#food whump (briefly mentioned)

[3-2-whump]

It Started with a Gray Hair

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After a couple months' worth of balancing two jobs, hardly getting any sleep, and running himself ragged, Khaled finally snaps.

Thanks @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz for the feedback on this chapter, I've applied your advice and hope you like what I did with it!

TW/CW: emotional angst, emotional whump, defiant whumpee (?) (whumpee loses his last fuck to give), slave whump, captivity whump, alcohol, very briefly mentioned food whump (like it's barely there but I'll tag it anyways), intimate whumper, dub con, hate sex

Khaled noticed it when he was towel-drying his hair in front of the mirror after a shower. He accepted it wasn’t a trick of the light as he blew his hair dry in front of the mirror, and he finally confirmed it was exactly as he feared when he combed through his wild floof. Standing starkly contrasted against the black night of his hair was a single silvery strand, long and twisted and brittle amongst strong sable waves.

There was a sharp rap on the door, accompanied by his master’s complaints. Khaled ignored it, still horrified by the discovery of his first gray hair. It was less about vanity for him more than it was a visible sign of the passage of time, of how much time he’d spent living under this man’s thumb. His hands unscrewed the pomade jar on autopilot. He went through the motions of dipping fingertips into the sticky substance and running them through his hair, thoughts racing all the while. He managed to hide the silvery offender –the only one, as far as he knew, though where there was one, there were probably more, and what was that under his eyes? Lines?

“Sometime today, Khaled!” Thomas yelled through the bathroom door.

“Almost done, Master!” he shouted back as he rinsed the hair product off his hands. He hastily dried them and opened the door, subconsciously straightening out his shirt collar as he righted his posture.

“Everything alright?” It was funny, how he almost sounded concerned.

“Fine,” Khaled lied. As if he was going to complain to a forty-something year old man about his first gray hair.

“Well let’s go! We’re going to be late for the reservation I made!”

The restaurant they drove to overlooked a harbor boasting a panoramic view of the Atlantic Ocean, plus or minus a few barges, with the city skyline largely forgotten behind the vast blue expanse. Regretfully, the outdoor seating was closed for the season, with it already being late fall, so the mob boss and his slave got a table indoors, right next to the wide windows above the balcony.

Whatever hope Khaled had of forgetting about the passage of time was quickly dashed by the first course. “We’ll take the antipasti plate, cured meats on the side, and your 2015 Merlot, two glasses, leave the bottle.”

Khaled cleared his throat, getting Thomas and the waitress’ attention. “Just one glass, please,” he corrected. “I’ll take a water.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” Thomas asked. Khaled shook his head. “Best give him a glass anyway,” he whispered not too subtly. The waitress dutifully wrote down their order before leaving them to their complimentary bread basket.

“Ah, 2015,” the boss reminisced with a sigh. “The year my grandfather passed and I became the head of the Costa Family, what a tumultuous year!”

Yeah, 2015, the year I was kidnapped and sold halfway across the world to you, Khaled remembered. He tried to wash away the bitter memory with the water the waitress had given him, but the icy cold drink only numbed the sensation for a moment. He halfheartedly smeared some butter onto a piece of bread and picked at the marinated olives on their shared plate as his master kept reminiscing about how much time they had spent together.

“That was also the year I got you, wasn’t it?” he asked rhetorically. “Do you remember how small you were back then?” Thomas popped a salted almond into his mouth, chewing it only for a second before answering for him. “You were 5’1” and barely 90 lbs, a scrawny little thing. Then, with enough food and shelter and a stable environment-”

Khaled nearly choked on an ice cube.

“-you hit your growth spurt and made up for lost time!” The older man laughed, taking a hearty sip of his wine. “As soon as I bought you clothes that fit, you would need them replaced! You shot up like a weed over those first two years, and now look at you!”

Look at me now, Khaled bitterly echoed. His gaze flitted to the deep ruby liquid in his master’s wine glass, and then to the opaque green bottle set in the middle of their table. If he was going to make it through the rest of this dinner, he might change his mind about the merlot after all.

The man across from him helped himself to a slice of prosciutto from the side plate. “You’re a handsome young man, now twenty-two years old, 5’8”, 138 lbs. You’re built like a whippet, svelte and sexy in all the right places,” he crooned, throwing in a wink. “It has been nothing but a pleasure spending all these years with you.”

The bread on his tongue felt as dry as ashes in Khaled’s mouth. “I think I will take some of that wine, thanks,” he murmured. He leaned over the table to reach for the wine, but Thomas beat him to it.

Their hands touched on the neck of the wine bottle, two sources of warmth meeting on cold slender glass. Khaled shot his master a questioning look, only to receive a cryptically soft gaze in response. “Allow me.” Thomas took the bottle and effortlessly filled the spare wine glass. “Here you are,” he said, passing it to Khaled with a fond smile. Their hands met once again, the older man’s touch lingering just a bit longer than necessary on the neck of the wine glass as he stared into Khaled’s eyes. There was something softening the look in those steely-gray eyes, and it wasn’t just the candlelight ambiance. This look was warm and cozy, almost comforting like a fresh cup of tea; nothing like the fiery and lustful glances that promised Khaled equal measures of pleasure and pain. At least Khaled was used to the latter type of looks. The way Thomas looked at him now was almost as if –but no, Khaled thought, he’s just playing it up because we’re out in public.

“Aren’t you going to eat any more of this?” Thomas asked, waving down toward the sliced cheeses and grapes and nuts. Khaled hated how concerned his master sounded, making it sound like he cared.

“I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought I was,” he replied. He threw back the glass of wine and let the liquid pour down his throat, just to give his mouth anything to do other than talk to the man across from him.

“Oh, come on, Khaled, you know the dietary rules don’t apply on your birthday! At least eat something to absorb all that wine you’re inhaling?”

Brushing uncomfortably past the reminder that today was his birthday –the seventh birthday he had spent in slavery to his master, owner, and abuser –Khaled polished off the rest of his wine, instantly tipping his glass forward in a nonverbal request for more. “Why should you care?” he asked.

“Because maybe I care about you.” Thomas refilled his wine glass. He did that thing with his voice again, using the tone that sounded as if he were genuinely concerned. He was looking at him in that same soft and worrisome way as before. Khaled decided that he hated it. It made sense that the man would be concerned about his $150k asset, but anything vaguely resembling more than that was just …wrong.

He made a show of turning his head all about the restaurant, clocking how few patrons there actually were on a Monday night. “You can drop the act you know,” he murmured. “There is no one within five tables around ours, so you can cut the crap and just be yourself, Master.” The title left his tongue like a bitter epithet.

“Cut the –Khaled, what are you talking about?”

Oh, so he’s going to play dumb? Fine! You want to fuck with me, I’m the King of Dumb –wait, hold on. Khaled tipped back his second glass of wine, not stopping until the whole vessel was drained. Whether it was the insincere gestures of concern, or the accumulation of remarks about how much time had been stolen from him, or whatever the hell these soft and warm looks were, Khaled had decided he’d had enough. “I mean, stop being so goddamn nice to me, stop acting like we’re good friends or boyfriends or whatever lie you told these people when you made our reservations, and please, please, please, stop acting like you care about me beyond what I can do for you in bed!”

A few patrons turned their heads toward their table, since Khaled had raised his voice a little at that last statement. The mob boss glanced around with a flicker of nervousness in those gray eyes. “Khaled, baby, calm down,” he soothed quietly, opting to go for damage control.

Wrong choice of words, fucker! Khaled scoffed loudly, emboldened by the alcohol in his system. “You bought me, at fifteen years old, like an object, and you brought me into your empty, soulless home for what exactly? To leave me chained up and alone to slowly lose my mind for the first year I was imprisoned with you?” He slammed his empty wineglass against the table with enough force to rattle the silverware. “Nobody even treats their dog that badly!” he shouted.

“Khaled, keep your voice down, you’re drawing attention-”

The hypocrisy nearly made Khaled laugh. How dare you care about drawing attention onto us now, of all times! “And then,” Khaled continued, retelling his story as he raised his voice on purpose, “you took me to work with you and kept me on an extremely short leash, while the rest of the mafia treated me like the plague! Do you have any idea what they would say about me when you weren’t there? All the names they called me that I didn’t understand? Well, you made me understand, didn’t you?” His master reached out to hold his hand, but Khaled smacked it away, rising from the table to put even further distance between them. “Four years ago, this very night, the night of my eighteenth birthday, you made me understand, didn’t you?!”

“Khaled, shut up!” Thomas raised himself from the table, his livid eyes narrowed threateningly as he stared the young man down.

“You treated me like a whore –no, worse than a whore! You broke and violated my body nearly every night for years on end! You dolled me up and passed me around to your boys like a party favor until I was thrown away like garbage-” Khaled furiously blinked back the stinging sensation in his eyes “-back into your arms when they’d had their fill!”

A small squeak in their periphery interrupted their intense staring match. “U-um, excuse me, have you gentlemen decided on your entrees yet?” the waitress timidly interrupted. Both men fell silent as they realized the weight of a dozen stares were on their table, with both patrons and staff tensely watching them as they fought.

Thomas composed himself first. “No, thanks, I think we’re done here,” he answered gruffly. He reached into his coat pocket and fished out a few $100 bills. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” he muttered as he pressed the cash into the woman’s hands and strode purposefully towards the exit. Khaled himself muttered a quiet “sorry” before he followed his master out the restaurant, where they both picked up their argument where they had left off as soon as they reached the parking lot.

“What was that?” the mob boss shouted. “Fuck, boy, what is wrong with you tonight?!”

