#drip-feeding plot goblin

[whumpiary]

How did Harley die?

Oh!

Harley got in the way of something Cass wanted.

So Cass killed them.

[typinggently]

Save this ask for when you're in the mood (if ever), but I'm considering... Indulging in... Thinking of... the Clown Boys and the Goblin Market 👀 I feel like multiple people in this fandom have thought about scenarios that touch on something similar with, say, Ruby and Sam, and Dean having a different attitude towards demon blood... Or the episode My Bloody Valentine and the idea of unnatural craving... But I haven't seen anything that gets at the heart of the sensuality of the goblin fruits in the poem!

Because of Canon parallels I immediately want to think of Laura as Sam, our honorary Eve eating the fruit, and Dean being Lizzie, wiser about the tricks played by devils... but the opposite -- with Dean prey to his hedonistic appetites, having to feed off the juices smuggled by a more temperate/cunning Sam... Also good...👌

Babe when I tell you I’ve been thinking about this for days too……I’m so happy you brought it up and img your mind?!?!

Firstly, I have to admit that I have a notebook lying around somewhere with a draft called Midsummer’s Metamorphosis that centred around Dean eating Fae food and disappearing (and Sam looking for him and both of them losing their humanity over this etc etc). The plot of it was different but can I just say that there is SO MUCH to the idea of consumption of forbidden fruit. Absolutely obsessed with it. And I’m so happy your posts made me aware of Goblin Market because, as you said, the sensuality… unmatched!!!! Incredibly inspiring.

Also I love both of the options you present. (And this got a little long so I’ll add a read more..)

🌬🌙🍊🍇🍓🍯✨

“Our honorary Eve” — that got me, godddd. Sam is a character that relies so heavily on his rigorous self control and seeing that stripped away will never fail to just be utterly breathtaking. Plus, Dean in some way matches that innocent wisdom Lizzie has. They know about the taboos, but in some way they don’t understand the allure of that forbidden thing? Thus, it takes them both a moment to realise what’s happened to their sweet, curious sibling. Followed by that, Dean’s self-sacrificing nature. Whatever option we go with, be it actual goblin fruit juice clumping his lashes together or demon blood dripping from his chin, I can picture him so so well in that eat me drink me love me scene. The drawn brows, the lowered lashes, the soft mouth, letting Sam pull his hair, cradle his skull with those big hands of his, sucking, kissing the forbidden juices from him. So close, yet not quite… Dean is so good when he’s trembling with disappointed desire. (And Sam is so good when he lets loose, strong and desperate, devouring)

But also yes!!! The other way around, you are so right. We’ve seen Dean stubbornly and stoically wasting away in Faith, it fits those few days in their hut, one warbling for the mere bright day’s delight, one longing for the night. Trying to ignore that something is wrong to keep going, yet barely holding on. And Sam is willing to endure so much for Dean, turns into such a cool-cruel beast for him when he has to. I could see him with that determination, that cold little smile, dripping with juice and bruised like a peach, but not tempted, not driven by anything but thoughts of Dean. And then, Dean’s initial fear that Sam made the same mistake, but even that deeply ingrained worry and love and care being overridden with desire — flaring nostrils, feverish eyes. I really wonder how Sam would react to being sucked and kissed, though. Because I feel like he’d indulge Dean’s hunger for him with a smile that’s maybe just a little pleased with himself (I’m the sun that’s chained to your ankle, I can never leave but in turn I’m the centre of your universe), but in this particular case there’s a barrier there because Dean isn’t driven by hunger for HIM, you know? I feel like Dean in that position would be thrilled and trembling either way (because he is maybe more used to not thinking that he’s deserving of that kind of hunger, so he’ll take it either way), but is it enough for Sam?! Is it enough to carry the cure when you’re supposed to be the cure?

I’ve run myself into this corner where I think Dean would be delighted to get that almost-taste of something forbidden (mouth firmly closed so he tastes neither the fruit nor his brother’s tongue), but Sam — I’m not sure!! I keep thinking he’d be too jealous to enjoy himself? Or, naturally, too worried. If you have a solution to this…please tell me 😩

Either way. You know what would be absolutely showstopping? If this could’ve been their first kiss. Lizzie with both hands on Laura’s cheeks, “I was so worried about you”, etc, leaning in and they would, they would kiss, but they can’t, because Laura’s tongue is still drenched in juice and they can’t risk Lizzie tasting it so oh, they would’ve crossed that line. Silent understanding, they’ve would’ve. But they couldn’t. :V ahhh!!

[nearlynorth]

Day One: Sun/Moon

Baz Pitch is in love with the sun. But the sun is dangerous for those who inhabit the night. Get too close, and you're going to get burned. Which is entirely possible when you are near the Chosen One. So Baz pulls himself away, hiding under blankets of barbs and hatred.

Simon Snow is tired. He doesn't want to be the sun. The mage is sending him on all these missions and when he gets back to Mummers House, Baz is waiting with a sharp retort.

Simon Snow is so bright, and Baz Pitch is drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

_____

Simon

I stumble into our room and find Baz sitting upright on his bed. I could still smell the smoke around me from when I went off, and I'm sure that Bax could too.

"What made you go off this time, Snow?" Even his voice irritates me. It's so posh and smooth. The smirk on his face irritates me. It even translates to his words. You can practically hear it.

"Bloody goblins." I collapse onto my bed, not looking at him.

"You couldn't even fight bloody goblins. What kind of Chosen One are you?" He's mocking me. The smoky smell begins to cover his cedar-wood one and my vision grows hazy. Baz knows how to rile me up. He knows exactly what to say to make my start to go off. He makes my magic well up to the surface of my body, makes me feel like I'm going to explode.

I ignore him and push myself off my bed. I stomp over to my window and open it. Maybe I can finally be the one to irritate him.

Baz

He's beaten up again. Blood practically covers him, but it doesn't seem to bother him. I hate seeing Snow like this. His light is dim in moments like these. The smell of his magic is radiating off of him. I can tell that he already went off once today, and he is close to going off again. Because of me.

Cold air floods in through the window that he opened. He loves the cold. He generates so much heat that even with the window open he's warm. Like the sun, he gives off heat.

Whereas I am more like the moon. Heat only reaches me when it comes from him when he chooses to grace me with his warmth.

I taunt him with my words, hoping to get a reaction out of him, to distract myself from my incessant longing for him. It works. Smoke begins to fill the room. "If you go off now, I'll murder you." I snarl with my ever-present smirk in place.

"It's your fault!" Snow yells. His curls are flopping all over the place and his face is screwed up in anger. It hides all those beautiful moles of his. "You're always plotting! You're always messing with me!"

Just as the sun lets off energy-charged particles, Snow's magic fills the room. It warms me up. and makes blood rush to my cheeks. While he had been away I had been to the catacombs to feed. He was lucky that I had. There was so much blood on him that I doubt that I would be able to resist if I didn't have a full stomach. I never want to bite a human. My mother would hate me. Natasha Grimm-Pitch hated vampires. She would have killed me if she knew what I am now.

I scoff in his face. "I'm not plotting."

Simon

He raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me. I can see a light dusting of color present on his face, which must mean that he fed recently. One less thing that I have to worry about.

I stammer in response to him. I'm not good with words, I never have been. And around Baz, my words all go out the window. My magic clogs my throat and makes it hard to get words out. When they do come out, they are never right.

"Snow, go take a shower. You're dripping all over the floor." Baz tells me, his clipped words coming out perfectly.

I look down and see that he is right. I hate it when he is right. I'm standing in a pool of goblin blood. There is blood on my bed too. "Bloody goblins!" I say again before stomping over to the bathroom and slamming the door behind me.

Baz

I roll my eyes as he slams the door. And Snow says that I'm the dramatic one. I hear the water turn on and the smell of blood slowly diminishes. His magic calms down too, now that he's away from me.

I hate the fact that I can't be his friend. His boyfriend. But he's the Chosen One, and I'm Baz Pitch, his enemy.

In the galaxy, he's the sun. And I'm the moon. I leech light off of him to give myself warmth. I don't have any light of my own. Simon Snow is the light in my dark days, the warmth when I'm freezing. Crowley, he doesn't know how much I want to kiss him. And he never will.

[dlamp-dictator]

Allen’s Rambles about Magical Girl Spec Ops

Well folks, since the second half of MGRP: Limited isn’t going to come out for likely another 4 months I’ll have to talk about different Edgy Magical Girl series for awhile. Thankfully, I’ve been reading for a while that’s finally got enough material for me to talk about, Magical Girl Spec Ops -Asuka-, or MGSO as I’m going to be calling it. I was originally going to talk about this one in another Seinen Adventure, but... I won’t have enough material for that part of my blog for at least another few months, and I want to talk about this manga now before the anime of it comes out in a few weeks.

But moving on, MGSO is about Asuka Otori, a retired magical girl that fought in a war against the Disas Beasts three years before the story the begins. She’s in high school now and wishes to just live a normal life after the horrors of war she saw during the Disas War.

As for why such a war was trauma... well, the the Disas Beasts in question are basically...

This... So I think the horrors of a war with them explains itself. They also explain how Magical Girls and magical items are used as tools of wars, some stuff about global politics, things like that. 

Eventually, Asuka is forced back onto the frontlines as Magical Girls and magical world items start to be traded around by criminal organizations and terrorist groups around the world, with said groups finally coming to Japan. And... 

