where we both pretend I can be what you want. But he didn’t say it. He had been trained for the battlefield, but as everyone already knew, he didn’t have the courage of a warrior. He didn’t want to die.

“But it would reflect poorly on me if I were forced to openly call one of my sons a traitor,” his father said. “Just as it would reflect poorly on me to let someone of my blood proved himself to be irredeemably weak. Do you think I gave you this chance only for your own sake?”

His father looked down at him with those stony eyes. Kezul knew better than to speak, or to raise himself up. His father wanted him on the floor, so that was where he would remain. His father’s desire, as always, was everything.

“So I will give you one more chance,” his father said. “Rule Danelor as it should be ruled, in a way befitting a son of the Unmaker. Do that for me, and I will raise you to the level of your brothers. Do that, and you will be my son.”

There were so many protests Kezul could offer. He didn’t voice any of them. He knew better—because as his father spoke, the last pieces of the truth of his situation became clear to him.

He had always known this was a test. And he had always known he was meant to fail. But it was more than that. His father didn’t want Danelor ruled, didn’t want it as part of his empire. He didn’t care if its people were fed, didn’t care if they rose up in armed revolts, so long as they didn’t shame him by spilling his son’s blood where others might see. When he had first arrived, he had had a passing thought that his father could have conquered this place solely as to serve as a test for him. Now he knew he had been right.

But it was not meant as certain failure, as he had thought at first. His father did not, after all, want to publicly disown his son and admit the weakness in his blood. He had assumed his father wanted him to fail. Now he knew otherwise. This was an arena to prove his ruthlessness, to prove he could do from a throne what he could not do with a sword in his hand. He was not here to rule. He was here to destroy.

He was here so his father could say, Yes, my son has the stomach for battle for destruction, for blood and fire and death. Yes, despite his shameful scar, my son shares my blood, and my blood is strong.

If he had destroyed Danelor—as he had wanted to so badly when he had first arrived, but never considered as a serious option—his father would have welcomed him home with open arms. He would have failed to rule, failed most spectacularly, but that would not have mattered. That was never what his father had wanted.

And what did that mean for him now—now that he understood the true rules of the game? He could hardly turn around and undo what he had done, send the food back, burn the remaining farms and the surviving villages. Was that what his father wanted from him? Did it matter if it was? His pride would not allow it. His pride and, perhaps, something else—the thing that had stopped him when he had seen Perajeon standing helplessly before him, waiting to die.

He could not do what his father wanted. But he could not defy his father, either. His father had eyes and ears in the palace, and if asked to choose, Kezul’s Wolves would not choose him. Not even his Fangs, most likely, no matter how much of their respect he had earned. Respect was one thing. The will to defy Vorhullin the Unmaker was another.

His father’s will was everything. He could not stand against his father’s will. What he wanted did not enter into it. To defy his father will be to defy the mountains themselves, or a river strong enough to carve a canyon from stone. It was not a matter of courage. It was a matter of impossibility.

If his father suspected what he was thinking, he said nothing. Such things were, perhaps, not relevant to him. What did the river care what the pebbles thought as it swept them along in its path?

“You can start by thoroughly breaking this prisoner,” his father said. “Consider it a demonstration that you have what it takes. Do you think you can handle that?”

What could he say to that? If he refused, what then? It would not save Mir. There was no defying his father. Or if there was, he had never learned the trick. All he had learned to do was apologize, and when that failed, to lie bleeding on the floor.

“Yes,” Kezul said, nodding and feeling sick.

“I would like to believe that,” his father said. “But you have given me little reason to believe. I think I will require a demonstration from you.” He offered Kezul a hand. Kezul, feeling sicker, took it and let his father help him to his feet.

“This will be a good chance to see where your loyalties truly lie,” his father said. “With your blood, or with these conquered people.”

But his father had it wrong. This wasn’t about loyalty, any more than it was about courage. It was, as always, about what his father wanted.

---

Tagged: @suspicious-whumping-egg @halloiambored @whump-in-the-closet @whump-cravings @sunshiline-writes @annablogsposts @whither-wander-whump @seaweed-is-cool @bloodinkandashes @sonder35 @cakeinthevoid @looptheloup

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[whumppmuhw]

Whumptober Day 26: Curse, noncon touching*

tw: magical whump, knife/carving into skin, noncon touching (non sexual), intimate whumper, extreme pain (from the curse), manipulation, control/power imbalance

*alternate prompt

fuck it more neopronouns! :D

...

Whumpee clutched nir side as ne stumbled in the field where ne first met Whumper. The pain hadn't ceased for a month, and ne was getting desperate to make it stop. Ibuprofen and aspirin didn't help at all, and ne didn't even consider going to the doctor. The pain was always constant, though not always overbearing, and always seemed to get worse at the most inconvenient times.

On the back of nir neck, right near the top of nir back, was an intricately carved sigil. Whumper had taken her sweet time making sure it was perfect, setting the curse with the tip of her blade and chants on the tip of her tongue. She had made sure that if Whumpee ever got free, ne would regret it. And ne did. The pain ran down nir spine and around nir ribs, making it painful to move and breathe. At the worst of it, ne would collapse onto the floor, shaking and panting, begging anyone who might be listening to make it stop.

The full moon was shining down as ne lit a few candles and set them in the grass. Ne didn't really have an idea of what ne was doing, but if ne could informally summon Whumper the first time, ne could do it again.

Ne took a deep breath and chanted what little of the cryptic language ne knew, inserting Whumper's name from time to time. Ne wondered if ne should have come here, unprotected, alone, but ne didn't want to put anyone else in danger. No, if ne had to do it, ne had to do it nemself.

A ray of moonlight shone on Whumpee's candles, and it changed the flame to an eerie white. Ne continued chanting, and a minute later nir pain flared up and ne fell to the ground, squirming. However, the chanting was complete, and in an instant Whumper was standing above nir.

"Oh, darling, miss me already?" She laughed as Whumpee whimpered an answer, soaking up nir misery as ne struggled to breathe. "I thought you were stronger, hasn't it been only a month?... but it sure is good to see you again."

She snapped her fingers and the pain stopped, if only temporarily. Whumpee took some deep breaths and stood up, facing the woman who gave nir so much agony.

Whumper cupped Whumpee's cheeks in her hands, making nir flinch. "Are you ready for it all to end?"

Ne realized what she meant and shook nir head.

"No? Well then, I guess you won't be coming back with me tonight." She took her hands off of nir and positioned them to snap, preparing to restore her rather effective curse.

"No, n-no, I didn't mean like that," Whumpee wasn't entirely sure where ne was going with this, but ne knew ne never wanted to go back there. "I want this to stop, but I really don't want to go back with you."

Whumper took a second to consider this, Sure, she could force nir back with her into her realm, or she could leave nir here suffering until ne was begging to go with her, but what's the point if she doesn't get to see what leads up to that? What about dependence? Surely she could arrange that...

She wrapped her arms around nir shoulders, forcing ne to listen to her. "Alright then, how about a deal? There's an antidote to curses like this, in a form of a simple potion." Whumpee looked intrigued, and she knew she had caught nir. "You come here and summon me once a week, and I'll give you the potion you need to keep the pain at bay. What do you think...?" With one of her thumbs, she traced Whumpee's sigil. Ne looked so cute in this desperate state, and she wished she could keep nir like this forever.

"That...sounds alright. But I don't know how to formally summon you."

"Not a problem." She let go of Whumpee, then reached into a pocket in her dress and pulled out a piece of paper, with some simple directions and an incantation to chant, and handed it to nir. "Don't worry about waiting for the full moon, either. The phases of the moon affect me less than most."

"Okay," Whumpee paused, thinking of all the ways this next part could go wrong. "Don't-don't you usually charge a price for these types of things?" Ne slipped the paper into nir pocket to look over later.

Whumper put her hands on her hips and smirked. "Yes, and you'll have to pay too, but I'll keep it pretty cheap, just for you. A few crystals one week, a small blood sacrifice the next, not too bad, right?" She grinned as she watched Whumpee imagine all the horrible things ne would have to offer her. And she wouldn't require much of nir, not at first, anyway. Seeing nir needing her would be the best price of all. "So, it's settled then?"

"Yes," ne replied warily, though ne didn't like the situation ne found nemself in. "When do I get my first dose?"

Whumper loved that she had gotten nir to agree. She inhaled deeply, as if she could smell nir sweet desperation and her success. "Three days from now, and then every week after that. Sound good, Whumpee?"

"Yeah. I'll see you in three days."

"See you then." Whumper snapped her fingers, reactivating her curse, though for tonight she would keep nirs pain to a minimum, a small mercy. She pivoted on her heel, moonlight illuminating her face. She was gone as quickly as she came.

Whumpee sighed, though not completely out of relief. Magic folk like her were tricky to work with, and deals were usually to be avoided at all costs. Ne picked up the candles and headed home, hoping that the potion would be worth its weight in gold.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

broken

prompt: broken (alt no.12)

whumpee: sakari nurmi

fandom: karppi/deadwind

i'll be honest this one is not that good but such is life sometimes. hope you maybe enjoy anyway?

Sakari is being chased through an old office building by a guy who seems just a little bit crazy. He’s fast, but he has absolutely no idea about the layout of the building they’re in. His pursuer, while slower, seems to know exactly where he’s going. He keeps disappearing from behind Sakari and then popping back out of some doorway significantly closer to Sakari than he had been before. 