“What’s wrong with me?! I wasn’t the one who went out and bought a teenager to turn into their personal bed warmer!” Khaled screamed. “I wasn’t the one who stripped him of his clothes and wrapped him in silk and pimped him out to strangers he barely knew! I wasn’t the one who tore down everything he loved about himself-” Khaled’s voice broke on a wet sob he couldn’t suppress, “–everything that made him unique, to wring all the hopes and dreams from his broken body, just to build up whatever I wanted from his remains!” He raised an accusatory finger at the man he called his master. “That was you, you did that, that was all you!”

A brief grimace of an unnamed emotion flickered across his master’s face, disappearing before it could even be named. “You’re making it out to be way worse than it was!” he defended himself. He shook his head as he grabbed Khaled’s elbow and started steering him toward the car. “See if I ever let you drink again, fuck,” he muttered.

“Get off me!” Khaled yanked his elbow away from Thomas’ grip. He bit his trembling lip and swiped away the tears in his eyes. Any and all pretense of wanting to appear strong was abandoned as Khaled angrily wept.

“I could have loved you, you know!” He wrapped his arms around himself as his posture crumpled, squeezing himself in a hug as if he were desperately trying to hold his shattered pieces together for a little longer, if only so long as it took him to finish his damning indictment. “You wouldn’t know this, but I don’t have a father, at least not anymore,” he shuddered through ragged breaths, “but for a little bit, I thought I had you. If you had just been a little kinder, a little more understanding, if you had never touched me like that at all, I could have loved you like a father, and I think I was about to! But you didn’t love me, and I know you never did!”

“Hey, that is just not true!” Khaled heard the crunch of gravel under expensive leather shoes. A shadow cast over him as the mob boss leaned over the young man.

“Why didn’t you love me?!” Khaled glared up at him through his mess of tears. “What was it about me that justified pouring out all your wrath and your lust against me?! Why was it so hard to love me?! Am I unlovable, is that it?! Why-”

A rough hand grabbed him by his hair and tugged him forward. Khaled’s rant was smashed against a regrettably familiar pair of warm lips as Thomas brought him in for a kiss. Khaled clawed at the front of the man’s chest, fighting with a fervor he had not had since the early days to try and put the distance back between them. He groaned in protest against those smothering lips as his master maneuvered both their bodies and flipped Khaled back-first onto the hood of a car. Thomas broke the kiss and quickly covered Khaled’s mouth with his hand before the young man could say anything else. “You want me to love you?” he growled. “What does it look like I’ve been doing?!” Khaled thrashed against the hand on his mouth and the body pressing him down inch by inch into the chrome hood of the car. “I have been nothing but sweet with you for months now, but if that’s not what love looks like to you, I could always go back to what I had done before!”

The statement that would’ve struck terror and fear into him before now just made Khaled even more angry. He had finally freed one of his arms from where it had been pinned and scratched at his owner’s face. Thomas recoiled and let go of Khaled’s mouth on instinct to catch Khaled’s wrist in a punishingly tight grip. It wasn’t long before he had both of Khaled’s wrists pinned in one hand in front of him.

Khaled glared at him as he struggled against his master’s hold. “Touch me like that again, and I will scream,” he promised.

His master scowled, but ultimately released him and stepped away, allowing Khaled to peel himself off the hood of the car. They were still in a restaurant parking lot, after all. “At least wait until we’re in the car, you fucking savage!” he muttered.

They had just made it to the back of the boss’ Bentley when Thomas tried to grab Khaled in one hand and open the backseat door with another. Khaled dodged, and as Thomas reached for him to pull him into the car, he pushed into the man’s body and sent him falling backwards. His back met the seat of the backseat with a satisfying thud. Khaled wasted no time in climbing on top of him and closing the car door behind him.

“Cut this shit out!” the older man yelled, trying to sit himself up from where he fell.

“No!” Khaled pushed him down by the sternum. His master, in turn grabbed him by the hair and wrenched his head back to bare his neck. The sudden pull made Khaled gasp. The warm, moist pair of lips kissing at his Adam’s apple made him involuntarily groan. He blindly clawed at his master while his head was craned up to the car roof. The pair of lips against his throat murmured a breathy request against his skin. “Let’s do it, here, now.”

Once the hand in his hair let Khaled go to begin tearing off his shirt, Khaled snapped his head back to stare down at him. “I’ll ride,” he said. Thomas blinked up at him as his hands retreated from Khaled’s waistband. “I’ll ride,” he repeated, his tone assertive and acerbic. His fingers moved over the button and fly of his pants before his brain could keep up with what he had demanded. Thomas mirrored the motions as he undid his pants and quickly whipped out his hardening member. “You have taken so much from me, you can at least allow me this, Master.” He pushed his pants and underwear down to his ankles, taking them off entirely before climbing on top of the dumbstruck man again.

Khaled straddled his master’s hips, splitting himself in half on his master’s cock as he gripped the front passenger seat and the back seat to steady himself. A pair of roughly calloused hands maintained an iron grip on his hips, but Khaled had set the speed on his own, pushing himself up and down the rigid shaft at a brutally masochistic pace. The familiar stinging burning sensation accompanied every movement as he pushed himself to his limits, but Khaled didn’t care. This was the most control he’d ever had –more like the most control he’d been allowed to have with his owner, and as he kept hitting that sweet spot inside of him with every punishing thrust, the repugnant act finally began to feel good.

He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He did both.

“Fuck me!” Khaled looked below, into the eyes of the man he was riding. The mob boss was a mess, with his short blonde hair mussed up, top three shirt buttons undone, and outer suit coat long forgotten. “I don’t know what I did to get you so worked up, but I should do it again if it gets you this eager!”

“Shut up!”

One of the hands let go of Khaled’s hips to slap him across the cheek. “That is no way to talk to your Master!”

Undeterred, Khaled kept riding. After every abuse that he’d endured, there was no way a mere backhand was going to stop him. He felt himself smiling, a dark and twisted little upturn gracing his lips. “Oh, I know you missed this, you sick son of a fuck!” he gloated. “I figured those girls in the whorehouses could only satisfy you for so long! I am your perfect plaything, doing exactly what you have trained me to do!” His pace was becoming erratically frenzied as he sought release from the ever-mounting pleasure. Thomas bucked his hips into Khaled’s, trying to keep up with him as he squeezed the young man’s hips impossibly tight. That’s right, I can’t cum yet, not until he cums at least, I’ve got to get him to cum first, Khaled reminded himself.

“So, so tight –you’re gonna rip my dick off, Khaled!”

“What are you complaining for?! You wanted this!” he screamed. He was close, so close, he just had to hold out a little more-

A strangled mix between a roar and a moan erupted underneath him as a familiar pulse of hot seed injected deep within. Khaled didn’t take much longer to cum after that, spilling himself over imported cotton as he rode through the high of his climax. His grip on the front and back seats slackened, knees and thighs trembling with the effort to keep himself seated on the man’s cock. When Thomas finally let go of his hips to gently guide him down onto his chest –face first into the puddle of his own spend –Khaled went down limply without a fight. He rested his head against his master’s chest, picking up the sound of the older man’s heartbeat and the smell of cologne and sweat and sex radiating off his broad body.

“Holy fuck, Khaled.” Thomas’ voice rumbled in his ribcage as his fingers idly played with Khaled’s hair. “That was kinda hot-”

“Nope,” Khaled cut off, “stop talking. Please.” Fortunately, this time, he listened.

The mob boss and his slave fell into a contemplative silence as they lay against each other. The silence only broke by the fingers in Khaled’s hair, stopping as they twirled a single lock of hair. “Oh my god, is that a gray hair?” the man asked incredulously.

Khaled laughed/cried again.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@defire

[nexfox-art-writingblog]

Fox Ears- 3

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AN: Quick explanation on the pronouns, just because I think it might get kind of confusing. Kitsu only uses female pronouns when she’s having a flashback or being too “human”. She doesn’t do it intentionally or even realize most of the time. Also, let me know if you do or don't want me to tag you. Enjoy!

CW: touch starved pets, institutionalized slavery, pet whump, pet kitsunemimi, pet fairies, multiple pets, intimate whumper, sensory issues mention, collar pulling, classism (?), ptsd (very light mention)

Kitsu followed Hiral down the stairs and into the large dining room. The fox looked around, still amazed by the beauty of her mistress’s house. Her mind briefly flashed back to the training center and it’s stale white walls and fluorescent lights that were never quiet. They quickly shook their head and looked up their mistress adoringly. If they were good and pleased their mistress, they would never have to go back. They just had to be good.

“Kneel there,” Hiral ordered, pointing to a raised cushion next to her chair

Kitsu nodded, bowing slightly “Yes, mistress. Thank you for your generosity.”

They smiled at their mistress as they kneeled on the cushion, wagging their tail gently. They wagged their tail more for the love of the sound and to please Mistress than actual joy. The cushion was made of a velvet the same shade of red as Kitsu’s collar. They were grateful for the cushion, although glad their dress was long enough to keep their skin off the velvet. They knew they were a bad pet for it, but she hated velvet. It poked her skin the wrong way and felt like nails on a chalkboard or those awful fluorescent lights.

“Of course, my little fox. Now, wait here while I go welcome our guests.”

They blinked at their mistress, her voice having suddenly pulled them out of their thoughts “Yes, mistress.”

...