Well, that’s the main reason I’ve been hesitating on writing about this series for so long folks. There’s only 4 volumes of the manga out as of the time I’m writing this. Through those 4 volumes have so far shown us how the world works now that Magical Girls are essential super soldiers working for their countries with all the political nonsense that goes with it, but that’s all it’s done.There’s an overarching plot of the Disas Beasts being artificially made and sold by a secret organization called the Babel Brigade that’s been drip-fed to us, but there’s not enough concrete stuff about them to say what their main goal is, nor the big players within it. I really wouldn’t expect much in terms of actual plot development until the next volume coming out in late January. So far it’s just been Call of Duty: Black Ops featuring Magical Girls.

That said, this series has gripped me with what it’s shown. I was originally going to have those plus sides in paragraph form, but... again, with no streamlined plot as of yet and not enough information on anyone aside from Asuka to talk about, I’ll just stick it all in list form. There will be some spoilers ahead, but I’ll try and keep them brief and vague.

Asuka is treated less as a traditional magical girl and more as a soldier coming back to service after a big war and I love that. She even has some PTSD flashbacks at times that make her want to back out of most military operations, but trudges on for the sake of her friends and former teammates. Her struggle to keep a normal life while doing secret military operations and the mental toll it takes on her just makes me want her to succeed even more.

As for as much as politics move the plot and the girls we’re thankfully not subjected to seeing a bunch of suits sitting in a room and debating politics. There’s enough of a political aspect is there enough to show that these girls and these soldiers are political tools, but not so much that there’s more talking than shooting. 

The fact that all of Asuka’s original squad was ethnically diverse was a pleasant surprise, with the main group of survivors being her, a former classmate of hers, an American, a Russian, and... a Hong Kong magical girl. Among the original girl there was also a French and Mexican magical too, but going any further is spoiler territory. 

Yes, the American and Russian magical girls are petty as hell with each other and it’s hilarious.

“Yo, Russkie!” 

“Long time no see, Yankee. Are you still hotheaded and stupid as always?”  

“Oh, says you! Your cold-fish robot vibe hasn’t changed one bit.” 

This is my favorite exchange in the manga yet.

The side characters are pretty good as well. Asuka’s non-magical girl friends provide some levity to the tenser moments, and you really feel worried for their safety when Asuka’s soldier life intertwines and interferes with her student life and puts her friends in danger. That balance between the two feels a lot more serious than most magical girl series.

I’m also excited to see the newest magical girl villian, Chisato. Her rise to villainy makes her pretty sympathetic to me. She chose to work for the bad guys, but let out of spite and more to show appreciation for how they helped her despite their evil deeds.

There are some other points I found interesting as well, but those would really spoiler the series. Overall, I’m excited to read more of this manga in the coming weeks, and for the anime that’ll be coming out soon, but like usual I’ll probably stick with the manga unless some cool fight scenes get animated.

Actually... I think I’ll explain this now since it’s second time I’ve done something like this and for the same reason I didn’t watch the Goblin Slayer anime.

I’ve said this several times before, but for me, between my Ramblings, my digital drawings, my video game habits, I frankly stare at enough screens in my day. I like to use manga and books as a way to give my eyes a break from all the lights. I usually don’t watch anime adaptations of manga I’m actively reading because I already know what happens, and I already have certain expectations of how certain characters sound and deliver lines. Even the Japanese dub tends to irk me at times when something isn’t what I expected, and I don’t want to turn into a venomous fanboy constantly making comparisons between the two sources. I don’t think it’s good to compare an adaptation to the original too heavily, and when I’m so invested in a series both emotionally and financially I tend to get a little... rabid. Besides, as I said before the real plot of the manga with the Babel Brigade hasn’t kicked off yet, and I don’t want to be spoiled on that by the anime, so I’ll wait a few months after the winter season ends to binge it. I know that sounds a bit arrogant, but in this way I won’t start whining about every little difference like a fanboy, so... make of that what you will.

In any case, I think that’s it for this Rambling. Still not up to my preference in terms of quality, but MGSO is still drip-feeding it’s main plot, so maybe my next essay will be better. I’ve got... some plans for these next few essays.

[azwoodbomb]

A Goblin Odyssey, or “Collected Sayings of the Furious Small”

She is young, barely able to speak, incapable of feeding herself. Not that many are, at the moment. The tribe is starving, and the chieftain has gathered everyone in the largest cavern, to behold the shaman consulting the bones. He hefts aloft a large skull and with some effort sets it sailing through the air. It soars across the room before landing with a crack. The chieftain looks from it to the shaman, who holds his gaze hesitantly before coughing, squeezing his eyes shut and humming deeply out of tune, then hastily picking up a femur. It too sails through the air, twirling gently in space before ending in the firm grasp of an angry looking goblin in his prime. The bone swishes in his hand, cracks against the chieftain’s skull, swishes and cracks, swishes and cracks. When it has been dyed red the whole tribe screams in exultation. The old ways die that new ones may rise, says new chieftain Gorr the Bone.

Soon the tribe is moving, through mountain and mire, forest and fen. She learns to forage for herself, barely surviving on a diet of bark, berries, bugs and bird’s eggs. The old drop in droves, even the shaman, and the chieftain nods sagely, repeating his motto. But one day a pack of four-legged beasts many times larger than a goblin attack, tearing the chieftain’s throat out, impervious to the blows of his mighty bone. The tribe scatters in terror, the creatures hunting them at will for days. But after the growth of a full moon a new chieftain emerges, sitting triumphant atop one of the beasts. Live fast, die young, says Rakk the Fang.

In the mountains the tribe runs into a row of huge carts on wheels manned by creatures three times the size of a goblin, drawn by beasts even larger than the tribe’s ravenous steeds. The chieftain and his warriors charge fearlessly into the fray but the strangers raise their weapons in response, letting loose a volley even faster than their newfound speed. The chieftain’s skull is pierced like a melon, and soon the tribe is in full retreat. For two days and nights the caravan pushes on, driving the tribe before them with a lazy supremacy that claims dozens. On the third night a new chieftain appears before the tribe, the loudest human’s head hanging from his belt, the knives of his followers all dripping. The unseen blade is the sharpest and the first cut always the deepest, says Feda the Keen.

It is a smaller, stronger tribe that finishes this perilous journey. She is still young, but a helpless runt no longer. Their new cave is not completely unoccupied, and is soon damp with blood on top of water. As the older goblins cut up and gnash away at the eight legged bodies she nibbles on huge eggs, hunger and revulsion fighting for control of her mind.

“Tastes pretty gross.”

One of the older goblins laughs. “Any port in a storm, kid.”

“What’s a port?”

He ponders this a moment. “A forest where naked trees float for shelter.”

“Are they safe there?”

He nods like a shaman. “Very. They eat easy prey off the shoreline and push pleasantly at one another, wagging happy on the waves.”

After the tribe has fully conquered this new home, life settles into a routine of running, fighting and eating. New wolves are found and tamed at the expense of a few limbs and lives, the land is scouted and foraged, raids are conducted and the young ones go out exploring. She is no different, but what she finds is.

She stumbles onto a small plot with vegetables growing in orderly squares near a circular wall of stones with holes in it and thatch on top, smoke sneaking up to the sky. She watches from afar as a group of people about her size flit about, hacking and prodding at the earth, jumping and laughing, singing strange songs. She stares mesmerized until a scream breaks her out of her reverie. One of their young is running away from her as fast as his legs will pull him. Before retreating she picks up  a shiny little ball left in his wake.

She doesn’t sleep next morning, her eyes transfixed on the shiny bauble, her mind on the happy people. Before she knows it she’s back, watching them carefully. For months she watches, occasionally stealing a vegetable or a trinket, sometimes leaving dry twigs or pretty rocks in return. As the other young goblins earn themselves names like Foot the Fist, Tarr the Tooth and Ass the Large, she remains nameless, barely scraping by physically but slowly coming to understand the strange chirping ways of the happy people.

They talk about everything and nothing, much like her tribe, but they never really fight and none of them seem to die. They speak of loves and loss, nagging neighbours who could make paint peel, journeys through thick and thin with strangers turned friends, of wild-eyed wizards who turn their enemies into toads and their friends into something worse. Occasionally their conversation turns to her, and it seems most of them think her gifts and thefts are a welcome mystery to break up the day. Theories about her nature abound, their guesses ranging from fairy to firbolg, ghosts to a gentleman with deviant tastes. Only the youngest never changes his mind, firmly insisting they’re haunted by a hideous monster. She ponders this the next time she’s about to drink, carefully scrutinizing her scrunched face, large ears and jagged teeth in the puddle. She thinks she’s rather pretty.

It turns out the tribe is growing impatient of her anonymity. Late one evening as she watches she’s startled by a gnarled hand on her shoulder. Feda himself is grinning in her face, congratulating her on this find. Before she knows what’s happening they’re moving. She seizes up as the fighters swarm down toward the farmhouse, watches from afar as they break down the door, hears as through a haze the screaming.

Soon after silence falls Feda runs back to her with a bottle in hand, laughing to himself as he tells her the name she’s earned. He drags her through the doorway and the fighters stop carving up the happy people to laughingly greet Nott the Brave. Feda takes a swig before handing her the bottle, which she empties into her gullet. It burns her throat on the way down, even more so on the way up. As she falls to her knees heaving, Nott finds herself staring at her own scrunched face, large ears and jagged teeth in a surface clearer than any puddle. She spews once more and the image is banished in bile.