It’s a matter of time before they come to a confrontation, and Sakari is not entirely confident that he is going to win. 

He can fight, sure, but he doesn’t have his gun and this guy seems really motivated to catch him. 

He does get caught. He skids around a corner and suddenly he’s face to face with his former pursuer. This takes him by surprise, and he’s slow to react. 

The guy drops to the ground, quick as anything, and sweeps Sakari’s feet out from under him. 

He hits the ground hard, the wind knocked out of him, and then there’s a boot pressing into his chest. 

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

Sakari doesn’t say anything. He’s wishing he hadn’t come here, either. 

“Now I’m going to have to teach you a lesson. It’s your own fault, really.”

Sakari tries to get up, to struggle free, but the guy is putting practically his whole weight atop his chest, making it all but impossible - and quite painful besides - to try to move. 

He’ll wait, and maybe he can take his opponent by surprise. 

The guy starts talking about privacy and Sakari thinks about how best to escape and wonders whether anyone might soon be coming to look for him. Sofia and JP do know where he is, after all.

And then, with no warning whatsoever, his captor shifts his weight and Sakari wonders why and then his hand feels like it is on fire. 

The man trapping him has one foot on his chest and one foot on his left hand and Sakari can’t breathe and his lungs are burning and his hand is also burning but in a different way. 

Eventually, the pressure goes away. He lies there, stunned, trying to take deep breaths which are incredibly painful. 

He’s not trapped now, not by the other man’s weight, but he feels like he can’t move. And then his opportunity is gone, anyway. 

He’s pushed over onto his stomach, and then his arms are wrenched behind his back and he yells in pain as a pair of handcuffs is secured around his wrists. 

He kicks his legs to no effect while they’re being tied together with what feels like a thick piece of rope, and then he’s pushed back over, lying face-up with his wrists pinned beneath him, hurting horribly, metal digging into skin, and he’s staring up at his captor. 

“What the fuck,” Sakari wheezes out. 

The man above him just shrugs. And then he kicks Sakari in the ribs. 

He tries to curl his body around the pain but the guy kicks his other side so that there’s really no point. Defeated in this regard, Sakari lies still and tries to ignore the pain. 

He really doesn’t know what this guy wants, except to teach him a lesson, whatever that means. Does he mean to kill him? Or just rough him up a bit, then let him go?

He doesn’t want to stick around to find out that it’s the former. 

“What do you want?” he asks, not really sure whether he’ll get an answer, whether it’ll be something he can believe. 

The guy smiles down at him. It’s unnerving. And then he winds up his foot to deliver another kick, and Sakari can only shut his eyes and try to turn away. 

The man’s boot connects with the side of his head. Pain explodes in his temple for all of a second, and then everything goes black. 

--

He wakes up to shouting. His head is pounding and he can’t quite make out the words, but he knows the voices. Sofia and JP. He lets his eyes slip shut again. They can handle this one without him. 

Someone taps him on the face. He opens his eyes and finds himself looking up at Sofia and JP. 

“Is he…?”

“We’ve got him,” JP reports, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate where. “Handcuffed. He shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Can you…?”

They both understand what he’s asking, even though he doesn’t finish the question. JP grabs his shoulders and helps him sit up. The change in position makes him dizzy and for a second he thinks he’s going to pass out again. 

Sofia is untying the rope around his ankles. JP unlocks the handcuffs. Sakari wonders, briefly, where he’d gotten the key from. 

And then he’s free. He sits up a little more, shrugs off his teammates’ hands. 

His wrists are scraped and bear the indentation from the cuffs, pressed into his skin by his own body weight. His left hand is swollen and with the blood flowing to it again, it throbs in time with his pulse. 

“That looks broken,” JP says, helpfully. Sakari ignores him. Wants to ignore the obvious fact he’d stated. 

“How’s your head?” Sofia asks. 

Sakari shrugs. It hurts. 

“Did he kick you?” JP questions. “You’ve got a mark.”

Sakari unconsciously touches his right hand to his head, as though he’ll be able to feel said mark. He doesn’t answer. He’s pretty sure JP knows, anyway.

“I called an ambulance already,” Sofia tells him. 

“Okay.” He doesn’t particularly want to be poked at, touched, asked a hundred useless questions. But he’s probably concussed and his hand is broken and some of his ribs might be, too. So he knows it’s for the best. 

“Should we go outside?” This is JP. “It’s kind of a maze in here.”

He has a point. And Sakari would really like to get out of this place. 

They all get to their feet. Sakari’s head spins again, and for a second his vision goes black. He starts to stumble, and then there are arms behind his back. 

“Alright?” JP asks. 

Sakari nods, very slightly. 

“Let’s go, then,” says Sofia. 

They keep their arms around him the whole time, preventing him from falling. Their arms stay around his body even when they’re out of the building and standing on the sidewalk. 

He’ll never say it to their faces, but it’s incredibly nice.

thanks for reading! i had to do a presentation today and finish a paper so i am Tired and thus this is not so great. but oh well. hope you liked it regardless?

[seasons-beatings]

Happy holidays, @mommymarichatfurever!

fantasy sci-fi whump, female whumpee and male whumper, whumpee is 17, magic whump, captivity, (magic) drugging, manhandling, restraints, whumpee gets slapped

Not for the first time, Cozbi cursed her mother.

It was Midnight’s fault she was here, Midnight’s fault Malachi even knew about the gateways, Midnight’s fault she’d been retrieved from earth—the sweetest thing to home she’d ever had—and tossed into the cutthroat, razor-sharp arena that was Nihil politics.

The throne had never been hers, not really. Not when her mother died, and certainly not now.

Malachi—sorry, Lord Malachi—had escorted her to this prison room himself. Best as Cozbi could guess, she was locked in a tower above the court of law, the room she’d reigned over herself just a few days before. Or however many days it was. Possibly bordering on a week. Malachi hadn’t come back at all, sending only his black-cloaked goons to give her lukewarm meals she refused to eat and no silverware. He wasn’t foolish enough to give her a knife. Not after what she’d done to her mother.

Cozbi didn’t cry. She wasn’t afraid. She knew what Malachi wanted and she knew nothing he could do would make her give it up, no matter what lies he used against her. She’d barely warmed the seat of her throne, but it was still her kingdom. Hers to protect, hers to love, hers to kindle back into stability. Hers to die for.

When heavy boots echoed on the stairs beyond her locked door, Cozbi didn’t move. She stayed crouched against the black stones, so cold they felt wet through her robes.

The door unlatched with a heavy, iron click, and she felt rather than saw Malachi enter the room.

He had that effect—he wasn’t born of magic the way Cozbi was, but it still clung to him in tendrils, trailing behind him like a bridal train. Sometimes Cozbi wondered if others saw it too. But with the way her own officials fawned over him, she doubted it. If anything, the traces of magic in his blood pulled people in, enchanted them with his stature and gold-and-black eyes like rotting gemstones. In one hand, he held a chiseled black cup.

The door shut behind him. No guards, no reporters, no gossiping officials. Just them.

“When?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

Her mouth felt dry but she pushed the words out. “My execution. I assume you have a date.”

His lips flickered upward like it was a joke. “No one’s going to kill you, Cozbi.”

She hoped he couldn’t see how much hearing her name jarred her. For years she had been your majesty or my lady or queen. Sometimes killer or that witch’s daughter. She was never just Cozbi.

“Then why are you here?”

He tilted the cup this way and that, watching the liquid swirl. “I’ve brought you a drink.”

“I’m not drinking anything you give me.”

He smiled indulgently, like she was a little child. “Stand up.”

She obeyed, partly because she hated feeling so small on the floor and partly because she wanted to see where this was going. She tugged on the hemline of her robes, adjusting the fabric so it fell correctly, but in front of Malachi and his tailored uniform and dark hair slicked back—she was underdressed and grimy.

He held the cup toward her. It was made of stone, carved into strange patterns that slotted between his fingers, like someone had fashioned it out of clay and then clasped it too tightly in their fist. “Drink.”

“What is it?”

“Alu nairo.”

Her eyes snapped to his. Alu wisps could only be harvested from the light escaping black holes—difficult to capture and near impossible to transport home. An experienced dark magic user could coax out the toxins and brew a filmy, purple potion that blurred the drinker’s senses and dampened their mind. Small doses could treat pain. Large doses could turn you into a vegetable. A cup the size of the one in Malachi’s hand would trap Cozbi somewhere in between, awake and aware but dumb and hazy, with muscles like softened butter.

“Absolutely not.”

Crack. Pain slashed her cheek like a whip. Dropped her to her knees. She tasted blood.

“You have two options. You drink it willingly or I knock you out and pour it down your throat. It doesn’t matter to me which you choose.”

“Why would I possibly drink that?”

“Because I told you so.”

Cozbi crawled away until her back hit the wall. She pressed her hands flat to the cool stones and hoped he didn’t see them shaking. He’d backhanded her, and the gemstones that flickered on his fingers had sliced her cheek. Blood—or maybe just tears—trailed down to her neck.

“Don’t be difficult,” he warned.

“You got what you wanted. You’ve won. You don’t—you don’t have to fight me any more.”

“I haven’t even started.”