Kitsu sat as perfectly beautiful and still as a statue as they waited for their mistress. After a few moments, Hiral returned with three other people. The man stood tall and dignified with gold beads in his hair that perfectly matched the golden freckles flecked across his dark skin. Next to him stood a short, curvy young woman. She seemed to practically bubble over with excitement as she adjusted her colorful dress that in no way matched her bright red afro. The last person to enter was a tall woman with dark hair and an icy blue gaze that seem to pierce right through Kitsu.

“Ooooooo!!!! Is this your new pet, Hira??” gushed the short woman

“Yes, it is, Dia. She’s quite pretty, isn't she?” said Hiral proudly, tilting her head to the side to see Kitsu better

She?, Kitsu looked at their mistress with confusion. They are a pet. Not a “she”.

“She is gorgeous!!!!! Ugh, I love her already!!!!” said Dia, playing with Kitsu’s hair and petting their ears

In the bliss of being pat, Kitsu decided it was better to keep quiet. After all, rules are only for pets, not their owners.

“Another girl, Hiral? Don't you ever get bored of them?” asked the man as everyone sat in their places

Hiral hooked a finger under Kitsu’s collar, pulling them closer to her. They melted into her touch but managed to move one knee slightly to avoid being pull into their mistress’s lap, “Of course not, Zavir. You know I only buy females. And, how do you suppose I could ever get tired of such beauty?”

“What will you use this one for? She’s too pretty and weak-looking to be anything but a lap pet or a bedroom toy.” said the other woman, her eyes still piercing through Kitsu uncomfortably

“I'll probably use her for a little of both, honestly. I’m sure she’ll end up being my favorite impulse purchase. Why? What would you use her for, darling?”

The woman continued to stare at Kitsu before she spoke “You don’t make impulse purchases.”

Hiral just smiled at her silently.

Just then the kitchen door opened and two fairies walked out, each wheeling a cart of food to the table. They wore matching kitchen uniforms and kept their wings folded neatly behind themselves.

“Thank you, Luna. And you too, Sol,” said Hiral, giving each a quick pat after they finished setting the table

They nodded, both obviously very happy to be praised, and bowed out of the room.

“Open,” ordered Hiral, offering Kitsu a bite of her food

The fox opened their mouth without hesitation and tentatively took the bite. The meat was perfectly flavored and practically melted in their mouth.

“Do you like that?” Hiral asked, laughing at Kitsu’s expression

“Aww!!! I can't believe how cute she is!!!!” exclaimed Dia

“And I can't believe you would eat off the same fork as a pet.” said the sharp-eyed woman

“Oh, come now, Aria. Don't tell me you don't find her face at least a little cute,” said Hiral, grabbing Kitsu’s face and turning it toward Aria

Kitsu melted into the touch, their ears laying down and their tail wagging happily.

“Even I must admit, she is rather cute,” Zavir said as he tilted his head slightly, his face without any particular expression

“I'm not denying her cuteness, I'm just saying it isn't exactly commonplace. You are one of the most important figures in all of Avaric if not all of Meadai and people may get the wrong idea if you treat your pets like consorts.”

“Oh, Ari! That reminds me! Have you decided on a royal consort yet or are you still toying around with all of those poor boys?” asked Dia

...

Slowly, the night dwindled to a close, and everyone got ready to leave.

“Thank you so much for the lovely meal, Hira!!!!!! And thank you for being so cute, Kitsu!!!” said Dia, giving Hiral and Kitsu each a hug before walking out the door

“Yes, thank you, Hiral. I'll be seeing you,” said Zavir bowing to Hiral and leaving for his car

“Have a good night,” said Aria, kissing Hiral’s cheeks

Hiral stood at the door and waved them goodbye as they all drove away.

Taglist: @kim-poce @druidx @acetheaxolotl7 @crow-with-1-knife @hypnokittynicole @star-mochi-draws @mothmxwhump @teamwhump @boonasaurusrex

[whumppmuhw]

Whumptober Day 31: Crying, truth serum*

tw: restraints, choking, magical whump, noncon drugging (sort of? forcing someone to drink a potion), interrogation, betrayal, torture mention

*alternate prompt

Halloween whump!

...

Whumper sat down at the small table with a bag of candy. He dropped it on the table with a thump, catching Whumpee's attention.

Whumpee's eyes went wide, and he started salivating. The food Whumper had given him was so bland, and he bet the candy tasted like heaven.

"Oh, this caught your eye?" He chuckled, and grabbed a piece. "I love Halloween. Trick or treat, Whumpee?"

"Treat...?" he answered hesitantly, knowing full well that none of Whumper's games ever ended well. He was extremely aware of the ropes digging into his skin, keeping him from grabbing the bag of candy and feasting on it.

"Good choice." Whumper was unwrapping the candy painfully slowly, making it known to Whumpee every second of his enjoyment. He popped the small chocolate in his mouth, with an "Mmmmm" and a "Ohh, that's good." Chewing it slowly and thoroughly, watching as Whumpee's mouth gaped.

He couldn't take watching it anymore, thought he knew he probably shouldn't. "May I-may I have a piece?"

He looked at Whumpee thoughtfully.

"...please?"

"Sure, why not. Open wide." He walked over to Whumpee, wrapper in hand, and shoved it down Whumpee's throat.

He started choking and sputtering, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. His throat started to burn, and he tried desperately to get the wrapper out.

Whumper grabbed another candy to unwrap, dropping the confections in one hand and shoving the wrapper into Whumpee's throat, pushing the first down again with it.

He coughed up the wrappers and pushed them out with his tongue, tears flowing down his face. "Y-you can stop now," he sobbed when the worst of the choking stopped. "I don't want any more candy-" His voice hitched on a cough, and Whumper backed away.

"Okay, then." He popped the candies in his mouth and picked another piece from the bag. Whumpee was relieved to watch him place the wrapper on the table. "You said you wanted a treat, so how about something to wash it down?" He pulled out a small glass vial from inside his jacket. The vial itself was beautiful, with its faceted sides and smooth curves, but the liquid it carried was a gorgeous bright green.

He didn't trust Whumper, but he couldn't struggle as Whumper unplugged the vial and poured its contents into his mouth. He swallowed, not wanting to anger Whumper by spitting it out and wasting it.

He sat down again, picking up a clipboard and pen he kept in the room. "Halloween is a great time, for things like witches and spells and potions. That lovely little drink was a gift from my friend, and her work is quite magical."

He had heard rumors of witches in his area, but no one had ever dared to interfere with one; they were too powerful, too unpredictable.

"Let's see how well she did. How did your colleagues infiltrate this place?"

"They briefly stole a key so they could copy it, and entered on a night when nobody, including the janitor, was working there. Our hacker took down the cameras from our base so they could move freely." It was a question he would have never answered. Yet it slipped so easily off of his tongue, and he couldn't stop it. He immediately felt deep pangs of guilt and regret and bit the inside of his lip.

"Wonderful," he stated, jotting down notes. "The truth serum seems to be working great."

Truth serum? Oh no, oh no no no. Fuck, I don't wanna betray everyone!

"Let's continue-"

"No, I don't want to continue, I'd be betraying my friends- well, I think of them as friends, I really don't know how they feel about me. Oh, and I really don't want to let down the guy I like, he doesn't know I'm bi, but I really like him and hope he'll go out with me. Plus, they're all I have, if they kicked me out I'd have nowhere to go, they've been helping me pay my rent." What am I saying?

"Ha! This is much better than I thought it would be. Look on the bright side, Whumpee, you keep this up and maybe I won't have to torture you anymore for answers."

"Honestly, part of me would be okay with that, I hate torture, and I'm so scared of you. But I want to stay loyal to my friends, and I don't want answers to just roll off my tongue, like the way-"

"Whumpee, that's enough," he said sharply, cutting Whumpee off. "Let's get back on track. I want to squeeze as much out of you as I can while this dose lasts. Why, exactly, did your team want to break in?"

Here we go.

[pigeonwhumps]

Cookies and sweaters

Finding Safety masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy

Aaliyah and Cass, along with the other rescues in Sandy's safehouse, bake cookies for the Christmas tree and get presents.

Set on their first Christmas Eve in the safehouse, a few weeks after their arrival there.

3k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, recovery whump, implied past non-con, briefly mentioned past minor whump, past dehumanisation, past degradation, self degradation

The key turns in the lock as they're kneading the dough, and it feels like time stops in the little, too-messy kitchen.

Aaliyah freezes, heart pounding, hands holding the cookie dough. Tom, little Tom who makes her head hurt, crawls under the kitchen counter, arms around his legs. And Letitia scurries to greet whoever's entering (please let it be Mx Sandy and Cass and Xiu back from shopping, please don't let Mr Jacob have forgotten something, he's supposed to be away from here for Christmas, please, please).

"Welcome home, Mx Sandy."

"Thank you, Tish. How's the morning been?"

"Good, Mx Sandy. We started making the cookies for the tree and, and Tom's made a calendar."

"That's great, honey. Do you want to show me?"

"Yes, mx."

Aaliyah stands up straighter, dropping the dough. It's far too messy in here, she really hopes Mx Sandy doesn't punish them for it, or at least that she only punishes her, please, please. Tom and Letitia don't deserve to be punished. People never like mess, it's far too much to hope she won't be punished at all.

Mx Sandy enters the room, followed by Letitia nervously, then Cass and Xiu, both carrying bags which they set down in the corner before washing their hands.

A tiny bit of Aaliyah unclenches. It's Cass. Cass is safe. He's safe he's safe he's safe. His eyes immediately lock onto her and he limps over, standing beside her. She finds his hand and squeezes it.

"Let's have a look at this dough then," says Mx Sandy, and Aaliyah steps aside, in front of Tom's table. She has to hide him, has to get Mx Sandy to punish her, not him. He's so little.