[mangled-dreams]

Dealings with a Devil (Part 20)

Dealings with a Devil (Part 20)

Reader X Darkiplier

You, Reader, have made a deal with what you believed to be a fantasized version of your favorite YouTuber’s alter ego, Darkiplier after he’d visited you in a dream. You believed Darkiplier to only exist in your dreams and on Markiplier’s YouTube channel, but by some impossible way he’s real and he intends on collecting on your debt to him.  

((Just as an FIY, Sean’s “fiance” is someone I made up and for the sake of the story he still lives in Ireland. I’m trying to stay mostly true to real life but it’s hard sometimes, especially when it doesn’t cross your mind to actually look up facts. lol.))

“So, how was your flight? I heard there was a storm over the Atlantic earlier. Worried you’d be caught up in it.” Sean says gathering the few bags you brought with you to Ireland. You try to make polite conversation and stay engaged with Sean and his fiancée, but it’s hard when Dark and Anti just left you on the plane by yourself without any kind of explanation.

“We hit turbulence and the pilot had to put the fasten seat belt sign on for a while, but other than that it was fine. Is the storm supposed to come inland?” you respond giving a polite and convincing smile. You wonder if Dark will show up by the evening. He already knows he can’t be with you while you and Sean are visiting and working, but he can still lie in your bed and cuddle you.

But you suppose he doesn’t have to keep an eye out for Anti considering he already made his presence known on the plane. What that green goblin is thinking you’ll never know. It’s not his antics that scare you anymore, although you do admit the plan thing was scary—it’s his motives that have you worried. If he plans to kill you then he should do it out right instead of turning you.

If he even did that properly. You have no special powers not even a dark form. The whole telepathy thing with Dark was kind of already there and you’d already been mostly tuned to when Dark is in the same room with you. Climbing into the back seat of the small coupe you continue with the pleasantries all the way to Sean’s house.

Your mind wonders as you stare out into the foggy green hills. Ireland seems much more powerful now that you’re actually here. Maybe you’ll see a ghostie goo or two while you’re visiting. You hope you’ll see your demon at some point again.

“You fallin’ asleep back there?” Sean asks looking through the rearview mirror at you. The corners of his eyes are crinkling as he smiles.

“Kind of, it was a bit of a adrenaline rush on the plane ride.” You respond back smiling at Sean. You genuinely like being in his company. Between him and Mark you hadn’t felt lonely or without entertainment. Honestly it’s like seeing an old friend again.

“I bet. The rides over the big pond are never very fun when there’s a storm brewin’.”  Sean responds as a heard of sheep slowly cross the road way. The young man escorting the group tries to hurry the sheep across to allow the vehicle to pass by. You laugh a little and notice a few small babies the group and coo.

“Like them little ladies, do ya?” Marline asks turning to look back at you.

“I think they’re adorable. From afar. My grandad on my mother’s side had a little farm and some of his goats were meaner than a snake. I tried feeding some of the kids and this really old, grumpy goat ran up and head butted my hip.  Damn thing nearly broke it according to my doctor. Grandpa kept him closed up whenever my brothers and I came to visit.” You say shivering at the thought of Ol’ Prescott.

“Wow, what a mean ol’ fella. “ Marline laughs.

When you finally arrive at the house, Sean and Marline show you to your room. You have your own bathroom with a small shower off to the right of your bed. You smile and thank them before being left to your own to put your clothes away. You’ll be with Sean and Marline for a few days then they’re taking you into London so that you can say to visited England and Scotland.

“Top if the morning to ya laddies! My name’s Jacksepticeye and I’m here with a special guest! Say hello to everybody!” Sean bellows as you look at the camera Sean set up to the left of his usual camera to get a good view of you.

“Hello! Mangled Dreams here once again. I’m stepping out of the nightmares to spend some time with our awesome man, Jack!”  You say smiling big. You and Mark had come up with that little intro after a few bad attempts. Looking to Sean you wonder if it’s too much for his channel. “Is that no good?” you ask a little worried. It shows on your face.

“Are you kidding? That was amazing! Yer a natural!” Sean shouts holding his palm out to you and you smack it instantly. “Hell ya! That’s what I’m talkin’ about! Any who! Today we’re going to be playing some demo versions of some games coming out later this year!” Sean says making quick work of loading up the first demo game.

You’d been practicing playing games on the computer for a while now in your spare time to make the videos with Mark and Sean a little bit more like their usual. As long as it’s not a horror game you have pretty good confidence in your skills. You’d found horror games, depending of their quality or amount of gore have a good way of taking away any confidence.

The whole process was once again intriguing and very enlightening. You’d found Sean is just as hands on, if not more so than Mark in the making and editing of his videos. By the end of it you’re wiped. You didn’t think it’d be so taxing to make a video with Sean, but he’s so high energy and so loud and animated it’s hard not to put just as much energy and enthusiasm as he does.

Flopping down on the queen sized bed with a hand made quilt after a delicious home cooked dinner you fight against sleep. You still need to shower and comb your hair our before getting under the covers. Sean’s house is warm but you can feel the Irish cold settling in through the windows.

Struggling you stand up, get out your small bag of toiletries, and head into the bathroom. You start the water to the shower and wait a few minutes as the temperature changes before stepping into the small one person shower.

You shower in peace, well… as much peace as your mind will allow. Dark still hasn’t shown up or even reach out to you. You worry at your bottom lip as you slowly wash your hair. What if he and Anti really got into a fight and one or both is seriously injured?

Silently you cures your inability to visit the Void of your own free will. You curse Dark for being so stubborn. You curse Anti for being such a prick. But in this moment you cures your shampoo for dripping into your eyes!

“Wow! That’s amazing!” Sean gawks at your drawing. He’d given you a small space of your own in his studio to set up your computer and tablet. Like Mark, Sean is going to showcase your art. Today you decided to do an original for Sean featuring his floating eye buddy, Sam.

“Why, thank you. I’m glad you like it.” You respond as you stretch your drawing hand to keep it from cramping. It’s not often you can bust out something so quickly and with such detail. “Do you think your followers will like it?” you ask looking up at Sean and freeze for a moment.

For the briefest of moments you swear Anti’s black eyes looked back at you. You quickly swallow a bit of saliva to wet your suddenly dry throat before Sean looks at you again with a huge, un-Anti looking smile.

“Are you kiddin’? They’ll love it!!” Sean reassures you happily. You can’t help but smile back at the adorable Irishman. Whatever Anti has in plan you know Sean has no part in it. Just like Mark, both are oblivious to their alter-ego’s plots and lives.

“You sure know how to make a girl blush.” You tease batting your hand at Sean as he chuckles.

“Are you ready to hit London?” Marline asks as you ride the ferry to England. Four days later and you still haven’t heard from Dark or Anti… at lease you think you haven’t. There’ve been a few questionable sightings out of the corner of your eyes when it’s just you and Sean recording/playing in his studio.

Sean hasn’t done anything Anti-ish, but it still puts you on edge. Looking to Marline you nod your head. Despite the confusion and worry about your favorite Demon, you’re still looking towards going to London and Scotland. You only have a few days left of your vacation and you want to make the most of them.

“You have no idea.” You respond unable to help the slight, if not horribly done, Irish accent. You groan, Sean has been teasing that you’re picking up his accent after being in Ireland only four days. You strongly denied his accusations, but then… you catch yourself as you’re talking and half to stop and hang your head.

“You’ve been in Ireland too long.” Marline jokes at your expense. To be honest you could probably live your life happily in Ireland. The people, the land, the.. everything is just so perfect.

“I dunno, Marline. I think Ireland is just what I need. It’s so pretty and peaceful. Not to mention the lore and legends.  Oh, it’s a thing of beauty.” You gush watching the coast of Ireland slowly disappear into the mist that always seems to be hanging around.

Your family had been wrong. Coming to Ireland in the fall is perfect.  You’re going to miss Ireland far more than you had California. After all it’s not completely different than living in Washington where it’s green and wet just about year round. Oh yes, you’ll miss Ireland.

Sean grins from ear to ear at your confession. “You’re always welcome in our home. Don’na worry about hotels if you come back to visit. We got cha covered.” Sean reassures you earning a soft chuckle from you.

“I might have to take you up on that offer if the longing for Ireland gets to bad. Just be prepared for me to stay longer than a few days.” You respond high fiving Sean at his prompting.

“You got cha!” he responds in kind.

Part 21

[slightlyhighkey]

Below the cut, a long ass back story nobody wanted to hear

Aoife Valnora is the second eldest child of a family of Norlenders. Their home is on a set plot of land just a small distance away from the kingdom of Narfareth, on a popular travel route. There the Valnora's ran a farm with a small amount of animals used mostly for the trade goods they could provide and the food they could produce. Only when they outlived their use were they killed for their meat.

Living in this area life is tough from the beginning. A lot of the families around here are self sufficient, which means they have to be able to work together to some extent. Aoife started helping around the farm when she was very young, probably around six. Her chores were simple things like feeding chickens at first but as she grew so did her responsibilities. Mostly they leaned towards animal care, as she seemed to have an affinity for them.

Since they were already quite a distance from town her experience with other people was limited to travelers and passerbys. Oftentimes they'd spend a night on the farm if the inns were full, and it was this way she became educated in the world south of them. They showed her maps and told her stories. It made her curious and sparked a desire to travel in her that she didn't acknowledge until later in life.