She swallowed. “You won’t get what you want, Malachi. The secrets to the Cosmic Gateways will die with me.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” He moved closer and Cozbi couldn’t tear her eyes from the cup. “You aren’t going to die.” He raised the cup to her lips. “Drink.”

She drank. It tasted like nothing, except for perhaps the barest aftertaste of metal, but the liquid clung to her teeth and tongue like half-dissolved tissue paper. She coughed, gagged—Malachi stepped back delicately so she didn’t sputter and spit all over his shoes.

“Very good,” he said, and Cozbi hated him. She couldn't stop retching. Nothing she did could rid her mouth of the filmy potion. His hand closed around her upper arm, his rings pressing sharp indentations into her skin. She tried to shrink back but he jerked her forward. “Continue to behave and this night will pass easy for you.”

She couldn’t speak. He pulled her alongside him through the door and down the curving staircase, but his legs were so much longer than hers and she stumbled. Already, lights and shapes were blurring together in the corners of her vision, turning into little more than streaks and smears.

And then they were in the court—her vision blurred—they were in the Grand Hall—and he was sitting her down on the golden throne, adjusting the part in her hair, cupping her by the chin so she sat up straight.

“What—what’s going on?” The words mashed up in her mouth. Her tongue felt bloated.

“Shadowveil is celebrating the fall of Nihil’s dictator,” he said. His teeth were much too white when he smiled. “As the said dictator, you’re invited, of course.” Rope looped around her wrists, pulled them up over her head until she was secured to her own throne, vulnerable. “You have so many enemies, Cozbi—so many. And they’d like to have a word.” He placed a hand on her neck—no pressure, just a warning, pressing his thumb beneath her jugular. “Enjoy it. And maybe after, you’ll change your mind about giving me what I want.”

And then he vanished—well, of course something in Cozbi’s mind knew he must have simply walked away, but in this new watercolor world where everything ran together, Cozbi couldn’t be sure of anything.

[blursed-ninjago-ideas]

Whumptober 2

Decided to let myself have some Kairro. It's been ages since I touched that AU and every time I do it feels self indulgent. Don't know why, a lot of people seem to really like it.

Prompt: "They don't care about you."

Randomly Selected Whumpee: Kai

Selection method: Asked a student I passed in the halls to choose a number.

TW: Blood mention, manipulation

--

“How many times do I have to beat you over the head with it!? They. Don’t. Care. About. You.” Morro snarled.

Kai raised his bloodied face and debated what comeback to use.

“I don’t know. How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not going to let you use your paranoia against me?” Kai said, his lip dripping wine red drops onto the concrete.

“They’re your abandonment issues.” Morro countered.

He was calming down and changing tactics. Probably realized that Kai’s temper had gotten the best of him again.

Morro made an excellent mirror to show Kai how ugly his anger could get if he didn’t control it.

“As if you didn’t have any of those yourself.” Kai laughed, wincing from the pain it caused him.

He just had to buy enough time for the others to find him. Nya was going to turn the whole room into a water park as soon as she saw Morro.

The trick was holding the line against the emotional manipulation. Hard to do when the manipulator lived in you head so long he left some of his things in the guest room.

“I left Wu, remember?” Morro said.

His smirk had Kai convinced he was looking at a mirror for a moment. It was to be expected. It went both ways after all.

Kai knew why Nya looked at him like a stranger sometimes. She never said anything about it, but Kai saw her every time she did it.

It had an effect.

Kai had slowly stopped bragging after Lloyd was forced to admit that he sounded more like Morro when he did it. When all of your friends get noticeably uncomfortable every time you get excited that you won a video game, you stop commenting on it.

Kai wondered how he used to sound when he would brag. How was it different? Did Morro get that trait, or did it disappear? Which one of them had “stronger” bragging mannerisms? If Morro got his way and they fuse, who would they sound like?

Would they sound like Kai when they told jokes? Would they keep that smirk, or would it disappear?

“And I never trusted anyone else long enough to get left behind.” Morro finished, yanking Kai from his thoughts.

He couldn’t think of a good retort. It had only been half a second, but Kai’s mind had wandered miles away from the conversation. It must’ve shown on his face, because Morro snarled again.

“I see you don’t have my focus.” Morro said sarcastically.

It wasn’t Kai’s sarcasm. It was a difference they still had.

Morro grabbed Kai’s face and dragged him up.

“Listen to me. They are waiting for the chance to get rid of you. You serve them now, but what happens when you get annoying? Too angry?”

Morro leaned in so close, Kai could smell the strange ghostly scent his spirit had.

“They will leave you.” he whispered.

“Like my parents?” Kai said with an eye roll.

He saw where Morro was going with it and he was sick of the line of thought.

“If the people biologically programmed to love you couldn’t manage it, why do you think they can?” Morro said as he dropped Kai.

Kai scrapped himself off the ground.

“Because they’re good people.”

“And your parents weren’t?” Morro said with a predatory grin.

Kai shivered and looked away, but he had thoroughly been caught off guard and didn’t have a response.

Just when he thought he had control of the conversation; that he had everything guarded, Morro came at him from an angle he didn’t think of and crawled under his armor. It was how it work from the very beginning.

“So, we agree he doesn’t ‘deserve’ to be the Green Ninja?”

Kai shook his head clear.

“So you don’t think your parents were good people?” Morro asked in a mocking voice.

“I-” Kai could only make the one sound.

“Because you’ve always defended them to Nya. You wanted to be a blacksmith and continue their legacy. You honor them every year on the Day of The Departed.” Morro continued.

“I do.” Kai whispered.

“That doesn’t sound like you hate them.” Morro said.

He was leading Kai to something. Kai didn’t like it, but he didn’t know how to break out of it.

“I don’t.” he confessed.

“But you should.” Morro pointed out.

He sounded so much like Kai’s therapist when he said it. It make Kai’s breath shake. He didn’t like the conversation. He wanted Morro to go back to trying to convince him the other ninja didn’t care about him.

“You should, but you don’t. Is that right?”

Morro didn’t give Kai a chance to answer.

“Then wouldn’t it be a good thing if I could hate them for you? If I could be angry for you? Then you can hate them like you should!”

Kai covered his ears. He knew what he was feeling. It was the same thing as the first time.

“He didn’t ask to be the Green Ninja. We did! Destiny passed up not one, but two perfectly good options to force the responsibility onto a child. That doesn't seem fair. You’re right, he doesn’t ‘deserve’ that! We could not only take what we worked so hard for, but relieve Lloyd of all that pain. That’s a good thing, right? We could work together and fix it!”

That sinking feeling that Morro was making sense. Scrambling for an argument, but nothing making as much sense as Morro’s words. Desperate to not agree, but finding no other thought in his mind.

Kai could only bite his lip and hope his friends were just around the corner. He wasn’t holding out for much longer.

--

That was just pure fun to write. I'm glad I did this.

-Ivy

[whumpitlikeyoumeanit]

Whumpcember 20

All of this Whumpcember is a single, long fic, with the prompts used in specific scenes, in order. See the Masterlist and AO3 link here.

((content warnings: mind control, drugging, love potion, coerced relationship, jealousy, coerced marriage kinda ))

promptspiration: @whumpcember Day 20: Drugged

Whumpee: Draco Malfoy Whumper: Harry Potter Pairing: Harry/Draco whump type: mind control / love potion (Amortentia) fic type: post-Hogwarts AU

words: ~5000

-------------------

The rain was dreary. He sat in the window, watching it distantly, not thinking about anything, not really feeling anything through the muffling grey curtain of his medicines. 

Harry surprised him when he came to join him; he didn't realise he was there before he felt a touch on his arm, and he slowly turned to look. Harry was actually almost smiling. He looked excited. 

"I have something for you to drink." He put his arm around his shoulders and squeezed, pressing a small bottle against his hand, faintly warm to the touch and containing a delicate, pearly liquid. "It took a while, but it's done." 

He picked up the bottle compliantly without giving it any consideration, but his hand slowed as it neared his face, and he found himself with his eyes closed, breathing in slow, deep breaths of the scent. It smelled of flowers, the lilies and narcissus of the gardens in spring… and the hint of orchid that clung to his mother from the flowers she arranged for the house, back when they had flowers, before the Death Eaters… and an undertone of the sugary frosting of a birthday cake, they were always far too sweet because that was what he'd liked when he was small…

A light touch on his wrist encouraged him to drink it, and he did. It tasted faintly of butterbeer and felt light and comforting going down, not like anything else he had to drink. This one didn't weigh him down or make him sick — on the contrary, it brought colour back into the world. 

He blinked up at Harry and couldn't help a bit of a smile and a flutter of his heart. "It's good, actually," he admitted, giving over the empty. 

"Yeah, you like it?"

"I do." He shifted around in the window to face him. "You don't have to work anymore, right?"

"No, now that's done I'm free." 

"Good." He laced his fingers into Harry's and let his hand hang from his.

"You want to do something?" Harry asked, with mildly bemused amusement, but he just shook his head. No, just being with him was enough. "Well, all right then. But I'm going to sit down." He stepped back, lightly pulling on Draco's hand. "You coming with me?" He nodded again, and slid out of the window to follow. 

They sat on the sofa, Harry with his book out for writing, and he just sat close to him with his head resting by Harry's shoulder. It was very nice. 

"You feel up to answering some questions for me?" Harry asked. It might have been a little bit, because then he asked, "You're still awake, right?" 

"Yes."