Mx Sandy looks in the bowl. "What flavour did you use? Orange zest, right?"

"Yes, mx," says Letitia. "Is it, is it okay?"

Mx Sandy beams at them. "It's perfect. It's alright, Aaliyah, you won't be punished. Or you, Tommy, you can come out from under there if you like."

Tom crawls out and stands slightly behind Aaliyah, clutching the hem of her oversized top. "You, you promise?"

"I do. There's nothing wrong with making a mess here."

Tom nods. "I, I know. I, I'm sorry, I forgot, with, with the white rooms and the, the white walls, I, I forgot, I forget, I can't–"

Aaliyah turns and wraps the boy in her arms. He's so young, so small. An adult now, Mx Sandy thinks, but he wasn't when he came here, apparently. He makes her head hurt but she can't not comfort him.

"That's okay, honey," murmurs Mx Sandy, "we're here to remind you. Does anyone want to start rolling out the dough?"

"I will," replies Xiu softly.

"Good girl. Tom, want to show me your calendar?"

Tom nods and peels himself away from Aaliyah, wringing his hands. He has a smudge of cookie dough on his glasses, and he swipes at it as he crosses the room and picks the decorated paper plate up from the table, a mini tear-off calendar stapled underneath. He's drawn a jungle scene, of course.

"That's excellent, honey."

Tom beams. "Thank you."

"You should all choose a cutter for your cookie. Cass, Aaliyah, Xiu, have you ever made tree cookies before?"

Cass doesn't respond at all, and Aaliyah shakes her head (she's never done any baking, Master didn't buy her for that, and he wouldn't have let her touch his food anyway. She refuses to think about the bake-at-home dog biscuits she was made to prepare for Cass one time). Xiu says, "No, Sandy. I did cooking and baking for my Sir but not these."

"Okay. That's okay. I'll show you how to make them. Or Tish can, if you'd like, Tish? You're an expert by now."

Letitia looks away shyly and nods.

"Excellent. I'm going to put away the groceries."

Aaliyah frowns. Isn't that a pet's job? She can't say anything though, and she watches as Mx Sandy opens the fridge and starts piling food in out of the bags. Xie've even bought some of those stringy cheese sticks she likes so much.

Aaliyah really doesn't understand why xie're so nice.

Letitia picks up a tree-shaped cookie cutter and lays it on the flat dough. "You take the cutter and, and press it down on the dough until it goes all the way through. Then you poke a hole in the top and, and put the cookie on the tray." She demonstrates, placing the tree-shaped cookie on a greased baking tray. "See? Now you can do it."

Tom bounds forward to pick a giraffe cutter, and Letitia smiles fondly at him, stepping back so he and Xiu can make their cookies (Xiu's picked a little cat. It's cute). Cass lets go of Aaliyah's hand but doesn't move himself. Aaliyah steps forward to choose hers. Maybe if she does, Cass will follow.

There's a lot of cookie cutters on the table and Aaliyah blinks, overwhelmed by all the choice. There's so many, how can she choose? She shouldn't be choosing anyway, that's a people thing, it's for her Master to do.

But he's not here anymore.

Someone's tapping her on the hand and she turns to see Tom bobbing up and down beside her.

"You, you having trouble deciding?" Aaliyah nods. "Do, do you want some help?" She nods again, and Tom looks over the cutters thoughtfully, choosing a moon and holding it out to her. "If, if you like."

Aaliyah smiles and nods gratefully, taking it in both hands. She heads over to where Xiu is carefully pressing her cat into the dough. Xiu glances up at her.

"Do you think we're doing this right?" she asks softly.

Aaliyah hesitates and then nods. It looks like how Letitia did it anyway, so it's probably okay, right?

"Good. I wouldn't like to make a mistake. That would be bad."

Xiu's designation is, was, partly Domestic, and Aaliyah wonders if her Sir was a perfectionist, the way she's so careful with everything. Careful movements, careful chores, careful cookie cutting. Aaliyah steps up next to her and cuts her own cookie, making a hole at the top of the moon with the end of a teaspoon. She transfers it to the tray beside Tom's giraffe.

"You can cut some small ones to eat too in a minute," says Mx Sandy, passing by to put a jar of peanut butter in the cupboard. "They won't need holes. Let me check we have all the tree cookies first."

Mx Sandy crosses to the tray with a smile, ruffling Tom's hair on the way. He beams.

"We're one cookie short," says Mx Sandy after a quick count. "I know which one is yours Tom, Letitia... Xiu, Cass, Aaliyah? One of you? You don't have to make one if you don't want to, but it's a nice tradition."

"Dirty mutts don't touch things used for people food, mx," says Cass roughly, hunching his shoulders.

"You're not a dirty mutt, Cass," says Mx Sandy firmly, "and you eat food made here normally, what's the difference with these?"

"That's made for me, mx. I do not, um, dirty anything meant for people. But I might touch the dough making a cookie and dirty mutts shouldn't do that. Not if people will use it too. Begging your pardon, mx."

Mx Sandy bites xir lip. Aaliyah shuffles closer to Cass and puts her arm around him. He has to make a cookie for the tree!

"Okay. Okay, Cass, we'll work on dissuading you of the dirty mutt thing later, because you're not one but I can't see a way to persuade you of that right now. For now, just know that you're allowed to touch things. You can make yourself a cookie, Cass, that's allowed. Why don't you choose a cutter?"

Cass looks down at Aaliyah, who nods. Mx Sandy said he can make a cookie, so he should make one!

Warily, he approaches the cutters spread out on the table and looks them over. He picks out a star gingerly with two fingers and holds it up.

"That's good. Cut some smaller ones too, if you like, so we can eat them."

"You're, um, sure, mx?"

"Yes. Go on, before Tom uses all the dough."

Tom looks up from his mini jungle of cookies, turning bright red. "Oh, I'm, I'm sorry, Sandy."

"It's fine, honey. You carry on. There's still enough dough for Cass."

Cass cuts his cookie and places it on the tray, and by silent agreement the others stay back, letting Cass and Tom cut the small cookies. Once they're done, Mx Sandy puts the tray in the oven.

"And now we wait. We have some presents to give you all. They're nothing bad, all good things. I hope you'll like them. But first, shall we put some music on? Any preferences?"

Cass shifts awkwardly and glances at Aaliyah. "Please can we have, um, no Christmas songs, mx?"

Aaliyah shudders at the memory of Christmas Day fights and Christmas songs playing as Master... well. No, no Christmas songs.

"Of course. Tish isn't fond of them either."

"Carols specifically," says Letitia, folding against Mx Sandy's side. "Too long in my box under a Christmas tree."

Mx Sandy presses a kiss to her forehead and murmurs something Aaliyah can just hear.

"I'm sorry, honey."

"Was your parents, not you," Letitia mutters shakily back.

"But still, if it wasn't for me–"

"–I might have gone to someone who wasn't, wasn't as kind," finishes Letitia firmly. Mx Sandy pulls her into a proper hug.

Cass exchanges a look with Xiu and squeezes Aaliyah before stepping away, Cass pulling what Aaliyah thinks might be clothes out of a shopping bag while Xiu piles them neatly.

If they're the presents... if Cass helped choose them... maybe they're not too bad.

Mx Sandy steps away from Letitia and takes a shaky breath. "Okay. Okay, right. Thank you, Cass, Xiu. I'll put on the mixed playlist we made earlier in the year, yeah? Aaliyah, Cass, we'll add some songs you like to that soon." Xie fiddles with something on xir phone and a country song starts playing out of the speaker. "So. Presents. You can all sit down if you like, you don't need to stand around."

Aaliyah, Cass and Xiu sit down, Cass slumping over slightly with a wince. His leg must be bad if he's visibly wincing, and Aaliyah leans against him, trying to share her body heat. Letitia frowns at him and crosses to the microwave, putting a reusable heating pad in.

"You sit down too, Tish, I'll do that," says Mx Sandy, and Letitia nods, taking a seat beside Xiu. Tom leans against the side, feet tapping away.

"Is, is it okay if I don't sit, Sandy?" he asks nervously, and xie nods.

"Sure. It always is. Here you go, Cass." Xie hands Cass the heating pad wrapped in a Christmas tea towel, and he presses it to his thigh.

"Thank you, mx."

"No problem Cass. You can use them when you like, you don't have to wait."

"Yes, mx."

Aaliyah squeezes his hand. She knows he hates asking for things, hates the feeling that doing so makes him weak. Master used to laugh at him and call him a 'bad, weak mutt' when he couldn't walk properly, and she knows he's scared of that, too.

"Aaliyah, yours is on top, you okay having it first?" She nods, insides twisting with nerves, and Mx Sandy passes her a bundle of fabric. She unfolds it, grateful at least that it's not wrapped.

It's a sweater. A Christmas sweater, like she's seen some spectators at Cass' fights wear. She banishes those memories from her mind.

It's... strange. This sweater clearly isn't meant to show her off. She pulls it on and it's just... warm. Baggy, oversized, and she pulls the wool over her hands, curling into it. It's dark blue with snowflakes and a large reindeer in the middle.

She loves it. She smiles widely and bows her thanks.

"You're welcome, honey. Cass chose it."

Aaliyah turns to Cass and gives him a hug.

"That's a white-tailed deer," says Xiu suddenly, and Aaliyah turns to her as she claps a hand to her head. "I don't know where that came from, my apologies."

Aaliyah shakes her head. She doesn't mind. It's another piece of Xiu, before... before.