When she was eleven her father and elder brother started teaching her how to use a bow to keep foxes out of the chicken coop and the like. She was a natural, and soon her game grew bigger. While her younger siblings (there was a pair of twins, four years younger than her) and her mother took care of the house she spent her time in the fields and the forests, tracking and taking down game to feed and trade. It wasn't much longer until she was spending more time with their livestock or in the woods than with her own family.

On one night in the depths of winter when game was already scarce, she came across a wolf in their fields after one of their sheep. The dogs had proven great adversaries for it however and they managed to chase it off, but not without a casualty. It was injured and dripping blood so tracking it wasn't too difficult. Just a little ways off of their farm she found it to have died just outside of a tree stump.

What was in the stump changed her life as she found a pup, just a little over two weeks old. Her heart broke when she realized it would die and she ended up bringing it back home with her. Her mother was instantly against the small defenseless thing and it strained there relationship. It wasn't as if the whole household was against him but even the smallest doubt had settled into their home. She shirked her responsibilities in order to make sure he was fed and getting all the care she'd seen their dogs show their young.

With the constant attention he grew quickly. By the time she was fifteen he was strong enough to help her track wild animals and he was almost behaved enough to help with the herding. Her family didn't seem to trust him though, and when a wild animals got into the chicken coop leaving very little survivors they accused it of being him. In order to avoid him being killed, which was a large fear of hers, she left in the dark of the night. As far as she's concerned the rest of her family still lives there but she's never written them to check.

And so she set off down the road on what would be a harrowing adventure. Travelers had told her about schools in the south where they would teach you skills that she couldn't learn on the farm, so in a way she was looking for knowledge. She took very little other than Eoghan, some food, and the clothes on her back when she left. Along the way to town she hunted and skinned things to trade their furs for some bedding and camping supplies. It was her first time leaving the farm on her own, and it was terrifying.

The trading was rough in the beginning. Looking back she was definitely swindled for a lot less than she could get for what she gave. These formative months of travel are foggy in her memory. A lot of it was on her own until she started to hit the larger communities, and then the language barrier was somewhat of a hassle.

During this time a horde of goblins had found her on a path on her own and mugged her, making it that much harder of a start.They didn't leave her out of commission but she did decide to take some time to improve her lifestyle. She'd been selling maps for awhile but began making them more detailed, surveying areas closely and almost always taking another person with her.

Around half a year on her own she found a group, one of them having been from her hometown of Norlend. They seemed to be heading towards a dangerous area to find someone and didn't quite want to travel on their own. Taking pity, they took Aoife with them. During this adventure into the woods they helped her with the language and better items to bring around. Still, she couldn't quite shake the need to carry a little too much food with her. Probably for Eoghans sake more than hers.

They traveled together for sometime, finding their skills to compliment each others. Having others' around was definitely nice and she grew pretty fond of them. However the desire to try one of the schools she'd heard about won out over their travels and they parted ways. Her closest friend in this group gave her a new bow, commenting that her own seemed worn and they wanted her to have it.

It's still one of her prized objects, having survived the tragedies the coming years would bring.

She dropped out of school almost immediately, finding it to be a terrible time an preferring it to be outdoors. Following suit she took up residence in the town of Sern, offering tours throughout the city and her assistance on small missions. Normally with bounty hunters since Eoghan excels at tracking people and they're people a little less off put by the wolf.

Still young and still naive, but a little more experienced in the world she lived this life for quite some time. Sometime, she couldn't tell you when, she made friends with some others' who spent their time chasing down criminals. They spent time together in and out of errands and some sense of family was brought back into her life. They filled a part that she forget was empty.

So she trusted them. Even when a message was delivered to her that was a little off asking to meet, she went alone anyways. Arriving at the location outside of the town however, it was clear that this was a mistake. Laying on the ground were the bodies of her friends, most of them already passed on. Immediately she fled to the side of someone she considered dear to her only to find a knife in her stomach. The man mentioned this fulfilling a deal, a bargain, and even as they twisted the blade inside her a bit of regret tinted their expression.

They made a mistake however. Without waiting to see if she was actually dead, they left. Theoretically to meet whatever they made the bargain with, but Aoife can't confirm this. Eoghan managed to help her get back to the town they were staying in and she promptly passed out. It's all a blur. The recovery, the reports being made. If it wasn't for the innkeeper who let her stay there for essentially free she probably wouldn't have made it.

Afterwards she payed him back of course. Mostly in work and errands, but in gold as he helped her get jobs. Her reputation as a bounty hunter spread throughout the area and essentially that's how she survived the past few years. In her heart she knows her friends gone, but he took something important from her. She can't get it back but revenge is definitely something on the backburner of her mind.

[whumpiary]

I was going through all the cass posts and couldn’t find anything on chook other than he terrifies cassius. What has he done to him/ who is he?

Yeahhhhh Chook is something I’ve def been keeping close to my chest because I’ve been wanting to reveal the details in a couple of different drabbles I’ve been working on, but it’s been like two months and they’re just. not. cooperating.

So in lieu of that, here is a collection of lil hints I’ve given throughout stuff I HAVE written:

Christopher has multiple charges living on his estate

There is canonically a method of transferring physical sensation and injury from one person to another (which, to be fair, if you’ve only read cass’ stuff you. may not actually know about)

Most of Christopher’s charges seem to have preternatural abilities. Cassius, specifically has a version of mind control

Isn’t it funny that a guy who can canonically make anyone do pretty much anything he wants is somehow still captive to people he hates?

Cassius has (or, at least, had) a brother

Anyways what I’m saying here is ask not what Chook has done to Cassius, but what Cassius has done to Chook

[whumpiary]

I'm not sure were the bergan estate timeline was? like what happened there? I don't understand how cass came to be there or what he was doing and his propose there? I'm just a dumbass child so can u explain a bit??

Oh no no! You are not a dumbass child! I’m just a horrible little goblin man who drip feeds her readers story points and hoards the rest instead of just writing them out like a normal writer! It makes sense that you’re confused.

My writing is just… A Mess. The timeline post is just to give y'all SOME kind of hope of understanding everything that’s all mixed in my brain because there is SO much and I have No idea how to write it.

All the stuff that happens during the Bergen Estate timeline is set before the Facility, and before Cass meets Josiah (or Lou or Tucker, etc etc). It’s Cassius backstory that I got way too invested in.

It’s also like… Kind of dependent on world building stuff that is still kind of gelatinous in my brain but I’ve started sharing more of it the more solid I get on it all. I struggle to write actual world-building and #lore into my drabbles and tbh since deciding a lot of the Bergen Estate details I’ve been in a Huge publishing rut

BUT IM ALWAYS A SLUT FOR AN INFO DUMP SO STRAP THE FUck IN

Bergen Estate is owned by Christopher Bergen, a billionaire mogul who’s best known for his extensive philanthropy and charity work, and Cassius’ first major whumper. It’s essentially just a big ass fucking mansion on a huge slap of land where Christopher lives. The estate is extensively staffed, and also houses a number of at-risk young people who are a part of Christopher’s charity outreach and rehabilitation program. 

The outreach of the program is massive. Christopher only houses 38 charges at Bergen Estate, but there are thousands of people throughout the country in one of his group homes and boarding schools.

The young people who go through the program are colloquially known as Bergen Boys, although that’s a term the foundation itself tries to formally keep distance from (privately,,,,,, Christopher quite likes the term). The program has the reputation of boy scouts meets finishing school, and, formally, it’s not unlike that. It’s a really thorough rehabilitation program that really genuinely facilitates juvenile delinquents, hard to home foster kids, and other at risk youths and then offers them counselling, education, and support to make them employable, functional, constructive members of society. 

The program also takes incarcerated youth under wing by taking full legal responsibility for their actions through an indenture arrangement. All of the graduates leave the program by the age of 25 and are known for being exceedingly polite, well educated, and multi skilled. Most leave multilingual and with a bachelor’s degree in their ~delegated~ chosen field. 

The thing is. 

That’s all the public really knows.

Christopher Bergen is charismatic and charming and very Open™ about the program and his estate. He regularly talks about it in interviews, and there are some relatively well known ex-Bergen Boys who also talk about the program favourably. But nobody actually knows what goes on there. They just know Bad Young People go in and Well Adjusted Adults come out. Nobody really thinks about it beyond that. Nobody really thinks about the ones that go missing, or that quietly and seamlessly end up back in the judicial system, or that just… seem to stay under 25 for a really really long time. 

Those staying at Bergen Estate are believed by the public to be individuals of particularly high risk or dangerous behaviours, who need additional support for success back in the real world. Kids on trial for murder, those exhibiting of particularly dangerous repeated behaviours, that sort of thing. The truth of it is these are just the people that Christopher has taken a particular specific liking to or interest in. 

In this ‘verse, a number of people ( the “evolutionarily advanced”) have telepathy-adjacent powers that they can use to varying levels of success. Often, the kids that end up at Bergen Estate just so happen to have these abilities, or at least seem to develop them after a few months. It’s not a hard-and-fast rule that those at the estate will have powers, it just seems to be a high correlation. 

Christopher is a combo of pretty common whumper tropes. He’s a collector. He likes pretty things. He likes unusual things. And he likes to be loved. The Bergen Foundation and the good reputation it gives means he can have those things on a large scale. But Bergen Estate means he can have them intimately. Christopher gets what he wants. But he’s a good person and he’ll go about getting them in the right way. Eye for an eye for an eye for an eye if he has to.

As for Cass.