"I'll assume that answers both." Harry leaned his cheek against the top of his head briefly. "What did that potion smell like, to you?" he wondered curiously. 

"Don't know." Didn't seem important. 

"You don't know?"

He shrugged a little bit against Harry's shoulder. "Flowers and cake."

"Flowers and cake." Harry chuckled a little. "You try to act so hard but you're a surprisingly simple soul." 

Even that sounded like a good thing from Harry. "Why? What does it smell like to you?"

"You." Harry kissed his head and made him blush. "Do you feel okay?" 

"Yes."

"Hey." Harry nudged his side lightly so he opened his eyes. "Don't tell me any lies, okay? Do you hurt anywhere?"

He studied Harry to determine what kind of answer he wanted. The truth, maybe. "My head kind of hurts, but it's not so bad." 

"Any different from a little while ago?"

"It's a bit better. Your concoction had some effect." 

"That's good. What about your emotions?"

"What about them?" He settled back by Harry's shoulder and closed his eyes again. 

"How do you feel?" Harry held his hand on their legs. "Do you feel sad at all? …Tired?"

"No, what would I feel sad about? I feel really good." 

"Not scared?" 

He shook his head. Why would he be scared? As long as he had Harry, everything would be all right. 

"You don't have any idea how happy that makes me." Harry leaned his forehead against his head. "You have to tell me if you do get sad, or scared, or empty, okay? You have to promise." Harry was very intense; he lifted their hands together to nudge up his chin to make him meet his eyes. "Do you understand?"

"Yes." He didn't know why Harry was so insistent, but he didn't want him to be scared. He brushed the backs of his fingers over Harry's cheek. "But I can't imagine why I would be. Everything is all right." 

Harry smiled a little and kissed him slowly. Still embarrassing and a little gross, but Harry liked it, so he played along.

—-

That nice drink joined his routine. Not that he could really keep track of things like routine, but he noticed it was there and looked forward to it. It made everything nice. He could just sit with Harry and everything was okay. 

He did get sad when Harry had to leave him, though. He got mad he couldn't go with him and demanded he stay, because it was awful when he was gone. Horrible. It got so bad that Harry had to just make sure he slept the whole time, otherwise he couldn't handle it. 

But aside from that, it was really good. It was the best time of his life he could remember. As long as he could stay with Harry he didn't really have to worry about anything. He sat with him while he did research, or he mashed or chopped whatever Harry wanted him to for his brewing, or just napped against him. It was basically perfect. 

—-

"Draco…"

He lifted his head from the bed and looked. Harry was standing at the bureau, looking into the bottle cupboard. He had taken some of them out in front of him, including the horrible pink one, but now he was just looking distantly.

"Yes?" He was too sore to sit up if he didn't have to, but he watched him, running his finger down the tail of the dragon winding around his arm.

Harry continued to look at the bottles, and gradually pulled one out, looking at it in his hand. He couldn't see it through him. 

"I think I have to stop giving you this one."

What? No, he couldn't take it away. "Please, don't…" He pushed himself painfully up, holding his arms away from the burning skin of his chest so he didn't brush it and make it worse. "Why?" How could he fix it?

"It's… making you into someone else." He looked down at the bottle in his hand. "There's so much I love about you that I can't see anymore." 

He didn't like this. It was twisting up his stomach. Harry didn't love him? He left the bed and limped over to Harry without even trying to find his clothes, and held onto his arm anxiously. "Please…"

Harry looked back at him, his expression a little surprised, then turned and held onto his arm to help keep him up. He was holding the bottle with the drink that tasted like a poppy, and the relief felt like a physical thing. He almost collapsed against Harry's side, hugging him tight and resting his head against him. He'd thought he meant the little, nice-smelling one… the one that made everything better… He didn't care about the poppy one.

"I'm sorry." Harry tugged his head down gently and kissed it. "I know it helps you… believe me, I know. But it's taking away everything that makes you who you are. I love how smart you are… How quick, and sharp, and incisive — how you can see weak spots and just strike straight at them. I love your wit and your jokes and even your mockery. I love your energy, and how determined you are, and cunning and strategic, how you're just so… bright, brilliant, in every sense of the word. You shine, Draco. You're like the sun. And with this…" He looked down at it. 

He didn't even know what that one was for. He supposed it had never occurred to him to ask. "What is it?"

Harry ran his thumb over the glass bottle, and his hand ran over his hair. "You're going to be very cross with me when it's out of your system," he said. "But I did it for your own good." 

Something about that statement made him draw back a little, uncertain. He didn't like those words.

"It's for suppressing your memories." Harry pulled him closer again without seeming to notice. "It helps with your pain and your emotions, too, and I'm glad for it, but it's really for the memories. You have to understand, though. You needed it. I swear you did. I couldn't… I couldn't save you any other way."

"Save me?" He put his hand on his head, prodding the ache. 

"From yourself," he said quietly. "You hurt yourself awfully. Remember when you woke up and I took care of you until you could get out of bed? I said it was an accident, but… it wasn't. You… tried to kill yourself… it wasn't the first time…" 

That didn't make sense — he didn't want to die. That idea was frightening, he wouldn't do that. He held onto Harry's arm tightly. "Why…?"

"Because you're very sad." Harry looked into his face, and lifted a hand to cup the back of his head. "Your parents are dead, Draco, and they have been for a long time. That's the memory that keeps making you do awful things, because… they hurt you, they twisted up your mind so you feel like you can't live without them. You haven't thought about them in so long, and I love it, it's been wonderful to see you free of them, but this price… it isn't worth it." He looked back down at the bottle in his hand. "It's making you agreeable… complacent… docile and pleasant… It's basically made you a pet. I swear that isn't what I wanted." 

He frowned a bit, groping around with his mind, trying to hold onto that. "My parents died…?" 

Harry sighed. "Don't focus on it. I'm telling you now so that when the memory comes back on its own it doesn't make you too emotional. I don't want something bad to happen." Harry held his head, meeting his eyes. "But you don't need this protection anymore, right?" He set the poppy drink down. "Because you've promised you'll tell me how you feel, and I'll help you. You won't let your emotions go crazy alone and make you hurt yourself."

"No," he promised. "I won't. As long as I have you, it's all right." 

His parents were dead? It felt weird that hearing that didn't surprise him. It was like learning that this was Harry's house — it was something he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, he just hadn't thought about it. It was sad, but it wasn't shocking, and the hurt felt old and achey, not new and sharp. He squeezed Harry's arm. "I'm all right," he repeated quietly. Harry made it okay.

"Good." Harry kissed his head again. "It might take a few days for this to wear off completely, but it'll be okay."

He believed him. He reached past Harry to bring out one of the small, nice-smelling bottles. "I can still have this one, right?"

Harry looked at what he had and smiled, wrapping his arms around him. "Of course. As much as you want."

—-

He got sick for a while — he spent so much time throwing up, in agony from the cramps of his already painful stomach, sweating without a fever, often leaking tears for no reason that he couldn't stop. The awful pink drink didn't help it — instead, he ended up not even being able to keep it down, so his cough started coming back, and that made everything so, so much worse… He just wanted to sleep through it, but it was a crapshoot whether he could keep the Sleeping Draughts down, and even when he could he woke up suddenly shortly thereafter… the Calming Draught and the Pain ones were similar, so his head hurt and his skin hurt and his emotions were all over the place, leaving him crying or raging at the unfairness of it all…

The only thing he could reliably keep from throwing right back up were the gentle, nice flowery drink, and that was the only thing that made being alive bearable. If he hadn't had those, and Harry, he didn't know what he would do. 

But Harry stayed with him the whole time, and it did, eventually, get better. Eventually there was a day when he didn't throw up at all, and he could start to eat again, and things gradually picked up from there. First he could have small doses of the pain relief, and then slowly start on the pink ones again, calming his cough and the fever that came with it. Then, finally and yet seemingly suddenly, things were completely back to normal, and it was like the sickness had never happened at all. 

He found that the memories that had apparently been suppressed were there for him, now, if he wanted them. They were there, but unconnected, isolated, and he had to actively try for them to find them. He honestly had no idea what order anything went in — and, to be honest, it didn't really seem important. He didn't dwell on them. 

Harry's fears about them seemed unfounded; he was okay.

—-

He dropped heavily onto the sofa at Harry's side, holding his stomach and holding in a groan from it. That didn't really matter, though, that was just part of being alive. "Would you like to grow my hair back out?"

"What's that?" Harry looked up from his notebook and settled his arm around him. 

"My hair." He leaned on Harry so that his elbow was propped on Harry's shoulder and he was looking at him, fingers pulling at strands of his hair. It was fine and short, maybe a little over an inch, short enough to be impossible to style, but now long enough for him to worry about it. "You liked it long enough to tie back, didn't you?"

"Oh, yeah, I do actually." Harry shifted so he could also run his fingers through his hair, looking at him. 

"And it's not as though this is doing me any favours." He gestured generally at his face. 

"It's not that bad," Harry assured him. "But you're right, it's not 'you'. All right, I'll pick up a ribbon next time—"

He lifted the ribbon he'd retrieved from his room, pinched between his thumb and only finger.

Harry laughed a bit. "You really hate that hairstyle, don't you? Okay then." He flipped his book closed and set it aside, moving about to pull his arm back and get his wand. While Harry did that, he shifted as well to face him, waiting attentively.