"It's fine," says Mx Sandy concernedly, "do you want some painkillers for your head?"

"No, thank you, Sandy."

"Okay. Do you want to tell us about the deer?"

Xiu nods. "On Aaliyah's sweater, it's a white-tailed deer, not a reindeer. Reindeer are shaggier. I don't know how I know that though."

"Because whoever you were before WRU did. Don't pressure yourself, more memories might come back if you wait." Xiu nods. "Okay, Tommy, you're next."

Tom takes his bundle of fabric and unfolds it. He makes a small sound of delight and throws it over his head, grinning.

His sweater is more of a sweatshirt, with a racoon in Christmas lights and a Santa hat, surrounded by a knit pattern.

"Thank you thank you thank you!"

"I thought a fleecy sweatshirt would be better for you," says Cass, "I know you cannot stand wool on you."

Tom beams.

The rest are all knitted. Xiu has a pattern of penguins on blue, and Mx Sandy has a green sweater that looks like a Christmas tree that makes Letitia burst into giggles. Xiu flushes proudly at the reaction. Letitia herself has a bright red knit with a llama on, and Cass has a dark blue sweater with dancing Santa Clauses on that he puts on carefully, almost disbelievingly, wrapping the wool around his hands.

"Thank you. It is the warmest thing I have had of my own in a long time." He makes a choked sound somewhere between a sob and a comment, and Aaliyah wraps her arms around him before he can make a comment about mutts not getting proper clothes – not that she knows he will, but Master used to say that a lot.

He feels soft in this jumper.

Mx Sandy smiles around at them all. "I'm glad you like your presents. And thank you so much for mine."

"You paid," objects Xiu.

"Still. It's from you and Cass." Cass smiles slightly. "D'you want to decorate your cookies now? I'll get out the writing icing and sprinkles."

"May I make white icing?" asks Xiu.

"Go ahead."

Aaliyah watches as Xiu makes white icing and Mx Sandy fetches the rest of the cookie decorations. There's different colours of writing icing and lots of sprinkles and all sorts, and she feels that twisty, nervous feeling in her chest again.

"Just decorate it how you like. There's no wrong answer."

She swallows and nods, reaching for a tube of yellow writing icing. Carefully, making sure the line doesn't wiggle too much, she outlines the edge of the cookie. Then she uses some of Xiu's white icing to stick multicoloured sprinkles down the centre. She doesn't know how she remembers how to do this, and she's not going to think about it or it'll hurt her head. She looks to Mx Sandy for approval.

"That's very good. Do you like it?" She nods. "Then I like it. Once the icing's set you can thread some of this ribbon through the hole."

Mx Sandy passes her the green ribbon and some scissors, and Aaliyah cuts a length, then runs it through the cookie, looking at Mx Sandy's one from last year as a reference as she ties the ribbon.

She looks around at everyone else. She's ahead. Is that okay? Finishing first has always been a bad thing in the past, but this isn't that, is it, so maybe, maybe it's not too bad? Cass squeezes her shoulder.

His star is more complicated than hers, with a little face in the centre, and he's struggling a little to tie the ribbon. Not being allowed to use his hands for much other than fighting for a couple of years didn't really lend itself to being able to do complicated motions easily, she supposes.

She taps him on the arm and when he looks at her, gestures, "You want help?"

"Mutts don't–" Aaliyah cuts him off with a firm swiping movement with both hands, creating a cross. No, no, not that, Master's not here, he's not a mutt. "Yes. Yes, thank you, Aaliyah."

She smiles and takes the ribbon, tying it carefully in a loop. Cass puts his arm around her.

"Happy Christmas."

Aaliyah leans against him contentedly. Yes, yes it is. It might not quite be Christmas Day yet, but for once, for the first time, this is a happy Christmas. She realises, quite suddenly, that although she was created for Master, and she was mostly okay there, she was never actually happy. Not like she is now. She tries not to feel guilty about it, because surely she should be happiest with her Master?

But she wasn't.

A tear drips down her cheek.

Where she's happiest is right here, with Cass and everyone else. Especially Cass. He– he should have more than being treated like a fighting dog, and now he does.

Master took her and Cass on a walk, once, when the truck broke down and they needed to get to and from the Christmas Day fights. Aaliyah had been holding Cass up as he limped, bleeding, and as she'd looked in the windows of the houses they'd passed, all yellow and bright and warm-looking and full of people laughing and smiling nicely, she'd wished, briefly, that she was safe and warm and loved like that. It had been wrong to think, of course, so so wrong, but...

But, now she is. Now she gets to have that. She wipes her cheek and smiles at Cass, tapping the morse code message Letitia taught them on the tabletop.

Happy Christmas.

[our-flag-means-death-ao3feed]

Stede Bonnet Goes Grocery Shopping

by mrscratch13

A shitpost turned into a crackfic turned into smut. Started on my twitter so follow me there if you wanna @mrscratch13. Stede gropes some food and then has a mini adventure. Warnings: NSFW, blood mention, head injury, sex jokes, casual use of f slur as self identification/reclamation.

Words: 5805, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Our Flag Means Death (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Characters: Stede Bonnet, Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Israel Hands, Izzy has a twin, Wee John Feeney, Jim Jimenez, "Calico" Jack Rackham, Mary Allamby Bonnet, Roach (Our Flag Means Death), Spanish Jackie (Our Flag Means Death), Buttons (Our Flag Means Death), The Badminton Twins

Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet

Additional Tags: Food mention, Its a grocery store theres a lot of food mentioned, twt fic, Stede Bonnet grocery store fic, gay stede, gay gentlebeard, bisexual Mary mentioned, blood mention, Head Injury, slight whump, izzy has a twin - Freeform, really bad jokes, this started as a crackfic thread, Crack Treated Seriously, NSFW, smutty smutty smutty, full of inappropriate jokes that are probably only funny to me, wrote a lot of it drunk soz, horsecock cj, Horsecock Stede, concussion, f slur briefly used-- censored

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/46916701

[deluxewhump]

Martin Olson: You Want To Fear Me

(Unplanned snippet time)

CW: pet whump, very dark aspects of pet whump but nothing actually happens, mention of withholding food as a method of control, starvation, death mention

-

Where Erik was still a fairly heavy drinker and fan of red meat, Martin was more apt to be making fresh pressed juice in his kitchen, drinking kombucha in the evenings. He was bit of a health nut, Carlo surmised, but he was also always giving him extra food. Not just his type of food, but things he wouldn’t eat himself.

Carlo brought up that fact up one morning, in a crowded and sunny cafe. Martin was having an americano and a boiled egg. Carlo was having a latte and a coffee cake muffin.

Martin just smiled and said, “You’re young. You’ll be fine. Eat.”

Carlo picked at the top of the muffin, streusel crumbles of cinnamon sugar. “So it’s like the cold showers?” he asks quietly, so the businessman with his laptop the next table would hopefully not overhear. “Why Erik did that to me? Does that?”

“Maybe,” Martin said, taking a sip of his coffee. He was in a tan suit, a blue shirt under the jacket. His shoes looked wildly expensive, chocolatey leather. His watch caught the sun as he lowered his paper cup and shone briefly into Carlo’s eyes.

“Why don’t you do it, then?”

“What?” he asked, leaning his elbows closer on the table so he could drop his voice lower, as casually as if they were discussing lunch plans. “Starve you? Because I’m not in the business of torturing the pets I keep for pleasure, Carlo.”

“What happened to the girl?” Carlo asked boldly. “The girl pet you said you had? The one I heard the fake story about.”

Both he and Martin knew he was only so brave because they were in public. Martin didn’t seem to mind, but Carlo’s heart still started hammering anyway, giving him enough adrenaline to bolt and run if he needed. He sat very still. Perfectly civil. All broken in.

“You met her.”

Carlo frowned.

“Melinda. My secretary at the office. That’s her.”

Carlo put a piece of topping in his mouth and let his saliva try to melt it. “Oh.”

It could be a lie. He could’ve had the girl shot in the woods of West Virginia when he was tired of her, rolled into an unmarked grave. Or worse, he could’ve sold her cheap.

Martins eyes narrowed in a smile that creased the crows feet at the edges. “You want to fear me so badly, don’t you? You want a boogeyman to fit the myopic little worldview you’ve been spoon-fed. But I’m just a man, like any other. I’m not perfect, but I’m not some monster.”

“It’s not myopic,” Carlo said, cautiously defensive. “I was in the warehouse all the time. I went on… trips.”

I read a lot, he thought, but that argument sounded weaker.

Martin raised a knowing eyebrow at him, clearly bored of this. “Right. Come on, I’ve got to get to the office by eight.”

[leyswhumpdump]

Hidden Ink #1: Hunting Trip

Inspired by this post by @albino-whumpee about rough caretakers and feral whumpees.

Hidden Ink masterlist

Tropes and CWs: Hunter caretaker, reluctant caretaker, hissy kitten whumpee, brief blood mention, leg-in-beartrap whump, some swearing.

Mika rose before the sun did, fumbling with the hurricane-lamp until its glow illuminated the inside of the cabin. It was one his father had left him, a centuries-old relic that still worked by some miracle. By the time he’d pulled on his hunting boots and helped himself to the berries and jerky he’d scraped together the night before, the lamp was no longer strictly necessary. He made sure to turn it off before he went out.

It had rained in the night. Mika could smell the petrichor in the soil and on the trees. When he brushed past a shrub to get to the forest track, the leaves left wet smears where they’d made contact. He shivered a little—the rain had absorbed most of the unbearable heat from the day before—and lifted his bow away from the foliage to help keep it dry. The morning birds sang to each other in the canopy above.