Cass wasn’t particularly special, compared to any of the other charges at Christopher’s estate. He did something wrong, then he did something right, then he caught the attention of Christopher.

Surprising approximately no one, Cass had a rough upbringing. He was in and out of juvie from quite a young age, and soon enough had captured the attention of Bergen Foundation staff. He was bright enough, charming when he wanted to be, and the perfect candidate for a success story down the track.

Unfortunately for them, they pretty quickly realised he wouldn’t be a success story. Unfortunately for Cass, Christopher had already taken an interest in the boy in his program who could seemingly get whatever he wanted from whoever he wanted but still hadn’t run away.

At 16 he received a personal visit from Christopher, who gave him an offer he couldn’t refuse and legal proceedings immediately went underway to transfer Cassius’ sentence to the Estate. The rest, as they say, is trauma.

As for his purpose there…occasionally Christopher used Cass the way Tucker does, to sway business deals and woo clients and friends in whatever way Christopher wanted, but frankly Christopher doesn’t need a whole lot of help with business. So mostly, he was just there to give Christopher whatever he wanted. Because Christopher decided he liked him. Simple as that.

[whumpiary]

Does Cassius' wrist get broken during his time with Tucker or Christopher? I know at least one of them is responsible.

Do ya, now? That’s interesting...

You sure he didn’t just trip over and land funny? You sure he didn’t just get in a bar fight, as he’s wont to do? You sure he wasn’t just in some accident and he broke it that way? You sure he didn’t break it himself, trying to get out of some place?

After all, he went missing for a full year. Anything could’ve happened in that time...

[whumpiary]

Cass, henri, apologize

this request is from july and i for one think it’s very sexy of me to still fill it.

this is set many moons ago. before the facility, before christopher, before things went to shit. cass is about 14ish and henri is 16ish. please go carefully.

[content warning: whump of a minor (by another minor), sibling abuse/family violence, referenced mind control, magical whump]

-

Henri’s hand is tangled in Cass’ hair, tugging with enough force that Cass is all but tripping over his feet to keep up until he's thrown against the brick wall behind the milkbar.

“Get off”

“Say sorry you little shit."

“No. I didn't do anything.”

“Yes you did. Apologise.”

“Fuck off."

“Say. Sorry.”

“Hᴇɴʀɪ, ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏ.”

The hand leaves his hair in an instant and just as fast is walloping him across the face in a crude backhand.

“Keep my name out of your fucking mouth,” Henri spits.

“Keep your hands off me and I might.”

“Nah,” Henri laughs, “No way. You don’t get to pull that card with me right now. Apologise.”

“I didn’t do anything wr-”

Henri cuffs him around the ear again before he can even get the sentence out.

“Yes you did, and you fucking know it so don’t play with me,” he says, ducking his head to look Cass square in the eye. “You stole shit. That's wrong. No arguments.”

“It’s not stealing if they give it to you.”

“It’s not giving if you force them.”

“I didn’t force anyone, I just asked.”

Henri drops him all at once and Cass crumples to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, landing awkwardly on his ankle. Cass swears under his breath and picks himself back up to a crouch, back pressed against the brick wall.

“You just asked, huh?”

Cass glares up at his brother and rubs at his ankle. “Yes.”

“Same way you asked that kid to jump down the stairs last week?”

Cass looks away.

“You promised me you wouldn’t do this shit anymore, Cass.”

“They don’t even notice, why does it matter?”

“You can’t just do what you want to other people because you can.”

“Why the hell not?” Cass groans. “What’s the point of being able to do something if you can’t actually do it?”

Henri backs up, looking down at him and Cass glances up just in time to watch as his brother cocks his head to the side, a little smile on his face. “You really wanna play that game with me?”

Cass feels fear curl low in his gut. He knows what’s coming even before his vision starts to swim, before the pressure behind his eyes starts to build.

“Stop it,” he grits out through clenched teeth, the headache starting to set in in a mindless pulse as Henri fixes his attention.

"I'm not doing anything," his brother says with a dead eyed shrug.

Cass blinks, rubs a hand over his eyes. "You're hurting me.”

Henri crosses his arms with a little smirk, and then paints on mocking confusion. “How can I be hurting you? I’m not even touching you.”

“You know wh-” Cass has to steady himself as the world tilts, and he gasps, hand splaying against the bricks. “Stop it.”

“Why?” Henri says with a smile. “I can do it and you can’t stop me. That means I should get to, right?”

“Alright, I get it. Stop.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Spider man rules, remember, dipshit? Great power comes great responsibility.”

“I know, I fuckin’ know-”

“Say sorry for being a little shit.”

“Fuck you.”

The pain turns up. 

“Get out,” Cass spits, eyes squeezing  shut against the light, suddenly like knives in his eyes. “Get out of my head.”

“No. Apologise.”

“I will, I get it, just stop.”

"Nah, you broke your promise, Cass," his brother says, crouching low in front of him. "You broke the rules. So you gotta apologise. Right?"

“Yes. Okay, yes.”

“So whaddya say, dipshit?”

“Henr-”

“Don’t say my fucking name,” Henri growls. Fury and rage.

Somehow, someway, the pain gets worse. Cass cries out. He feels like his head might split in two. Like maybe it already is. Like if he lets go it’s going to fall apart and his brain will leak out on the dirt and mingle with patchy grass and dandelions.

“Apologise.”

"M'sorry."

“What was that?”

“Sorry!”

"Like you mean it now."

Cass squeezes his eyes shut, fingers lacing in his hair as he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes desperately.

"Stop, I'm sorry." he says. He doesn’t know how to beg. If he could, he would. "I said I'm sorry."

Henri doesn’t let up. The black behind Cass’ eyes is spinning. It’s spinning, he swears it, blood rushing in his ears, pain so sharp he can’t-

“Chook, pleas-” Cass lurches to the side, a hand pressed to the brick behind his head and hurls up his guts, vision spinning, head pounding, he heaves once, and then twice.

All at once the pain recedes and the world spins.

“M’sorry…” Cass mutters, bile still dripping from his lips. His body lurches again, trying to force out what’s not there and he gags. Cass looks up at his brother, tears streaking down his face. “M’s-sorry.”

Henri is standing up again, towering over him, eyes wide and a little panicked, as though spooked. If Cass didn’t know better he’d almost say his brother looks apologetic. Remorseful.

Before he scoffs that is. “Right. Don't do it again.”

[whumpiary]

technically a continuation from here and here, but I feel like it stands well enough on its own

anyways here’s wonderwall  the den drabble.

[content warning: drowning, electrical torture, referenced beating, death thoughts, nonconsensual touch, intimate whumper]

-

He starts with the water. He always starts with the fucking water. Pushing Cass backwards into the goddamn fountain with the sloping side that looks decorative until you're hanging over it and the bastard's murmuring "wouldn't want to hurt your pretty neck, darling" and then you're drowning and there's a fucked up part of you that's almost grateful it's comfortable.

It takes twenty, thirty, forty seconds before your chest is squeezing. Longer, sometimes, if you manage to stay calm. Cassius doesn’t often manage to stay calm.

The first exhale of oxygen is the first admission that you’re losing. But there’s no way to win here anyway. Not in the den. Not with Christopher. No way not to fall. If there was, Cass would have found it by now.

So it only takes twenty, thirty, forty seconds and he lets the last of his air escape his lips, watches through the watery haze as it bubbles up to the surface, away from his face, explodes like a star in front of the hardly-there shape of Christopher above him.

How many times has this been now? How many deaths has this been?

How many in his life?

How many this year?

How many today?

There’s almost a peace to drowning. He feels hysterical and exhausted both at once and there’s a part of him that desperately wants to commit to not fighting it. But then another twenty, thirty, forty seconds, and his body’s already having other ideas, convulsing and twitching, trying desperately to arch up against the weight that has him pinned below. His hands fly up to grab at Christopher’s wrists of their own accord, and in another twenty, thirty, forty seconds they're falling away again and he’s being hauled into air again, and his bastard lungs keep breathing, and his bastard mind is halfway thankful for it.

“Apologise for the way you spoke to me,” Christopher says, voice as soft as if he were speaking over the breakfast table “And we can move on”

Cass drags in ragged, wet breaths. His body is always shaking. The water is freezing. So fucking freezing. It’s always melted off a glazier kind of freezing. And maybe it’s a stupid thing to be angry at but Jesus Christ is it so much to ask to be drowned in at least tepid fucking water? Not even warm, just bloody room temperature? At least the chairs are empty today. At least the doors are locked.

Christopher snaps wet fingers, and there’s a stutter-stop flinch that Cass can’t help as tiny flecks of water hit his cheek.

“Darling,” he sing-songs “Are you going to apologise?”

Why does he have to look so gentle? So soft and sincere. Can’t he once, just fucking once, look deranged and violent? Cruel and unhinged? Why does he have to look like he's here to soothe a nightmare, as opposed to cause it? Cass lets his eyes roam over the older man's face, settle on laugh lines that suit him far too much.

How many deaths has it been today?

At least the chairs are empty.

His voice is hardly a rasp as he speaks.

“Get fucked”

The water meets him halfway down.

–

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry, please. Please, I’m sorry”

The boy is pale as a sheet, voice weak and wet and desperate, shaking like he might fall apart in the hands of the taller boy holding him.

Cass watches from the viewing station. Twenty eight chairs, neatly lined on a rake.