Harry touched him just under the jaw lightly, wand propped up near his cheek, and his fingers stroked lightly over his skin. "The shave-free charm is still holding strong."

"It is," he agreed. "And I appreciate it. Although I have been meaning to ask: did you actually mean it to affect my whole body?"

Harry shrugged a tiny bit. "That wasn't the intent, but I knew it might. I suppose I could have done more to restrict it, but I had enough trouble with your eyebrows, didn't I."

"I suppose you did. I'm used to it." He ran his hand up his freakishly smooth arm, where the sleeve was rolled up to show the bottom the dragon brand that Harry appreciated seeing. "I was just curious what it might reflect upon you. Lack of attention to detail, apparently."

"Hey, my 'attention to detail' is about to try to fix your hair." Harry waved his wand in his face.

He folded his hands politely in his lap. "Forget I said anything." 

Harry grinned, then took on a look of concentration and started growing out his hair. He wasn't capable of sitting and waiting patiently to see what Harry had done; very shortly he was feeling his hair as Harry grew it and giving him direction on the fringe that might make him look less cadaverous. 

When he was finished, or tired of his nitpicking, Harry tied the ribbon behind his neck and kissed him. "There, gorgeous." 

"You're being overly generous." Once upon a time he had been good looking, but now he just looked ill and drawn. It was still nice to hear something nice, though, even if it was just politeness. Would actually mean something if he earned it, though… He felt his hair one last time, then turned and leaned against Harry's side. "But feel free to continue."

"I'm not. You're the most beautiful Pureblood in this house."

He laughed and picked up his hand to give it a squeeze. He did appreciate that. 

—-

"You really don't care about sex, do you?" 

He had his head on Harry's knee and a book about enchanting items he was trying to read, but mostly not, lying on his chest. He tilted his head back to look up at Harry's face, displacing fingers from his hair. "Why?"

Harry laced his fingers through his lightly. "I've given you Amortentia and you still don't initiate anything." 

That made him laugh. "You absolute ass," he said fondly, squeezing his hand. "Amortentia? I can't imagine how much of your vault you've wasted. Were you trying to make me love you?" He smirked up at him.

Harry met his eyes. "Do you hate that idea?"

He shook his head faintly with a small smile. "You should have known that wouldn't work on me." 

Harry smiled softly and ran his fingers through his hair.

—-

Harry settled onto the sofa beside him, sliding his hand neatly between him and the book he was trying to read, and kissed at his neck. It was a bit annoying — the not-completely-pleasant crawling feeling of the mouth on his skin, but moreso the book. He was actually getting into the analysis of enchantment strength and didn't want to waste his rare bout of being able to focus. 

He leaned his head away and shifted the book so he could see his page. 

Harry playfully flipped the book closed — he luckily got his fingers between the pages so he wouldn't lose his place, albeit mostly on accident — and slid his hand under his shirt, a barely tolerable feeling, while trying to kiss him again.

He ducked his head away. "I really don't care about this, you know, you're right. Have I said that before?"

"Mm." Harry ran his fingers down his stomach. 

"Frankly, it's all just a bit…" Hm, how to say 'tedious' and 'gross' without Harry taking that as an insult? "Well, anyway, I think you'll find things like that aren't really necessary." He got the book between him and Harry's arm and pushed lightly to tell him to get off.

Harry laughed and clearly didn't notice his hints. "They really are."

He scoffed. "They aren't."

Harry nudged him under the chin to look in his face. "I really don't think I could live like that."

He narrowed his eyes in a sudden spike of offence that either overwhelmed or subsumed the irritation. "So why am I not enough for you?"

Harry blinked several times and went still. "What?" 

He pushed himself up to his feet, getting Harry's hand off him, and looked at him directly. "You couldn't live like that? Like this? With me." 

"I didn't say that…"

"You literally just did. You can't live without it. You would rather have that than me."

"I didn't say that!" Harry grabbed for his hand, but he yanked it back. "Why is this an either-or proposition? Where is this coming from?" 

"You're the one who said it, not me," he snapped. "I'm here, but that's not enough, you 'need' to taint everything with that." 

"'Taint everything', what?" The look on his face was uncomprehending and helpless and thoroughly irritating, like he was staring down a bludger heading for him and didn't have the sense to duck. 

He turned to pace just to get away from Harry's stupid face and entitled hands. "I'm sure you'll be absolutely shocked to learn that it's actually not that I don't 'care about' this, it's that I 'don't care for' it. I actively and aggressively dislike it. I hate it! The absolute best I can hope for is that it's terribly boring and wastes my time."

He turned back to find Harry on his feet now too, watching him with a furrowed brow. "You can't actually find making love 'boring'."

"Only when it isn't nauseating, demeaning, painful, or frightening." It was getting harder to find the right words for what he meant to say, his mind was closing in, but those simple terms even Harry should be able to understand. 

"Sex isn't any of those things!"

"No?" he retorted. "Maybe it's just you, then."

Harry slapped him hard enough he stumbled over and fell to his knees, and that wasn't a terribly surprising reaction. It just made him madder; there was a flash of fear and coil of guilt, but the anger was stronger. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Harry demanded as he climbed back to his feet, glaring. Harry didn't help. 

"You! I should be enough for you! You're enough for me, why am I not good enough?" There were tears pricking at his eyes and he didn't even know if they were from sadness or embarrassment or frustration or anger. 

"You are, Draco!" Harry held his arms and looked at him earnestly. "I'd never intentionally hurt you. You don't have to not like it. If you don't enjoy it, tell me and we can do something so you can. A small dose of Attraction Extraction isn't any trouble." 

He squirmed until Harry was forced to let him go, and staggered a step back. "I can't believe you would suggest…" he groped around for a word in helpless frustration until he had to give up, "something like that!" He jerked around, spotted the door, and suddenly wanted nothing more in life than to go out it.

"Where are you going?" Harry demanded, and grabbed his wrist.

He shook his hand vigorously  until he got free and yanked open the door. "Away!"

"Why are you acting like this? I thought you loved me." 

"Stop thinking you know how to manipulate people," he snapped on his way out. "You're just embarrassing yourself." And he slammed the door behind him with an unsatisfactory awkwardness.

It was difficult to storm anywhere when he had to limp along the walls and got lost between doorways, but he gave it a valiant effort anyway. He didn't mean to go to the kitchen but that was where he found himself, and that failure made him feel helplessly worse, like a failure on top of all his other failures. He couldn't even do that right. He wiped his eyes roughly as he paced around clumsily, feet aching and not quite steady, angry with himself again for how graceless he was. 

Why wasn't he good enough? He did a lot! Why did Harry need more? He kissed him a lot, or what he thought was a lot, and that wasn't for him, that was for Harry, because that was what a good… whatever they were… did. He didn't complain when Harry touched him in ways that hurt his stupid burning skin or his stupid achy bones, or that his body didn't really like, because his body wasn't Harry's responsibility. He normally didn't decline whatever Harry had in mind when they went to bed, especially if he just wanted hands. Why wasn't it enough? Why couldn't Harry just be as happy with him as he was with Harry?

Harry acted like he never did anything for him, but he did! He was just quiet about it, like one should be. He was allowed to not like something, wasn't he? 

He had been meaner than he should have been. He hadn't meant everything he said, he was just lashing out where he knew it would hurt… He shouldn't have done that…

He collapsed at the table with his hands over his head, crying a little, and soon enough exhausted. Now the anger abandoned him and it was just crushing hopelessness and guilt. Why wasn't he good…?

Harry came in — he heard it — and there was a touch on his back, and the sound of a bottle on the table. He lifted his head and saw a Calming Draught, and put his head back down. "I don't need it." 

"Okay." Harry rubbed his hand over his shoulder and pulled him against his body. He resisted for a second, then turned and hugged his waist, burying his face in his chest. 

"I didn't mean it," he said, muffled in the fabric of Harry's shirt and the muscle beneath. "You  know that, right? Sometimes you just make me crazy…"

Harry hugged him tight against him, rubbing his back. "I know exactly how you feel." 

—-

The arithmancy was simple:

Harry wanted enthusiastic sex he didn't.

Harry was gone a lot for work.

Harry Sainted Potter could pull anyone he wanted. 

He couldn't think about anything else. That collection of facts and the natural conclusion they led to were boiling in his mind, surfacing and resurfacing, mixing together, swirling and throwing themselves at him. He cried in desperate fear and loneliness, but anger came as it continued to stew and intensify. 

When he found a sandwich waiting for him by the door and he realised Harry must be home and finished, but was still ignoring him, that set him off. That was it. He was going to put a stop to this. He stalked out of the room and down the stairs, eventually. He didn't know where he was going but the frustration of being slow and not finding Harry actually fed his anger and he carried stubbornly on. 

Harry finally appeared in the hallway, like he was just coming in, still with his wand out to manage the door, and he looked up with a stupid, blank expression, looking so innocent…

"Who is it?!" he demanded. His voice was shrill, even he could hear it, but not out of control. 

Harry stared at him. "...What?"

"Who is it?" Now he was screaming. "Who do you have out there? Is it a witch? Did you go back to that fucking Weasley cunt?" 

"What?" Harry was still playing dumb and he desperately wished he had a wand, he would curse that fucking look off his face—

Harry suddenly flew back like he'd been struck or cursed, and cried out as he hit the door; he rolled off it and scrambled to yank off his shirt, panting. The skin of his back was red. "Draco!"