The first thing to do, Mika decided, would be to check on the traps. He’d set up a few new ones yesterday, a little more efficient than some of the others. He hadn’t forgotten the way something had pulled itself loose, dragging the trap with it. Mika had followed the trail of blood some way before he’d concluded he wasn’t getting the trap back. It had been a harsh lesson and, if his father had still been alive, he would not have let him forget it. The size of whatever he’d initially captured would have kept him fed for weeks.

“All right,” he muttered to himself as he pushed away waist-high ferns. As much as he’d tried to maintain the path he’d beaten, the local flora had other ideas. “First trap—up here…”

First trap was empty, of course. Mika checked briefly for damage, then let it be.

“Second trap…”

And then he heard the deer. Thrashing, loud thrashing. Instinct pressed him against a nearby tree trunk, turning his face towards the sound. The bow trembled a little in his grip. Something big. He needed to not mess this up. Land a few arrows in it, finish it off before it caught wind of him and struggled even harder…

His back still to the tree, he manoeuvred with a hunter’s practised silence. Get a good view, get a good shot. He reached for the quiver at his hip, his fingers seeking an arrow. He drew back the string, aiming that arrow at the writhing patch of darkness, and waited for the moment.

Something stayed his hand. Not a conscious realisation, but an itch that urged him to reconsider. He lowered the bow, returning the arrow to its quiver before he’d even realised what he was doing. Stalling… why was he stalling? He was almost out of food at the cabin, with each trip this past week having ended in failure. He couldn’t afford to pass this up, and yet…

The deer sobbed. Mika had killed plenty, and was familiar with their dying throes. He had never heard one make that sound before. And that weakly struggling darkness didn’t have the form of a deer; the configuration of the limbs suggested something closer to home. The early sun illuminated the side of a face, and a matted tangle of hair that did not resemble a deer’s fur.

“Oh, fuck.” Mika ran forward.

Prising the trap away would have been perfectly possible with the correct technique. The person caught in its jaws did not know the technique. Mika saw rips on the trouser leg where they’d tried to brute-force it, saw the splatters of new and dried blood on the leaves of the forest floor. He couldn’t blame the captive for that. The position of the trap on their ankle had forced them to the ground, pressing their face into dirt. Even for someone who knew what they were doing, who knew the release mechanisms like Mika did, it would not have been a straightforward task. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise anyone would be… Here, I’ll help you.”

A scream startled the surrounding birds into silence. The thrashing recommenced, but without focus. Mika tried to catch the imprisoned leg and received a kick from the other. He was about to try again when a stone smacked him in the shoulder. A quick glimpse told him the captive was scrabbling in the dirt for another.

“Will you stop?” The impact of the first one would leave a bruise. Drawing back his bow-string was not going to be fun. “I’m not trying to hurt you!”

The captive’s hand did not still. Mika saw them grab another rock, this one much bigger. He did not hang around to see if they were strong enough to throw it. Instead he tackled the arm, using his weight to pin it against the ground, and the captive screamed until his ears rang. Under all the dirt, they were young. Probably a boy, although the presented profile and neutrally messy hair made it difficult for Mika to confirm that. Whoever and whatever they were, they were not content to let Mika contain them further. Mika had to duck his head as teeth snapped at his ear.

“I’m trying to help,” he snarled. “Help. Not hurt. Help.”

The boy hissed something incoherent, trying to raise his free arm to take a swipe. Mika shifted his weight so he was sitting between his shoulder blades. “If you keep wriggling, you’re going to do yourself a worse injury.”

Gradually the boy’s struggles stilled, although his shoulders heaved below Mika. Muttering to himself, Mika turned his attentions to the trapped leg. He knew he had no right to get so impatient, and indeed it was mostly a cover for the guilt. He’d set that trap, and a human being had stumbled into it.

“I’ll be quick,” he promised, and got to work on the mechanism. The jaws opened with a click, the metal teeth stained with the boy’s blood. “There, it’s done. I’m sorry again…”

The boy scrambled up, dragging his injured leg. Mika could tell from his stance that his centre of gravity was off. A pale, trembling hand reached for a discarded backpack that Mika hadn’t noticed. He was about to call him back, tell him he needed to look at the wound, when the boy’s balance gave out. Mika grabbed him, half-expecting a snap or a snarl, but the boy seemed to be beyond that. Glassy eyes stared uncomprehendingly under heavy lids as Mika lowered him to the ground.

“Great,” Mika muttered. Without a deadweight, the cabin was a half-hour away. He did not like to think about how much more difficult the journey would be if he had to drag the boy along narrow trails and treacherously steep slopes. He’d done it before with deer carcasses, and the multiple trips always left him exhausted. Slicing the boy into manageable parts would not be an option here.

“We’ll get that leg seen to,” he promised, hauling the weakly stirring shape over his shoulder.

The boy dug his nails into Mika’s back, a rebellion that reminded Mika just what he was signing himself up for.

Part 2

[jordanstrophe]

CW: Sickness, fever, confusion, delirious, hospital briefly mentioned, protective caretaking f l u f f

When Whumpee got discharged from the hospital, they were hardly any better from when they came. It was just one bad thing after another, but this time, it was sickness. 

“B-But I just got home!" *cough cough*

“I know, Whumpee, I know. You’ve been stressing yourself out too much. Please, rest, you need to heal.” Caretaker murmured, sitting at the edge of their bed pulling the blankets up around them.

“B-b-but I was getting b-better...!” Whumpee’s lip began to tremble, clutching the blankets as their head began to throb. Caretaker paused, watching Whumpee’s miserable expression as their heart broke for them. They had already been through enough as is, but now this? The poor thing was hardly getting enough rest, hardly able to stomach any food or even walk without getting dizzy!

“You will be, after you get some rest, I promise.” They tenderly brushed their hair back, their hand feeling the fever on their forehead. “Oh dear...” They murmured, quickly getting up and rooting for some medicine. When they twirled back around, Whumpee’s eyes were hardly open, barely able to keep up with themselves. They coughed a couple of times before Caretaker leaned them up, packing pillows behind their back. 

“Open.” They instructed. Eventually, Whumpee processed whatever was said as their lips slowly parted, prompting Caretaker to push a pill in and bring a cup of water to their lips. After struggling to swallow, they curled up on their side with a quiet murmur. Caretaker took that as their que to let them sleep, but before they could leave, their hand shot out gripping their wrist.

“What is it, love?” They asked, turning back around and falling to their knees at their side.

“..mm...  where.. am I?” They asked. 

Caretaker's eyes fell with a sad sigh, cupping their feverous cheek while grazing their thumb along their cheekbone. “You’re home, Whumpee. You’re home safe and sound.” They smiled, watching Whumpee’s eyes flutter open a peak with surprise. 

“Really?” They asked, their head slowly starting to slide down the pillow with slack.

“Really.” They whispered, as Whumpee instantly dozed off into sleep. Caretaker stayed for a while, watching their breathing, checking their fever, smoothing the blankets out after every twitch and jerk. They exhaled as they tucked one last strand of hair from their face. 

"I'm never going to let someone hurt you again."

"Ever."

Tag list: @grizzlie70  @alien-octopus @lave-whump @amethysts-sideblog  @whump-it-like-its-hot  @thingsthatgowhumpinthenight @yet-another-heathen @princessofonward @whatwhumpcomments  @ill-eat-you-if-you-cross-me @mascmasochist @hamiltonwhumpdump  @shokuhoemisaki @as-a-matter-of-whump @whumpasaurus101

o(^∀^*)o Thank you for reading!

[peachy-panic]

Auden Bell-Webb

Okay, so, I started the 1700s whump thing. It’s happening. We’re live, people. And we are going to be extra forgiving of my fumbling attempts to write a period piece of a whole different dialect for the first time. Pls. I had to google so many diagrams of an old british fleet ship for this.

I’m gonna go ahead and tag some people who showed interest on my initial post talking about this idea, but feel free to let me know if you would like to be added to a *real* tag list! @hold-him-down @redwingedwhump @royalwhumpness @thehopelessopus @starlightandpinot @straight-to-the-pain​

Warnings: mentioned death of family, starvation, withholding/contaminating food, light mentions of restraints, briefly mentioned attempted noncon (not happening to main character), indentured servitude, wrongful imprisonment

The placement of the ship’s galley, just above the cargo hold where the prisoners were kept, was either a thoughtless act or an intentionally cruel one. Given all that he had gathered from this particularly brutish naval crew, he was inclined to suspect the latter. 

Evening stew was on— fish, by the smell of it. Same as yesterday. And the day before that. The aroma of soup and hot biscuits wafted down through the boards of the ship, rolling the ache in his empty stomach into something unbearable, even as it mingled with the thick scent of piss and sweat and body odor that seemed to occupy most of the oxygen down here. The biscuits would be cold and hard by the time they reached him, the soup mostly broth after the fillings had been picked over by the passengers and crew, but he would consider it a lucky day to even be considered for rations before the food ran out. 

If the crewmen who oversaw the brig were in the mood for wielding their small powers today, the prisoners below deck may just slip their minds entirely. It wouldn’t be the first time, or even the first time this week. 

Auden’s limbs trembled with hunger, having lost most of his previous night’s supper to the violent storm that brought with it a renewed bout of seasickness. Even after what had to have been weeks, now, at sea, his body could not quite acclimate to the constant, unsteady motion of the waters beneath them, nor the odors that wrapped around him down here like a thick, woolen blanket in the peak of summer.  