Christopher hums thoughtfully, places a gentle hand between the shoulder blades of the taller boy, “What do you think? Is he sorry?”

The taller boy presses his lips into a thin line, lifts his shoulder noncommittally. He's said enough twice in a row now. Seems to think changing tacks will get this over with quicker. 

Cass curls his fingers around the edge of the seat and refuses to lean forward. The charges behind him are just as still, one bent over at the middle with his head buried in his arms, another one staring at the ceiling.

The taller boy is just not getting it and Cass wants to scream at and he knows that he can’t but God, maybe if he just thinks loudly enough in the right direction-

He wants you to cry, he wants you to cry. Just cry already so you can stop. It's so obvious that he wants you to cry. 

Christopher's hand trails up to set on the taller boy’s shoulder as he circles him, inspects his face. Then he smiles. "See, I think he's trying to cut corners again"

"No, no, no, no," the boy over the water is a sobbing, shaking delirious mess but it's not about him right now. It's about the one holding him. The one who's closing his eyes as his trembling hands lower his friend back under the water.

–

Three hundred seconds make five minutes.

Close your eyes, and count to three hundred.

Christopher never does this longer than twenty minutes.

If you're still awake at three hundred, I promise we can play another game. 

Three hundred seconds make five minutes, so you count to three hundred and mark time from there.

No not like that, that’s cheating. Slower. 1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi-

He has to survive for twenty minutes. Four counts of three hundred.

What? Oh, Mississippi’s a place.

Cass tries to keep count but he keeps losing track as the world folds up and goes dark around him and then comes back again with a shudder and a gasp. 

I don’t know, maybe Mexico? Stop asking questions, dipshit, you’ve gotta go to sleep.

He tries to keep count but he keeps getting lost at twelve, ninety four, a hundred and seventeen, twenty eight, it doesn't matter because he can't get to three hundred even once let alone four times. 

Just five minutes with your eyes closed, okay?

He’s trying.

Just three hundred seconds. That’s five minutes.

The world keeps slipping away from him too fast.

Just try for me, Cass. C’mon. Closed eyes. Three hundred.

He can’t keep time if he can’t keep count.

"M'sorry,” the word pulls out of him like a fishing hook drawn through mud as he’s pulled up, limp and aching with cold, into Henri’s arms. He’s shaking and shaking, shirt clinging to his back, and Henri’s chest feels like a furnace against his cheek “M’sorry”

"-o darling boy," Christopher says.

Christopher. It’s Christopher, not Henri. He needs to remember that it’s Christopher.

What had he said, just now? Was it no, darling boy or I know, darling boy. It’s important. There’s a difference. It changes things. It changes what to expect.

“We’re not finished yet, you know that, don’t you?”

Cassius nods so he doesn’t have to speak. He’s not even sure if he could, he’s shaking so badly, jaw clenched and locked tight against the cold.

His body is being moved.

He knows it. He can’t feel it.

Christopher's hand runs down his back, so warm against the freezing skin it feels like he's slicing him through. His fingers press down on one of the bruising welts from the beating. Cass lets out a barely there whine, more breath that sound and Christopher shushes him gingerly, pressing a kiss to the top of his dripping head.

His arms are pulled in front of him. Cuffs and chains. and he’s so, so cold. His arms are raised and he’s so, so cold. His body is so, so cold. God he can’t stop shaking.

Three hundred seconds make five minutes. This part never lasts longer than fifteen minutes.

Three counts of three hundred.

“Because you’re being so good for me, I’ll let you choose where the clips go”

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. Three counts of three hundred. It’s just three counts.

“You’re sure?”

He shakes his head, he shakes his head, he shakes his head.

“Well alright then”

And he lays the wires lengthways across Cassius’ torso instead.

–

Cassius hasn't learnt the name of this one. Cass just knows that he’s new. New and slightly older than the rest. 27 or 28, maybe. It didn't matter. They were all the same here anyway.

This one wasn't going to last long here. He was already crying. Already begging. It's pathetic, really. They've only been going ten minutes.

Christopher’s sitting in the seating block, arm extended out around the girl beside him. There’s not many girls amongst them. They’re the Bergen Boys, after all. But this one’s a girl.

She stares straight forward with her head held high, bless her, and she smooths straight black hair behind her ears as Christopher speaks softly to her, under his breath, something not meant for the rest of them.

"No," she says without a moment’s pause "Not yet"

Smart. There hasn’t been six rounds yet. He always does at least six rounds.

Christopher's lips quirk up at the side and he relaxes back in his chair, “Well go on, then”

And she flicks the switch.

–

He’s being burned alive for the third time, the fourth time, the sixth, and then on and on and on.

He’s being burned alive from the inside out as electricity runs across his wet skin, strikes down through his nerves, finds his bones, his veins, his arteries, finds ways to lacerate through every cell. He can’t tell if he lives through the shocks or if he’s born again and again and again every violent time.

When they cease there are hands on him, like the hands of something holy.

“I love you, Cassius,” Christopher says.

Cassius closes his eyes. He doesn’t answer. His whole body is shaking. He feels empty and raw. Like someone clawed out his insides and left him to bleed dry. They may as well have.

“I don’t need you to love me back, darling boy, I never have. But I need you to know that I love you.”

It hurts more than the after-shocks still running through his muscles, than the freezing water that’s soaked him through, than the cut on his tongue, bleeding freely from where he bit down on it, than the welts on his back from the beating, which was surely a million years ago by now.

“Look at me, so you know that I mean it,” Christopher says. Cassius looks up and lets his eyes focus on the older man’s face, wishing that his vision would just stay blurred so he wouldn’t have to see the tender smile, the soft eyes “I love you”

And Christopher flicks the switch.

–

How many deaths has this been?

How many today?

How many this year?

How many in his life?

He can’t tell anymore.

Like the strikes, he’s stopped counting.

–

When he surfaces again, the wires are gone, but the water is still soaking his skin. Every time he moves, rivulets of water run down his back and he tries to flinch away from them because water tracks the same lines as lightning strikes but you can’t flinch away from your own goddamn skin. He writhes and he sobs and hands catch him and they soothe.

“Shh, shh, you’re okay,” the voice as soft as the towel along his shoulders “All done, darling boy. All done”

It hurts. He's panting and shaking and his muscles don’t know to stop clenching and unclenching. He doesn’t have the energy to hold back the jerks of his body as Christopher’s hands move to new places and he’s certain that they’re going to light him up again. Everything hurts so badly and he wants it to stop.

A nice change of pace from all the pleasure you’ve been giving me lately. That was what he had said, wasn’t it? So fucking stupid. So stupid. But he’d been right. It’s better like this.

Like this, he can feel it. Like this he can taste the atonement as much as he can the penalty, as much as he can the blood in his mouth. Like this he can feel each of his cracks and he can count them, instead of crumbling away beneath his fingertips like clay that somebody forgot to fire.

“Are you tired, love?” the towel is running over his head, scrunching in his hair.

Brush your hair this time, dipshit, otherwise you’ll all over the fucking pillows again and I have to clean it.

He nods his head, too close to desperate. Lets out a sob that comes out half-drowned, and then transforms into a racking cough.

“Time for it to be over, do you think?”

And he should know better — God, how on earth doesn’t he know better by now? — but he nods. He nods and cries and shakes and nods and he tries to make his chattering jaw cooperate for long enough to say, “Pl… ple…p-p-p-plea…”

“Shhh, darling, it’s okay. I don’t need convincing.” The devil’s voice. An angel’s voice. It doesn’t matter which. He leans into the hand on his cheek. Damnation or salvation, he doesn’t care. It’s all the same. The restraints are loosened and he falls forward, body limp and wrecked in the older man’s arms.

–

“You or him?”

Cass blinks, and he frowns, and he tracks his eyes over the older man’s face. His heart is beating so fast that he can’t quite hear properly. Can’t quite think, This has

“Henri seems to consider himself a living bargaining chip, and luckily for Henri, I think that’s interesting,” the older man says. How can he keep smiling when he’s talking about things like this? How can he sound like he’s offering something nice? “So I’m asking you to decide, darling. Who should be the one giving Penance? You or him?”

Cassius’ eyes skid to Henri, but his brother isn't looking. His brother isn’t there. He never is anymore.

–

Christopher’s hand trails down Cassius’ neck, over his shoulder, along his arm. He traces nonsense patterns with his fingers, warm and dry, and Cassius sobs, forehead pressing into the older man’s shoulder and allows himself a moment to be grateful for him, for this, for mercy.

“I think this is the best you’ve ever been for me, you know,” the man says idly, as he picks up Cassius’ arm by the wrist, turns it like a fascination in his hand, “I wonder if Henri will feel the same...”

And through the fog and the pain the pieces slot into place, seconds and minutes, and an hour too late as Christopher’s palm presses to the bonding mark on Cass’ inner arm, so faded these days he could forget it was there.

“No, no, no, no, no-”

Too late.

Too little, too late, dipshit. You get there on time or you miss out.

The mark heats up.

I don’t care if you’re sorry. Sorry doesn’t mean shit.

His body sings.

I love you, Cass, but you’ve gotta learn to think for once in your life.

And the pain and the aches and the twitching muscles and welts and the burns and the bone-deep cold light up, then twist, then disappear completely.

His body sags, as empty as he is. No pain to ground him. No marks left to remind him. Bar one. And even that’s faded back to silky pink.