"You don't get to leave me!" Harry was crowded against the wall, burning door on one side and him on the other, holding his shirt out to hold him off like he thought he was going to hit him. But at least he couldn't leave. "She can't have you! You're mine!"

"Draco!" Harry grabbed him by the upper arms and pushed him a step back so he could get away from the door. "I haven't!"

"Don't lie to me!" Now he was crying too, and it was ugly and he hated looking that weak in front of Harry, but the emotions just had to get out. He clung to Harry's arms. "I know why you're always gone!" 

"I'm not." Harry wrapped his arms firmly around him — he tried to pull away, but Harry was implacable, and held him tight against his chest. In a moment, he stopped trying to resist and leaned his head on Harry's instead. 

He didn't smell of anyone else. There was just the normal, slightly acrid brewing scent clinging to him. It was reassuring.

"Shh. I'm here." Harry ran his hand down his hair. "I can see you're exhausted, come on." He half-led, half-supported him down the hall. Even the sight of the starry room didn't fix everything — it made him feel calmer, but at the same time those desperate feelings were sharper, more intense, and he clung to Harry's arm with all his strength. He thought he saw him wince. 

Harry sat on the sofa with him, pulling them apart so they could look at each other in the starlight. "You're all right." He ran his hand down his hair again, looking into his face. "Are you better now?"

"No." He clung to him and stared, unwilling to even take his eyes off him. 

"I guess not." Harry met his eyes sincerely. "Do you really believe I've gone out chasing after someone else?"

He didn't answer, because he didn't know if he believed it or not, but he was terrified of it.

Harry held his jaw. "I haven't. I wouldn't. Do you believe me?"

"I want to."

"I promise."

"A promise is just words," he said sharply. "Worthless. I don't need meaningless words, I need a vow."

Harry blinked at him. "Are you serious? Unbreakable Vow?"

"Yes." He hadn't even thought of this before, certainly not planned it, but he seized on it now. "That's the only way I'll be able to know for certain."

Harry's thumb stroked along his cheek. "Mutual?" he said. "I'll swear to you, and you'll swear to me." 

"Yes. Of course." 

"All right." Harry took his hand back and brought back out his wand. "You are going to have to let go of me for a min." 

He looked down at his hand clutched around Harry's arm and made himself let go. It felt so wrong, but at the same time he realised that his hand hurt from holding onto him.

They clasped hands, his whole one and Harry's free one, while Harry's wand propped beneath them and began to glow as he cast the spell silently. The golden light of the nascent Vow resisted the gentle starlight from above. 

"You go first," Harry murmured.

He glanced to his face and held his eyes. "Do you swear to never forsake me?"

"I swear," Harry said without hesitation, meeting his eyes without guile or reluctance. The golden light from his wand bloomed into a ribbon that stretched upward and wrapped around their hands. 

Harry spoke next to take his turn. "Do you swear you will never betray me?" 

The thought had never occurred to him. The idea made his heart hurt. "I swear." 

A second ribbon of golden magic wound its way around their hands. 

They needed a third vow for the spell to be properly completed. They should actually have had a third person, a witness, but that wasn't as integral as the three questions and three answers. He admired Harry's face lit from below with gold and above with silver, and ached at the thought of anyone else seeing it. "Do you swear you will never have anyone else but me?"

Harry smiled. "I swear. I never have wanted to." 

The final band of gold leapt up from the wand and bound their hands together. Now the light of the Vow was completely overpowering the light of the stars.

Harry kissed him, and by the time he pulled back the light of the magic had faded and they were only sat on the couch, holding hands. Harry smiled at him. "Better?"

"Yes." He held the back of Harry's head, resting their foreheads together, and for the first time in it seemed like ever the fist of fear unclenched from around his heart and he could breathe. Harry was his, no one else's, Harry could never leave him… 

Harry lifted his hand and kissed the tail of the dragon there, then turned it palm up and sat up straight with his wand out. "One last thing." He gestured at their hands, and a gold ring was conjured in his palm. 

He laughed just a little, an embarrassed sound, and turned his face. "You aren't serious." 

"Very." He picked up the ring and waited a second for him to offer his hand, then slid it on his ring finger. It fit perfectly. "Your memory problems — I don't want you to forget in the heat of the moment and get distressed. Now, if you're alone, because I'm working or anything, you can see this and remember." Harry wrapped his arms around him and kissed his head. He leaned comfortably against him and held out his hand to look at the ring in the starlight. How could his chest go from tight and cold to so full, so suddenly? 

"We're bound together forever," Harry murmured. "No one's ever taking me away from you."

[whumpsday]

Did Kane ever have nightmares about Jim in captivity?

It was him. The human. His human.

Kane felt his mouth water with hunger at the mere sight of him, a reaction that filled him with horror.

"Unbelievable." the human chastised, moving straight toward him. "You still want to feed from me, even now? I would've thought you'd have learned your lesson by now."

"I have, sir!" Kane insisted, backing away. "I have! I'll never, never hurt a human ever again! I swear!"

"I don't believe you." the human responded, closing the distance and grabbing him by the throat so tight it hurt. It hurt a lot. "You're a monster, and that's what you'll always be. A leech. You're not capable of change."

Kane whined in terror. He wanted to try to scrabble at the hand gripping his neck, but he wouldn't dare resist. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm so sorry. Please, I can change, I promise! Please give me a chance to prove it! I'll be good, I'll be so good."

"No more chances. You're a hundred and ten years old, you've had enough chances." The human turned, dragging him along by the neck. "Time to burn."

"NO!" Kane screamed. He did resist now, trying his best to writhe away, to pry the hand from his throat, but nothing he did loosened the human's agonizing iron grip as he was dragged closer and closer to the door. "Please, please sir, please not the sun! I'm so sorry! Please!"

The human opened the door with his free hand, horrible sunlight streaming in, inches from his face. Kane sobbed as dread filled every inch of him, his struggles increasing.

"Do you really think that's going to work? You're not the strong one anymore, I am." The human's voice was devoid of sympathy.

"Please." Kane whimpered desperately. "Please don't make me go in that, sir. Please, it hurts."

"Too bad." And with that, the human pulled him forward into the light.

Kane screamed, and suddenly, the light was gone.

He was in his cell, alone in the dark.

Kane panted heavily, holding his hands over his racing heart. He wasn't in the sun. It was a dream.

He wasn't even 110 anymore. He'd surely been here for years. He probably hadn't been 110 for a long time. The human would have aged, too. Not the twenty-four year old he remembered.

He wondered how the human was doing. He was probably back with his family, that sister he missed so much. Safe and loved and free of pain. Everything Kane wasn't.

Kane shifted his head, trying to find any position that lessened the burn from the silver collar around his neck, but there was none.

-

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[a-dead-tea]

Haiii ! How are you and may I request another part for the tiny villain story ! Its really good and I love ittttt

Hello! I'm doing good, thanks for asking! =D Here is the next part to Tiny Villain, as requested!

The person who inspired this: @whumpwillow Link

-CW: Captivity Whump, Villain Whumpee, Tiny Whump, Cutting Skin, Broken Bone, Stranding-

Tiny Villain (Part Three)

Part one Next

---------------

Villain’s semi-healed leg throbs as they dangle from the cork-board on Hero’s wall.

Two drawing pins stuck through their sleeves being the only things keeping Villain from plummeting to the floor once again.

Sweat drips down Villain’s face as they internally beg the pins not to move.

“Consider yourself lucky Medic was available and willing to help fix your mistake,” Hero comments snidely, as they search a desk drawer.

“If the bite you gave me had gotten infected, well, let's just say you wouldn���t be able to use that stupid little mouth of yours,” Hero utters, glancing at their once again flawless finger.

Villain’s arms tingle, growing numb as they support the body attached to them.

“There we are,” Hero murmurs, removing their hand from the drawer, an exacto knife in their grip.

Hero lets out a satisfied hum before turning to face Villain.

Villain scowls, “You think you’re so tough, don’t you? Why don’t you change me back so you can pick on someone your own size?”

Hero chuckles as they come closer, “Why would I want to? It’s going to be so much easier for me to tear you apart this way.”

“Here I thought you were a hero,” Villain says, holding back a shudder. “Turns out you’re just as bad as me.”

“Quite the contrary, dear,” Hero states as they pull the cap off of the X-Acto and discard it on the floor. “Good punishes evil. If I hurt you, a villain, that makes me good.”

Villain scoffs, “criminals kill and beat the shit out of each other all the time. What makes you any different?”

Hero smiles as they put the blade to Villain’s lips, effectively silencing them.

“What makes me different is that I do it lawfully.”

Villain would roll their eyes at the bullshit excuse if they weren’t watching the knife on their mouth.

Hero trails the knife from their face and down their neck, stopping at their shirt collar.

“I wonder how much of your shirt I can cut away before you drop,” Hero says as they put more pressure on the knife.

Villain sucks in air through their teeth from the sting of pain, a bit of blood dripping down to their shirt.

“Stop-”

In an instant, Hero removes the blade and uses their other hand to press down on Villain’s bad leg, not even giving Villain the chance to finish their sentence.

Villain lets out a pained scream, back arching impulsively.

“I’m sorry, did you just tell me to stop?” Hero asks, amused at both the request and Villain's reaction.

Villain frantically kicks the side of Hero’s hand with their good leg, tears streaming down their face.