He let his head fall gently against one of the iron stakes that made up the walls of his small prison, clinging to that lingering bit of coolness it offered, and closed his eyes. There was a comfort in it: the smell of iron, the rough texture of its surface against his skin. The irony did not escape him, that the very thing that caged him now was once the center of his life.

By the age of twelve and a half, he had lost both of his parents to illness. Coming from a small family, as they had, there were no aunts and uncles there to take the helm when young Auden Bell was left alone. He might have been crated off to an orphanage or worse had it not been for Orville Webb, the childless widow who worked as the town’s blacksmith. The man had been a father to Auden in every way that mattered. In addition to the trade of blacksmithing, he taught Auden how to be strong and brave and how to stand up for what he believed in— even and especially when it was not the popular belief.

He chuckled to himself, feeling the scratch of his overgrown scruff against the bars. If only Mr. Webb was here now to see that it was exactly that advice that landed him here. Here, being the brig of the ship. Not the ship itself. Though, in a way, he supposed that blame could fall partially on the man as well. If only he had managed to stay alive, Auden might not have been taken by the king's men in his place.

A year of indentured servitude in the colonies, as repayment for the traitorous actions of his adoptive father. That was the official sentence. 

Of course, the clock on that year wouldn’t begin until he reached his assigned station. Whenever, and wherever, that was.

Maybe the journey over wouldn’t have been half as bad had he been allowed to reside in the ward of the ship where the rest of the passengers — indentured or not — stayed. The conditions weren’t that much better, but at least they had hammocks to sleep in instead of a pile of soiled straw and some access to fresh air and sunlight. Auden had managed only one night aboard before he got himself thrown down here. 

One of the crewmen had gotten piss-drunk, nearly draining his flask dry upon the first nightfall of the journey. Auden had been delivering a stack of linens to the captain's quarters, on order from one of the overseeing officers, when he found the man with his hand up the skirts of one of the maidens he had seen accompanying her brother on the journey. She was young, or at least far younger than the man crowding over her. And she was crying. Auden hadn’t really taken the time to think. Credit it to his fresh grief or the disorientation of his circumstances, or perhaps to the warmth of the ale in his own belly, but there was very little deliberation between the moment he stumbled onto the scene of the crime and the moment his fist was making bloody, crunching contact with the crewman’s nose.

Facts and witnesses be damned, when it was the word of a trusted man of the captain’s and a traitorous hostage, it was clear which one won out. To the brig with him it was. He was only lucky that he hadn’t gotten any more time tacked onto his sentence for the infraction. Regardless, he liked to think Mr. Webb would have been proud of his actions. That is one small comfort he can cling to in this place that hosts so few. 

He must have dozed off against the cage door, because when he woke, it was to the obtrusive clatter of footsteps on the ladder; his first peek at sunlight in nearly a day. Auden squinted against it, fighting the instinct to shrink back from whatever visitor had come to see him. He had only one guess, and he was usually right. 

“Oi, mornin’ sunshine,” crewman Wesley greeted him, though Auden knew it had to be near sunset by now. “Feedin’ time for the pigs again.” He followed with a series of snorting noises that grated over Auden’s nerves like a dull-edged knife— much like every sound that came from his mouth.

“Your native tongue?” Auden quipped weakly, resenting the crack in his voice as he did so. 

Much to Auden’s irritation, Wesley’s expression didn’t lose the arrogant smirk. If not for the bars that separated them or his own weakened state, Auden would have loved nothing more than to remove it himself. 

“Didn’t your mother ever teach ya not to pester the ones handlin’ your food?” he chided. 

Don’t talk about my mother, he wanted to snap back, but instead settled for, “If you can get away with calling that rat piss you and your mates serve ‘food.’”

Wesley pointed his nose in the direction of the rancid bucket that sat in the corner of the small cell, as far from Auden as he could manage. “Of the two of us,” he said, “you’re hardly the one to be speaking of piss. Ya reek of it.”

Maybe if you would do your job and change out the bucket every once in a while. Auden bit his tongue, knowing his smart mouth would get him nowhere in this position, and also — begrudgingly — recognizing that he had a point. It wouldn’t be wise to antagonize his only direct access to food. Especially when he was already dazed and shaky from hunger. 

“Saved the good stuff just for me, I presume?” Auden said, reaching an iron-shackled hand through the bars for the soup. He pulled taut against the chain in an effort to hide the tremor. 

A yellowed line of crooked teeth peeked below his upper lip as he smiled down at him. “Only the best,” he said cheerfully. “Nothing I wouldn’t eat myself. In fact…”

Auden’s stomach dropped as Wesley moved his gaze to the bowl in his hands, tilting his head in consideration. When he brought the bowl to his lips and began to drink back the broth, Auden let his hand fall to the wooden planks below, defeated. It was fine. This was fine. Human bodies could last weeks without food. He had lasted days before, when times were at their hardest. He could do it again now, and he wouldn’t give this bastard the satisfaction of watching him suffer when he decided to steal his food. 

But instead of swallowing, Wesley brought the bowl down after just one swig, holding a mouthful of the stew behind closed lips. He watched Auden directly as he swirled it around in his mouth, tipping his head back to gargle in his throat. Then, to Auden’s sinking horror, he spit the liquid back into the bowl. 

“I’ll give your compliments to the chef,” he said, holding the dish out to Auden with a gnarled smile. When Auden only glared back at him, Wesley dropped the bowl to the ground just outside the bars of his cell, kicking it a few inches toward him, hard enough that some of the yellow-brown broth sloshed over the side. 

“Enjoy.”

Auden sat still and tensed, his eyes focused blankly on the wall ahead of him as he listened to the footsteps retreat up the ladder. He didn’t blink until the slam of the overhead door covered him in shadow once again. Even then, he took a few moments to just breathe, forcing the equal parts anger and despair to simmer in the pit of his stomach. Neither would do him any favors now.

In the dim light of the cell, he forced his eyes down at the bowl beside him, lip curling in disgust. His hand hovered in midair, his body urging him toward the only source of food he would receive today or possibly longer, while his mind recoiled. He closed his fingers around the rim and tugged it closer before picking it up and bringing it up to his chin. It wasn’t hot anymore, but it wasn’t completely cold either, and the smell of salty broth made his mouth water, even as his stomach twisted. Auden closed his eyes.

“Dammit, Webb,” he whispered into the quiet of the cell, and then immediately regretted it. If there was any part of his spirit that lingered with him, any chance that his mentor could see him now from the afterlife, he knew Mr. Webb would die all over again with guilt for the way his own actions had ricocheted back on Auden. He didn’t want him to feel guilty. He had only ever done what was right and what was good and decent, even when it didn’t align with the morals of King & Country. Especially then. He had done everything in his power to give Auden a good life when the odds were stacked against him.

He didn’t hold this against him. He didn’t want to, at least. He wouldn’t. Not when there were so many other places to direct his hatred now. And not when there were so many more parts of him that could use the energy he wasted on hating anyone. If he was to survive the following year — and the perilous journey that got him there — to gain his freedom, he would need to keep his strength in any way that he could.

Auden pinched his eyes tighter, so hard that he saw explosions of color set off behind his eyelids, and with a deep breath, brought the bowl to his lips.

Just as the surface of the warm broth reached his lip, his mind got the best of his instincts, and his stomach heaved, sending the familiar burn of bile into his throat. He swallowed it back and brought the bowl away from his mouth. Then, in a burst of rage that shot through his limbs like fire, he hurled the bowl at the far wall as hard as he could, watching the contents splash across the darkened wood, the dish clattering onto the ground and rolling into the darkest corner of the cell where he could no longer see it. It was almost definitely in his own head, but still he winced at the sound of laughter just outside the hatch door above. 

Bringing his legs up to his chest, Auden let his head fall forward against his knees, grateful that he was the only one in the cell at the moment so that he didn’t have an audience to his despair. 

He did not cry. He would not let them break him that easily. Not when he had so far left to go. Not when his true sentence had not even yet begun. 

[boxboysandotherwhump]

Dee and Sam whumptober 6

No. 6 - TOUCH AND GO

bruises | touch starved | hunger

Taglist: @what-a-whump @ashintheairlikesnow @vickytokio @thefancydoughnut @malcolmisthebrightestboy @redwingedwhump

CW: consensual spice (fade to black), beating mentioned, shame about scars (very briefly), heavily conditioned bonded pair, it’s still all pretty fluffy,

Shivering under the thin blanket, Sam tossed and turned in the big double bed that nearly filled the entirety of his and Dee’s tiny room.

It was the third night that he slept here alone, with Dee gone to undergo what their master called: ‘endurance training under difficult conditions’, when it really was nothing else but ‘keep Dee awake for days and beat him up, bullshit!’ At least according to Sam.

Dee, on the other hand, disagreed, saying it is ‘a way to get stronger to keep Sam safe and their master happy’, which were the only two things Dee cared about. Well, that and the squirrels that lived in the tree right outside their window. Dee had miraculously managed to bribe them with food so they let him pet them. Sam was only maybe a tiny little bit jealous. Whenever the furry creatures had shoved up on his window sill lately, Sam had grumbled, “He ain’t back yet,” and thrown one of his medical books in their general direction.

Kicking the blanket off Sam sniveled into the thin scratchy pillow. How the hell was he supposed to sleep while Dee was getting hurt? Beaten and shocked for being too soft, what he always, always was. Sam should be with him. Take care of him. Not lie around in a cold, stupid, empty bed.

“You useless shitty pet.”

His collar pressed painfully into his boobing throat as he swallowed down another sob, curling into a small shivering ball. Sam slipped away into fitful sleep before he remembered to reach for the blanket.