Somewhere in the Estate, in some wretched gilded cage, he knows the mark on the back of Henri’s neck is searing red hot. In barely a moment he’ll be freezing and shaking and jerking and aching and there’s nothing Cass can do to stop it, there’s nothing Cass can do to fix it, or apologise, or take it away.

Who should be the one giving Penance? You or him?

Just three hundred seconds.

I think he's trying to cut corners again.

Too little, too late, dipshit.

How many deaths today?

And Cass wails.

And he screams. 

And he begs for restitution that will never come.

[whumpiary]

I’m not sure if you already mentioned it but what happens during cass’s lab sessions?

[content warning: medical douchebaggery and abuse, referenced drugging, institutionalisation, dehumanisation]

Lab session notes (excerpts only) for cursory reference:

Subject: #1011 [Cassius Drake] Primary minder: Tucker James Primary researcher: Dr Simon Colby Dates: [REDACTED]

-

> Subject refused to stop subsidiary movement during MRI scan and was subsequently restrained in order to obtain clear imaging >> Noted heightened stress response during the process may have affected results. >> Further testing required.

-

> Post trials, subject complained of severe pain throughout the body, centering in the head >> Further tests remained inconclusive. >> Subject has a noted predilection to drug seeking behaviours, as such, these concerns have been dismissed.

-

> Subject has requested private sessions with both Dr Simon Colby and Dr Timothy Du Pont >> Due to the nature of this subject's particular evolutionary quirks, private sessions are not recommended at this time

-

[NOTES FOR FUTURE RESEARCHERS] > Subject continues to be resistant to MRI scans, however manages to refrain from subsidiary movement upon request, particularly when paired with the offer of external encouragement. >> Going forward, ensure external encouragement is offered from the beginning of the session >> If subsidiary movement continues, insist on use of external encouragement

-

> Induced stress response does not appear to heighten quirk as seen in other subject >> Reported after effects of muscle ache, paraesthesia, headaches, and nausea >> It is noted that these after effects may have been falsified by subject to lessen future participation in  trials >>> Further tests remained inconclusive further confirming suspicions of inaccurate self reporting >>> Request for chemical assistance with reported symptom denied

-

> Subject continues to show resistance to chemical sedation. >> Recommendation to increase dosage across the board and addition of assistive compounds

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> Subject has once again requested private sessions with Dr Simon Colby >> Private sessions are not recommended at this time

-

> Preliminary trials for extension of influential perimeter refuse to yield satisfactory results >> Observations suggest subject is intentionally avoiding active participation in these trials >> External encouragement recommended

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> Subject continues to report of muscle ache, paraesthesia, headaches, and nausea >> As previously noted, self-reporting cannot be trusted. Subject may be exaggerating in order to avoid further sessions >> Further potential for subject to be withholding information due to undesirable emotional response to testing >>> Further testing recommended >>> Request for chemical assistance denied

-

> Subject continues to request private sessions with Dr Simon Colby >> Review recommendation for approval of private sessions

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> Subject continues to engage in drug-seeking behaviours post-trials >> External encouragement for cooperative engagement recommended and required

-

> Subject appeared intoxicated upon initial examination, recommended isolation until subject sobers >> Worthwhile noting isolation appeared to induce extreme stress response >> Preternatural events increased in strength post isolation >> Preternatural events decreased in accuracy post isolation >>> Further testing required in regards to correlation of isolation and increased preternatural activity

-

> Subject continues to show active disengagement from trials and testing > Subject continues to engage in drug-seeking behaviours post-trials >> External encouragement for cooperative engagement recommended and required

-

> Private session of applied practice; Dr Simon Colby >> [NOTES REDACTED]

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> Hallucinogenic trials still remain inconclusive >> Subject is able to differentiate between hallucination and reality almost instantly >> Currently unconfirmed whether this is due to prior experience or a preternatural awareness >> As previously noted, self-reporting remains inconclusive >>> Cooperation with self-reporting continues to be a problem >>> Revised methods for analysis may be required

-

> Induced stress response via external encouragement continues to yield varied results on preternatural events >> Subject continues to display drug seeking behaviours >> Request for chemical assistance denied >>> Further testing required

-

[NOTES FOR FUTURE RESEARCHERS] > Self reporting in the case of subject #1011 is not to be relied on >> Preternatural extraction of experiential research may be required

-

> Trials for extension of influential perimeter continue to yield unsatisfactory results > External encouragement continues to yield unsatisfactory results >> Suggested trial of preternatural observation before influential affect applied

-

> Private session of applied practice; Dr Simon Colby >> [NOTES REDACTED]

-

> Post-isolation trials continue to yield increasingly positive results >> Further testing required >>> It is noted subject displays signs of dissociation and depersonalisation post trial >>> Currently these after effects are not seen as sufficiently undesirable in order to postpone testing

-

> Extension of influential perimeter continues to yield a) unsatisfactory results; and b) causes subject to report undesirable outcomes (see above) >> External encouragement has been required on numerous accounts >>> Self reporting from subject can no longer be trusted; external assessment required

-

> Private session of cooperative applied practice; Louise Bako >> Though initial outlook was positive, subject appears resistant to cooperative practice in general >> An established rapport may be required in order to initiate active cooperation >>> See: advice on transferral bond; Woodroffe

-

> Private session of applied practice; Dr Simon Colby >> [NOTES REDACTED]

-

> Private session of cooperative applied practice; Louise Bako >> Cooperative applied practice remains unestablished >> Recommendation from Bako includes transfer of minder responsibilities >>> [FURTHER NOTES REDACTED] >> Request for further private sessions with Louise Bako denied

-

> Subject continues to complain of undesirable affect post-trial >> It must be restated that self-reporting in the case of subject #1101 is not to be trusted >> It is noted that post-trial seizure was unlikely to have been falsified

-

> Private session of applied practice; Dr Simon Colby >> [NOTES REDACTED]

-

> Private session of applied practice; Dr Simon Colby >> Despite initial hesitation, private sessions have yielded positive results >> Submittal for approval to increase private sessions to once a week

-

> Private session of applied practice; Dr Simon Colby >> [NOTES REDACTED]

-

> Private session of applied practice; Dr Simon Colby >> [NOTES REDACTED]

[whumpiary]

food for thought drabbles 1: tied to a chair, interrogated and tortured at their own place (bonus points if the caretaker comes home and gets involved)

Josiah’s arms are shaking, shoulders aching along the tendons, pulled tight behind him. Burning. He should've skipped the gym this morning. It’s gonna hurt tomorrow.

It’s funny that that’s all he can think about right now. He’s bleeding freely from the cuts along his chest, down his arms, from the split skin over his eyebrow, but all he can think about is how tight his shoulders are gonna be in the morning. 

“I have to say, proxy boy, you’ve held up better than I expected,” Tucker says, wiping the knife off on the tea-towel he’d taken from the kitchen sink. They’d have to get new ones, Josiah thinks, new tea-towels. But that was fine. The old ones were getting kinda worn out anyway. It’d be good to have a new set. “Ellie used to complain about what a fucking sook you were, but… Guess you toughened up, huh?"

Even hearing her name sends a bolt through him, swings him crashing back down to reality. Some venomous mix of panic and guilt and pain. Shame. He closes his eyes. 

“Just tell me where he is, and all of this can go away,” Tucker says “I’ll even send you a postcard when he’s back home with Daddy”

Josiah snaps his eyes up. He feels an absolute rage surge through him and for once it doesn’t settle in his fists or in a blind fury in his head. No. Instead it settles in his chest like a lump of burning coal.

He leans his head back with precision, and spits in the blonde man’s face. 

Tucker barely flinches, taking a long moment to reach his hand up and wipe his face clean with the back of his knucles.

“Classy,” he grunts “Did your little fucktoy teach you that trick?”

A sharp backhand, clean against Josiah’s cheekbone sends a double serving of pain through the head wound along his brow and he stutters in a gasp as Tucker pulls back for a second, and then-

The sound of jingling keys, boots thumping on the floorboards as they’re kicked off in the hall.

“Guess which absolute winner brought you surprise frozen yoghurt without spilling a single…”

Mal, standing in the doorway, two tiny tubs balanced carefully in one hand as he shuts the front door tight behind him. Half a dozen steps forward. Then he freezes.

His eyes rake over the scene in front of him almost comically slowly, top from bottom. Across two sets of feet: bare ones curling into the drop-sheet, ankles tied to the kitchen chair, and the set beside them, in neat leather boots. Up across two sets of hands, one pair bound tight together, dirtied with streaks of blood, and a pair clean ones, armed with cloth and gleaming knife.

Up across two faces. One he’s seen nearly every day for two years and one he hasn’t seen in nearly ten.

In all his time knowing Mal, Josiah has never once seen the nurse pale as quickly as he does standing there, staring at Tucker. Mal swallows visibly, swaying just a little, his voice is barely audible when he speaks, "What the hell?"

Tucker moves slowly and deliberately around the chair Josiah’s secured to, taking a lot of pleasure in pulling up the sharp end of the and pressing it against his captive’s throat.

“Oh, I musta done something good in a past life, huh?” he murmurs in Josiah’s ear “This is my lucky fucking day”

He straightens up again, knife still tilted perfectly in place, and grins his sunniest grin. 

“It’s good to see you, Mal!” he says, cheery as a fucking picnic on a sunny afternoon “Why don’t you take a seat?”

[whumpiary]

[content warning: death mention, alcohol use]

prompt fill for #100 from this prompt list for @circehelios

-

Tucker braces himself for the cool sting of night air as he pushes open the doorway to the rooftop of the Facility building.