“What makes you think you can tell me what to do?” Hero questions as they add more force to Villain’s leg, the pressure threatening to snap it.

Villain bawls, desperately trying to pull the pins loose from their sleeves so they can use their hands to defend themself.

“You’ve lost all of your power and influence over this world,” Hero watches as Villain struggles, a smile on their face. “You have no more power over me than a doll. A disgusting, wretched, and feeble doll.”

A good moment longer and Hero pulls their hand away from Villain.

After the villain lets out a cry of relief, they go limp, trying to regain their now lost energy.

Hero hums, raising the exacto knife to Villain’s face once again.

Villain flinches, turning their head away to avoid the blade.

Hero tsks disappointedly, “breaking already? Pathetic.”

“F-fuck you, cunt,” Villain spits, closing their eyes tightly as the knife makes contact with their cheek.

“Thanks but no, I have standards, doll,” Hero responds as they drag the blade across Villain’s face, leaving behind a bloody line.

Hero draws their hand back for a second, inspecting their work before bringing the blade to Villain’s forehead and dragging it down, over Villain’s eye and to their chin.

Villain’s tears mix with blood in a painful mess as they sob quietly, their leg throbbing excruciatingly and half of their face feeling like it’s on fire.

“Your face is almost bearable,” Hero says thoughtfully, twirling the exacto knife in their hand.

“Almost,” Hero repeats, their eyes musing over Villain.

Hero’s cell phone vibrates on the desk, causing them to glance over.

“Shit, I’m late,” they mutter, placing the exacto knife on their desk before collecting their things.

Villain watches through their unharmed eye as Hero walks towards the exit, coat over their shoulder, briefcase in hand.

“I’ll figure out what’s still irritating me about your face over the weekend,” Hero informs Villain as they open the office door and flick the light switch, coating the room in darkness.

Villain feels panic grip their heart, the last rays of light leaving as Hero shuts the door behind them.

“Wait! You can’t just leave me here!” Villain shouts, thrashing against the corkboard.

With the click of a lock, Hero is gone, leaving Villain in almost complete darkness.

The only source of light, and the only thing Villain can see, is the dull red numbers on the clock on Hero’s desk.

[whump-me]

Unburied, Chapter 3

Chapter 3 of Unburied, my contribution to the Whump Girl Summer event hosted by @whumpawoman. Masterpost here.

Prompt: Self-Sacrifice

Contains: defiant whumpee, spy whumpee, friendly whumper, multiple female whumpees, female whumper, fantasy setting, restraints, threats against teammates, self-sacrifice, suicide

---

Edri looked… well, not healthy exactly, but a lot better than she had when Kira had left her collapsed in the desert. She was breathing hard, and had one hand clutched tightly against the stone doorway. But she was on her feet, and her eyes were full of grim focus. For once, she wasn’t smiling.

In her other hand, she clutched a small curved dagger. It was the one Kira had given her the day Edri had made the worst decision of her life—to follow Kira into disgrace when she would have had a perfectly good career waiting for her if only she weren’t so maddeningly loyal. When Edri had ignored Kira’s repeated orders to leave, Kira had finally invited her in. She had snatched away the cheap dagger Edri had been issued, and replaced it with one from her personal collection. If you’re on your own now, Kira had said, at least you don’t have to settle for substandard weapons anymore.

And Edri—fool that she was—had smiled and said, I’m not on my own. And neither are you.

Just look where that had gotten her.

“Let her go,” Edri repeated, “and step away.”

Leila shakily rose to her feet. “Who are you?” she asked, sounding stunned and a little put out, like the old grandmother in the story who found Death on her doorstep and lectured him for not sending notice ahead of time so she could have a cup of tea ready for him.

Instead of answering, Edri looked past Leila to Kira. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you.”

Kira shook her head, still barely believing this wasn’t a hallucination, even though Leila’s reaction was more than enough evidence. “You were on the brink of death when I…” Her voice shook as she finished. “When I left you.”

“You needed me,” said Edri simply, as if that were answer enough.

Edri’s foolish loyalty ran even deeper than Kira had thought—both the loyalty part and the foolishness part. Not only had Edri followed her into the desert, she had dragged herself out of the gentle embrace of death, back into that burning sun and that boiling flesh, just to keep on following her. It might have even left Kira a little choked up, if not for the fact that she wanted to throttle her protégé for being so stubborn and senseless.

As it was, the thickness in her throat was thirst, nothing more. The prickling in her eyes was only a lingering effect of Leila’s failed magic.

“The healing devices here really are amazing,” said Edri, her grim face softening in a brief moment of wonder. “It all works just like my books said. I feel practically as good as new. I’ll get you all healed up, Kira, as soon as you’re free.”

“I already took care of it,” Leila said shortly, her confusion turning to annoyance. “I don’t know who you are or how you got here, but put that knife away and get out. You’re not welcome here, and you’re most certainly not taking this one.” She pointed down at Kira. “I need her.”

“You need me willing,” Kira rasped. “And that’s not going to happen. So why not give up now, and run along home before you cough up all the blood in your body? Go tell your superiors you failed.”

Leila frowned down at her—a thoughtful frown more than an angry one. “You do look like you’ll be difficult,” she conceded. “But you’re what I have to work with, so you’ll have to do. And I told you—I have instructions. I just didn’t understand them before.”

Something silver flew through the air and clattered to the floor, out of reach, where Kira couldn’t see. When Kira looked back at Edri, the other woman wasn’t holding the silver knife anymore. Now she held clutching one of the throwing daggers Kira had given her. It was a set of three; no doubt the first one was what had flown past a second ago. Kira hadn’t even realized Edri had brought them.

Kira couldn’t suppress a smile of pride. Oh, good girl. She must have listened after all, when Kira had warned her not to rely on one weapon. Edri was overly attached to that knife Kira had given her, the curved one. She placed too much sentimental value on it. Kira kept telling her to carry a backup.

If only Edri had practiced with the throwing knives a little more, Leila might be dead right now with a knife through her heart. But she still had two more chances. She had dragged herself out of the mouth of death—she could do this. Come on, Edri, come on…

Edri’s face was white, as white as her knuckles clutching the other throwing knife. “Don’t ignore me,” she said, her normally jovial voice strained. “I said let her go.”

“And I said I can’t do that.” Leila shook her head with a soft sigh. “You’re going to be difficult, too, aren’t you?”

In answer, Edri raised her arm to throw the second knife. In the same instant it left her fingers, Leila smacked a palm against her bracelet and let out a desperate shout in that same strange language. The glyph carved into the bracelet glowed the same white as the ones next to the doorway had a moment ago. Light spilled from the stone, enveloping Leila. The knife bounced harmlessly off the orb of light that encircled her, as if the light were as hard as stone.

“Phew,” Leila said. “I sure am glad that worked the way it was supposed to! I didn’t think I’d even need it down here, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t leave it behind. Seemed like the kind of thing the military would appreciate back home.” She stared down at the bracelet in wonder, then reached out a hesitant fingertip to poke the orb of light from the inside. She drew back as if it had burned her. Her face split in a childlike grin. “I was right. They’re going to love this.”

Edri stared at Leila, her face white. She reached for the third knife.

“Don’t,” Kira warned. “It won’t do any good.” But her voice, rough from dehydration and from screaming, didn’t carry far. And anyway, Edri had that stubborn set to her eyes that meant she might not have listened to Kira even if she could hear. She hurled the knife with all her strength at Leila, as if her failure to break through the magical protection was simply a failure of her own muscles. The knife, of course, bounced off just like the last one had.

Leila waited a moment, watching Edri with curiosity more than anything else. When Edri, shoulders slumped, didn’t bring out another knife, Leila touched the bracelet again. The light flowed in reverse, sinking back into the stone and disappearing until the carved wood was dark again.

“Come to think of it,” Leila muttered, “this would be a good opportunity for that other test I was hoping to do. I wasn’t sure how to manage it, with no animals around here. Now, where did I…” She patted her pockets, a frown of concentration on her face.

A cold knot grew in Kira’s belly. “Edri,” she warned, “run.”

Edri looked from Leila to her fallen knives. Her hands clenched into fists. “I’m not leaving you,” she repeated. “I came here to save you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

Leila pulled a stone cylinder from her pocket. It was a tiny thing, as long as one of her fingers and about as big around. It was pointed at one end, like an arrow or a pen. Come to think of it, it looked like a pen more than anything else. But when Leila touched a finger to either side, and spoke another of those harsh words, a beam of light—a deep red time—shot out and struck Edri in the heart.

Edri collapsed to the stone. The hand that had been clutching the doorway slid down, lax fingers brushing the stone, before it came to rest on her still chest. Kira let out a broken cry—not of pain this time, but of rage.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Leila said, with a glance over her shoulder at Kira. “She’s not dead.” She frowned. “Or at least, I hope she’s not. I guess I might have done it wrong—I don’t exactly have a good track record down here so far, do I?” She let out a nervous laugh, as Kira clenched her teeth and strained uselessly against the stone cuffs again, bruising the skin underneath. “Well, if she is dead, that’s one more lesson learned for me, I suppose.”

“I’ll teach you a few lessons when I get out of here,” Kira growled.

To Leila, that wasn’t even worth a response. Leila scurried through the fallen Edri’s side and placed two fingers against her neck. A moment later, she heaved a loud sigh of relief. “She’s alive. That’s one thing I’ve done right down here, at least.” She frowned down at Edri. “Of course, now I have to figure out what to do with you. One visitor was a stroke of luck. Two is… an inconvenience.”

Edri’s eyes fluttered open. She fumbled for her waist, where the curved dagger was waiting. Leila must have remembered the dagger at the same moment, because she grabbed Edri’s hand. With her other hand, she felt along Edri’s waist until she came up with the dagger.

She held it like someone who had never touched a bladed weapon in her life. But it doesn’t take much training to hold a knife to someone’s throat. Leila did exactly that to Edri as she gingerly patted her down. Apparently Edri hadn’t taken Kira’s advice that much to heart, because Leila didn’t find any more weapons on her.

By this point, Edri looked fully awake. Kira couldn’t see much of her face from where she was lying, but she could see Edri’s wide, scared eyes, and the trembles that ran through her entire body.

“I’m sorry, Kira,” Edri whispered. “I tried to save you.”

Leila tilted her head, studying Edri like she was a specimen in an alchemist’s jar. “You’re an odd one, aren’t you?” she murmured. “I don’t know what to make of you. Your friend is simple enough to figure out. She’s a garden-variety spy—they teach us how to recognize you, you know.” She said that in an aside, looking over her shoulder at Kira. “You’re not half as clever as you think you are. Those of us in sensitive positions have to sit through whole training courses on the tricks you use.”

She turned back to Edri. “But you… you don’t look like the spying type. No offense, but you don’t look cut out for this kind of thing, unlike your friend here.”

“Oh, because I must sit around eating teacakes with honey all day, is that right?” Edri slapped her thigh, making the flesh jiggle. “I’ll tell you what I’ve told everyone I’ve ever beaten in a race—I can hide a lot of muscle under here. And a hidden advantage is the best kind.”

“I’m not talking about your body.” Leila rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about that fear in your eyes. You look like a gentle soul. On the other hand, people have said the same thing about me. Still, I’m curious—what brought you out here? And how do you know your friend there?” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Kira.

Edri didn’t answer. Leila did something with the hand holding the knife that made Edri let out a whimper of pain.

“Remember,” Leila said, “I only need one of you.”

“Let her go.” Kira sagged back into the stone indentation, knowing Leila had no reason to listen to a word she said. That prickling sensation came back to her eyes again. And maybe the desert had done some lasting physical damage after all, because she couldn’t draw in a full breath anymore. Not since she had heard that horrible noise come out of Edri’s throat.

“You only need one of us, like you said,” Kira continued her doomed, exhausted plea. “So let her go. You said you don’t like causing unnecessary pain. Prove it.”

Not that it would do Edri much good even if Leila listened. What chance would she have, out there in the punishing desert, days from civilization, with no food or water? But it would be more of a chance than she would have in here with Leila.

To Kira’s surprise, Leila tilted her head again with a thoughtful frown, as if she was seriously considering Kira’s proposal. “I don’t want to kill anyone,” she said. “I’ve never done it, you know. Not with my own two hands, close enough to get their blood on me. I mean, there have been test subjects in my research, but that’s different. Not so… messy.”

“Once you take a life, it never leaves you,” Kira said. “You remember it forever. The feeling of their skin parting under your knife. The softness of flesh, the toughness of muscle. The horrible scraping when your blade meets bone. The look in their eyes as their life fades away. The smell of their blood in your nose—”

“Stop!” Leila snapped with a wince. “You’re right. I don’t want to kill her.” She looked down at the quivering Edri. “But… I am short on time. And this one looks like she’d be easier to convince. Look at her shaking. She’s not yelling like you.”

She twitched the knife again. Edri let out a faint squeak—of pain or fear, Kira wasn’t sure. Either way, it brought a satisfied smile to Leila’s face. “That settles it,” she said with a nod. “You’ll be my sacrifice. I’ll figure out what to do with your friend over there later.” She nodded toward Kira.

No. No, that wasn’t what Kira had meant. She let out a string of curses. She hadn’t used most of those words since the day Nichols had issued her his ultimatum.

“Oh, this is interesting,” Leila said. Without moving the knife from Edri’s throat, she twisted around as far as she could to look Kira in the eye. “You care about this one an awful lot, don’t you?”

Leila had it wrong. It wasn’t that Kira cared about Edri. She hadn’t even wanted Edri here with her. But Edri had shown an appalling amount of loyalty, and this would be a shitty way for her to be rewarded for it. And Leila was right—Edri, unlike Kira, wasn’t cut out for this line of work. If she hadn’t been so damned stubborn, she would have washed out in the first six months. She wasn’t built for this life like Kira. She belonged in a sunlight library—hunched over a book, twirling her hair, a dreamy smile on her face.

Kira, on the other hand, had always known she would die in the field, probably unpleasantly. Kira should be the one to die at Leila’s hands.

Kira would give Leila a proper fight.

“There may be an easier solution here,” Leila mused. “I admit, I’m still a bit concerned about the next step. I know you’re going to be difficult about this. Your friend will probably be easier, but, well, she must be the stubborn type too, if she made it all the way out here. Isn’t that right?” She patted Edri’s cheek for emphasis. Edri flinched away.

“What if…” Leila dragged the words out. “What if I let our new visitor go, in exchange for your cooperation?”

The icy knot in Kira’s gut spread. “In exchange for me letting you kill me to power up a weapon that will destroy entire cities, you mean.”

Edri’s eyes widened further. “That weapon is real?”

“It’s real,” Kira said grimly. “It’s what she’s here for.”

“That’s right,” said Leila. “And I’m getting it fueled up one way or another. At least this way you get to save your friend. We both win. Didn’t they teach you about compromise in spy school?”

Kira knew what she had to do. She’d had ruthlessness trained into her, built it up like a muscle. There was only one answer here, and that answer was no.

Edri had gotten herself into this. Whatever happened to her now was her own fault.

But when Kira opened her mouth, when she tried to force the word from her roughened throat, she imagined Edri lying where she was, head thrown back in a scream of agony as those invisible claws ripped into her flesh. She remembered opening her door and seeing Edri on the other side, standing proud with a smile on her face, fresh from throwing away a promising career—albeit a career she should never have chosen in the first place. She thought about Edri spending late night after late night in the library archives, researching how to find this place and what they were likely to find once they got there. And Edri in the desert, encouraging her every step of the way. Giving up too much of her own share of water, and denying it whenever Kira accused her. Holding Kira up when she was ready to collapse.

“I’ll do it,” Kira said, her voice barely more than a broken whisper. “I’ll do it.”

“No,” Edri burst out. “You can’t. You know what she’s going to do. What she wants to… to use you for.”

“It’s not your decision,” Leila said to Edri in a reproachful tone. “You should be happy! You get to leave. I’ll even give you some water to for your journey. This place can make it, can you believe that? And it doesn’t even require a full sacrifice. Just a few drops of blood, and you have plenty to spare.”

Edri lay rigid, the knife still at her throat. Quivers still ran down her body, but her eyes were no longer wide with fear. They were narrow with that familiar stubborn determination.

“No,” Edri said quietly.

“No!” Kira shouted at the same moment. Edri had no chance—what did she think she was going to do—she had a knife to her throat—she was going to get herself killed—

Edri’s arm shot out. She grasped Leila’s wrist with a strength that seemed to surprise Leila. Leila let out a soft gasp of pain. She tried to jerk the knife forward and down. Her arm wouldn’t move.

Even through her anger at Edri’s senseless defiance, Kira couldn’t hold back a small triumphant smile. Edri had told Leila how strong she was. It was Leila’s own fault if she hadn’t listened.

The fingers of Leila’s other hand scrambled for the bracelet. Her fingertips brushed the glyphs. The light spilled out and encased her body once again. Even if Edri wrestled the knife away from her, there would be no using it against her now.

“I told you,” Kira muttered. “I told you not to fight.” Who knew if Leila would even honor her deal now?

But Edri didn’t look worried. For a brief moment, her eyes found Kira’s. They seemed lit from within with fierce determination as she said, “Fight her, Kira. Don’t stop fighting. Don’t let her do it.”

Then, with a grunt of exertion, she pulled Leila’s arm down—and sank the blade deep into her own throat.

Kira screamed out her denials as blood gushed from the wound in thick gouts. But there was no amount of screaming that would do anything for Edri now. No healing magic would help her, either. The moment the blade had penetrated flesh, it had been too late for Edri. The knife had cut the artery.

Before Kira could draw another breath to go on screaming, Edri’s body had gone limp.

Leila tossed the knife aside like it had burned her. Full-body shudders rolled through her as she pushed herself to her feet. She brushed her hands off on her clothes over and over, and only succeeded in smearing blood everywhere in thick wet streaks. She breathed in choking gasps, gagging on the smell.

Kira’s cheeks were wet. Was she crying? But she didn’t cry. Anyway, she didn’t have enough water in her for tears.

Leila took a deep breath. Her shuddering stops. She stared down at Edri’s body and shook her head slowly. “So much for that idea,” she said with a sigh. “I guess we’ll have to stick with the original plan after all.”

She doubled over coughing again. Fresh droplets of blood sprayed from her mouth, mingling with the spreading pool under Edri’s pale body.

“It would have been so convenient, too,” said Leila. “Oh, well. I sure hope these instructions work.”

---

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