It's a clear, cold night. Cold enough for it to feel like there should be rain on the way but the sky is clear of clouds, mostly. Just stars shining like knife points alongside a half moon.

Ace is sitting on some metal box by the edge of the roof. Full of electrical wiring or a cooling unit or whatever the fuck. Tucker had never bothered to learn. He has his knees pulled up towards his chest, one hand gripping the opposite wrist as he stares forward and he doesn't turn to look at his minder as Tucker closes the gap between them.

"How'd you know where to find me?"

"I just followed the scent of melancholy brooding," Tucker says, sitting himself down next to the younger man.

"If you think I'm coming down-"

"Cool it, Ace, I'm not here to fetch you. Let's call it a truce for tonight"

Cass does look at him then, a long, slow raking off the eyes as he makes his assessment. He comes to some silent conclusion and turns back out to face the city.

The wind is cool but not biting. More of a shift of air around them, moving through clothing. Some of it picks up long strands of Ace's hair and whips it around his cheeks. He doesn't seem to care. He just sits, frowning deeply out at the city lights, almost unnaturally still.

"Do you know what day it is?" he asks after a few minutes.

Tucker places the two glasses he'd brought up with him on the space between them. "I'd never forget our anniversary, Ace"

Ace turns to look at him with a dulled sort of smile before looking back out over the city below. Tucker reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a small bottle to pour between them. Cass’ face sours as he looks at the label.

“Not really in a gin mood”

“Ah,” Tucker says, with a wry smile. He produces a second, much larger bottle of darker liquor and offers it out. It’s a cheap, crappy drop of whiskey. The kind Tucker secretly enjoys when he isn’t trying to be impressive and Cass was known to reach for on bad nights. Ace frowns, eyes flicking up to his minder’s face with questioning suspicion. Tucker just shrugs “I pay attention”

Cass grins a little, looking down. There's still something deeper swimming behind his eyes but there was always going to be today. He snatches the bottle and pours them each a generous few fingers before taking a swig and handing it back.

"Thanks, fuckhead,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

That's right, you little shit. Stop wallowing. Come back down to earth.

Both men take their drinks, eyes out at the skyline as a plane crosses overhead, bass note rumble paired with high frequency whining as it passes, invisible against the sky but for the red blinking light.

"Our, uh… anniversary," Ace says, after a beat. "That's not why I'm up here"

"I know that too," Tucker says. He takes another sip of his drink, waits for Cass to fill the silence. When he doesn't Tucker adds, "Do you want to talk about him?"

"Not really."

"That's fine."

Cass scoffs and Tucker can practically hear what he's thinking. Yeah I know it's fine, asshole.

The quiet wraps around them again and so does the wind. In the distance somewhere, a car honks. A few bats fly overhead, wings like sails whipping.

"Do you want to hear something funny?" Tucker says after a few minutes.

"Not really in the mood for funny."

"That's okay, it's not that funny."

He waits.

"Go on, then"

Tucker hesitates, drink halfway to his lips, finger tapping on the glass. He considers shifting what he's about to say before committing to a half truth, "It's my brother’s birthday tomorrow"

Cass turns and looks at him, "You never told me you had a brother”

“In my defense, you've never asked,” he says, and takes another slow sip of his drink as he looks out. Another moment of quiet. The sound of wind trying to force its way through skyscrapers, and moaning about having to go around instead.

“So are you twins or did you just lie about your date of birth on your license?"

Tucker turns and looks at the man next to him. A little bit surprised. A little bit impressed. Ace just shrugs, holds his gaze with a cocky smile, "I pay attention"

Tucker snorts a laugh, nursing his drink. "Would you believe my parents were just really good planners?”

Cass laughs at that, just a quiet back of the throat thing, and it melts the air around him just a little.

"Jesus, two Tucker's, huh?" he says "Dreams really do come true."

"Oh, I wouldn't get too excited. We're not exactly alike."

Cass tilts his head to the side with a grin, swings a leg up on the cooling box so he’s facing his minder. He’s grabbed at the easy distraction with two hands and is clearly ready to make it last, “Is that your way of tellin’ me you’re the evil twin?”

“Maybe.”

Cass narrows his eyes, looking him over. Tucker simply stares forward and enjoys his drink. If Ace wanted to fish, he’d have to find bait.

“Do you see him much?”

“No," Tucker says, with a bemused little smile “Never.”

“Okay this isn’t just some sick joke, or something is it? You didn’t eat him in the womb?”

Tucker laughs, looking down at his drink. God. He wished.

“No, nothing like that. He just…” Tucker pauses, makes a little clicking sound with his tongue as he casts a deliberately slow look over Cassius “Doesn’t exactly approve of what I do for work.”

Ace quirks a brow, “What? He didn't support the foray into human experimentation and mild trafficking?”

“Watch it,” Tucker mutters, but there’s humour in his voice. “But yes… something like that”

Cass nods slowly, then turns to sit forward again.

“Did you ever actually meet him?”

Tucker tosses him a shit-eating grin, “Who, my brother?”

“No, shithead,” Cass says, bumping shoulders playfully and then sobering a little too quick. “Mine.”

“Once," Tucker says, then hesitates. "Well, more than once but once when he wasn't-" he makes a vague gesture towards his head "-you know."

"Yeah," Ace snorts, staring straight ahead, voice bitter, "I know."

"It’s how I knew I wanted you, actually,” he admits, taking another sip of his drink.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Hmm. Maybe shouldn’t have let that one slip. Tucker thinks about sunken cheeks and dull, desperate eyes. A sardonic smile. Trust me. I’m not the brother you want.

“Well, you know,” he shrugs “I just figured… if the older brother was impressive enough that Christopher made me haggle over him, then I definitely needed to see the little brother the big man wouldn’t let me see.”

Cassius’ foot has begun bouncing, subconsciously. The tapping of the rubber sole of his shoe on the side of the cooling box sounds like distant, distant thunder.

“You woulda liked him,” Cass says. His voice is hoarse enough with something like grief that he has to clear his throat before speaking again. He downs the rest of his drink. “He was an asshole. You woulda fuckin’ loved him”

Tucker breathes a laugh, “I bet.”

These nights between them are rare. Quiet and just a little morose. Something shared but un-sinister. No violence, no fists, no games. Just an ill-fitting sort of companionship. Not forever. Just for now. A bridge across the chasm of a rough night.

For the second time in his life, sitting here in the dark with Cassius Drake, the city a dark expanse beneath their feet, Tucker James feels like the opposite side of a coin he doesn’t particularly care to be on.

He opens the bottle back up, tops up both their glasses in silence.

“Well, happy birthday I guess,” Ace says, raising his glass towards the blonde man. Tucker tilts his own glass forward until the rims connect with a little clink.

“Happy your-brother-died-day.”

Cass snorts a bitter laugh and lifts his drink to the sky, “And to all a good fucking night.”

Below them, the city churns on.

[whumpiary]

69 for Cass please?

69. “Don’t worry, you’ve got me to take care of you.”

They're in a motel room.

Josiah knows that at least.

They're in a motel room with an old grey TV that they haven't turned on.

Two single beds with those sheets with the swirling vomit-green pattern that every cheap temporary place to crash seems to have.

Maybe it's not a motel, then. Maybe a cabin at a caravan park.

And he's scared. He knows that too.

Every time he tries to remember what happened his mind freezes like steel on ice. His own thoughts turn back on him like knives and then they're stabbing through his head and the mark on the back of his neck is burning and he starts drowning all over again.

And Cass is there. Rubbing circles on his back, a firm hand on his shoulder and it feels wrong. It feels so, so wrong.

"We have to go back," Josiah says, pushing up to stand. It's one of those split apart moments where he's equal parts not sure why he's said it and absolutely certain that it's true "We can't stay here, Cass. We have to go back"

"No, no, no, no," Cass says, frantic, turning Josiah's body so he's tilted to face him "No, we can't go back. We can't, okay? You're, you're just confused right now. We can't go back"

"No I have to go back," he says again, even though his eyes are swimming, even though his head is full of mud "I have to... I have to find Ellie"

"No, no you don't. We have to stay here, remember?"

"No," Josiah frowns. No he doesn't remember. No they don't have to stay, shouldn't be staying "No, Ellie's gonna be so upset... She gets. She gets nervous, Cass"

"Sᴛᴏᴘ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ, then," something hungry and calculating in Cass' face. When did he start looking like something to be afraid of? "You... ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴀʏ ʜᴇʀᴇ. You're just not thinking right. Your head's not right"

And Josiah can't argue with that. He can't argue even though it feels wrong. But he has to... No he has to do something. Something went wrong. He knows that much. He can't remember.

But before he can move-

"Sᴛᴀʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ"

-he's changing his mind again.

"Jᴜsᴛ ʟɪᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ. Wᴀᴛᴄʜ ᴛᴠ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ"

So he's lying down again. Turning his eyes to the telly even though he doubts it's gonna play anything but static. But no that was stupid. Cass says they were gonna watch something. So they would.

"I know you're scared. I know. I know," Cass sounds scared too, kind of. Maybe he's just projecting. Ellie always says that. That he's projecting "But just... ᴛʀᴜsᴛ ᴍᴇ, okay? It'll be fine"

It would be. It will be.

"I know things are kinda fucked but ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴡᴏʀʀʏ-"

He's not worried. Why would he be worried?

"-You've got me to take care of you"