----

Sheets rustled and the mattress dipped, creaking softly. A warm shuddering breath tickled against Sam’s neck, while something warm and heavy lay over him, holding him close to the solid body behind him.

Dee!

Sam’s eyes flew open and he jerked awake, knocking his head into Dee’s chin.

“Ouch.”

Sam winced. “Sorry.”

Dee shook his head, rubbing his face against Sam's hair. “It didn’t hurt.”

‘You’re a shitty liar.’ Sam didn’t say. Instead he nestled closer into Dee’s embrace, humming against Dee’s bicep. “Welcome back.”

Shifting behind him, Dee nosed down to Sam’s ear and pressed a feather light kiss to the soft skin behind it.

Sam shivered ever closer, fingers gripping onto Dee’s arm as he tilted his head, face pressed into the warm spot between Dee’s forearm and mattress so his neck lay exposed. Dee obliged Sam’s silent plea for more. His open mouth was hot against Sam’s chilled skin, hesitantly sucking a gentle bruise into the tender dip where neck met shoulder.

A pliant moan spilled from Sam’s lips and he felt Dee twitch behind him, hips bucking. Grinning, Sam ground against him, relishing Dee’s quiet whimper, the warm tenderness between them. Dee’s breath ghosting over his neck sent goosebumps down Sam’s spine.

“So happy to see me?” he grinned and Dee froze, whining into Sam's neck in embarrassment.

Fuck, how could such a big man be so adorably shy?

Sam’s thumb began to rub soothing circles where he held onto Dee’s arm. He mouthed along the ragged line of one of Dee’s burn scars, earning a shuddering sigh from his beloved.

“I missed you.” Dee mumbled and Sam wanted nothing more but to lick the words from Dee’s lips and swallow them, have them sit forever in his gut, a warm gentle thing to nourish him.

Sam wiggled around, rubbing against Dee’s erection, already half hard in his underwear, until he finally faced him. “Missed you too. Hey- hey don’t.”

Face pressed into the sheets, muffling another choked off moan, Dee peaked up at him out of the corner of his brown unharmed eye. A warm blush spread from his ears all the way down and over his shoulders, washing out the bruise on his cheekbone. Sam brushed his fingers over it, barely a touch, before he wriggled them between Dee’s face and the mattress, forcing him gently to turn his head.

“Don’t hide.”

Closing his eyes Dee nuzzled into Sam's palm, seeking solace from his shame. “M sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sam breathed, kissing Dee’s eyelids, the spot between his furrowed brows, down to the tip of his nose, until he licked into Dee’s half open, panting mouth. Moaning, Dee cupped his ribs, broad warm fingers fitting into the indentations between them like they were both two pieces carved from a single stone. Sam let Dee guide him, press him flush against his body, his own fingers tangling in Dee’s short red hair. He wanted to hold on forever. Hear Dee’s soft breathy sounds forever. Hide in Dee’s solid warmth forever.

If there was anything good that had come from signing himself away it was loving this wonderful wonderous man.

For Dee, Sam knew he would sign again in a heartbeat.

That this, too, was exactly what their handler had wanted never even crossed his mind.

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

"I'm truly sorry, but I don't think we've ever met." memory loss angst? 👉👈🥺

anon... fam, this turned into an emotional rollercoaster and totally stole my braincell.

3.8k words. angst with a happy ending. 

tw: memory loss, minor anxiety, repressed memories, idiots to lovers, whump, angst with a happy ending, angst with a fluffy ending

---

It’s been three hours, five minutes, and forty-two seconds since the frigid breeze whipped Geralt’s angry words at him, shattering his fragile, stupid heart to pieces. Every syllable rings through Jaskier’s head over and over, slamming into him from all directions and crippling him with a bone-deep pain far worse than anything he’s ever felt before. The ache ebbs and flows, lancing through him with every step. Not even Geralt’s first frustrated blow to his abdomen had been this terrible.

Geralt… That’s the problem, isn’t it? He hadn’t been smart enough to get out of the gorgeous Witcher’s long, silvery hair soon enough. He’d overstayed his welcome, fallen in love in the meantime, and is now very out of sorts (and also alone in unfamiliar territory). The bard laughs but it’s a hollow sound. Jaskier has reached the edge of hysteria, his intelligent blue eyes now vacant and unseeing. Even as he stumbles through the underbrush, all he can picture is the snarl on Geralt’s face as the Witcher yells at Destiny to take Jaskier off his hands. 

Jaskier’s own hands are covered in sap and splinters from pushing tree branches away from his face as he traverses the darkening forest. His hair is full of debris and his clothes are torn and dirty; Geralt has all of his emergency supplies, still. Jaskier is pretty sure that his lute is still strapped over his shoulder but he realizes, with no small amount of surprise, that he doesn’t actually care.

He doesn’t have the capacity anymore. 

He can’t care… caring hurts too much.

If only Destiny had taken him off Geralt’s hands. Maybe then it would be okay. Maybe then, if Geralt was well and truly free of him and his irritating presence, the Witcher could be happy. He and Yennefer will surely come back around, they always seem to, and Ciri will be joining them soon enough it seems. 

There’s no need - no room - for a humble bard anymore.

Only five hours, thirty minutes, and twelve seconds after Geralt’s outburst at the top of the mountain, Jaskier’s delicate human body succumbs to the stress of the day.

He drops to the forest floor without a sound, grateful for the darkness.

---

Yennefer finds the bard in a heap a few miles away from the previous night’s elevated campsite. When she presses the back of her hand to his forehead she yanks it away almost immediately; he’s burning up, and his skin is clammy and sticky with sweat. The feathery bangs he flicks about and preens so much are stuck to his forehead and temples. He’s on the verge of shaking apart and Yennefer tosses her head imperiously, swearing.

“Damnit, Geralt. You and your incredibly foolish need to be alone all the time so you can brood and self-flagellate. Me, an ageless sorceress from one of the greatest magic schools on the Continent? I can handle a thorough tongue lashing. Fuck, I’m older than you and I’ve seen far worse but this… oh, you great lummox. You absolute bastard…” Yennefer mutters to herself as she assesses the bard’s deteriorating state of health, ranting to an invisible Geralt all the while. “You’re absolutely going to be hearing from me about this, Wolf.”

--- Three days, one hour, and fifteen minutes after Geralt dismissed him forever, Jaskier wakes up with a loud gasp and a violent shudder. He blinks slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the bright light streaming in through a window. Whatever he’s lying on is comfortable and the sheets smell fresh and bright, like lilac and freesia. A hint of gooseberry lies beneath it all, delicate and sweet. He glances around the space and finds it to be relatively bare; a guest room, perhaps. Maybe he’s a servant at some noble house? 

Jaskier only really knows that his name is Jaskier and that he plays music. He’s also rather talented with floral arrangements. 

Shortly after he’s finished purveying his (borrowed?) chamber, the very image of grace, beauty, and terror enters the room. The woman, whose coppery skin and enchanting violet eyes practically glow in the midafternoon sun, smiles down at him in a way that toes the line between Motherly and Shark-like. 

“How are you feeling, Jaskier?”

“I’m alright. And you?”

“Just fine. Geralt really did a number on us, huh?” she asks, a playful grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. He has the feeling that something isn’t right; she shouldn’t be looking at him so kindly. 

Her expression changes from friendly to horrified to confused in an instant, as soon as Jaskier manages to ask: “Who’s Geralt? And, pardon me, but I feel as if something is rather amiss. Who are you, my Lady?”

Whoever the gorgeous and terrifying woman is, she grimaces briefly. Then, as if by magic, the comforting smile returns. “I’m Yennefer, of course. I saved your life a few years ago, remember?”

Jaskier wracks his brain but cannot call the occasion to mind. “Unfortunately no, I don’t remember your no doubt heroic deed. Although I suppose that means I’m in your debt, doesn’t it? Do I work for you? Is that why I’m here?”

The woman blinks a few times, slowly, and then nods. “You’re my gardener and personal musician.”

Jaskier brightens, happy to have found himself in a safe environment. 

“But you’ve had a nasty illness and your mind is clearly fatigued. Rest another day or two and then we can see about getting you back into the fresh air.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” Jaskier nods.

“Yen is fine.”

“Thank you, Yen. I don’t know where I’d be without you,” he grins. 

---

Yennefer turns away to hide her pained expression. You’d probably still be with your beloved Witcher. 

She makes her way to the kitchen to fix Jaskier something to eat. He must be hungry after spending three days in a deep, healing sleep. She hadn’t been expecting the amnesia, though; it was an unexpected but not unsurprising turn of events. Heartbreak had done stranger things than a little bit of fever-induced memory loss. When she’d delved briefly into his mind she hadn’t seen any sign of Geralt. His face was absent from the bard’s consciousness; she would have needed to dig to unearth those memories. Whatever the Witcher had done was grievous, especially if Jaskier’s mind compensated with something as dramatic as burying Geralt completely to save itself from further harm.

No matter, she decides, the bard can stay here as long as he likes. It’s the least I can do for all the upset Geralt and I have caused him. Where is that idiot Witcher, anyway?

The sorceress quickly clears her agenda and her mind before returning to her guest room with a large tray of food, a bottle of Toussainti red under her arm. “Jaskier, darling, let’s get your convalescence started in style!”

---

2 months later

---

Jaskier watches a strange man ride up the long path to Yennefer’s manor, the hilts of his twin swords glinting in the sun where they’re slung over his shoulder. He has long white hair and the most devastating jawline the bard/gardener (or ‘bardener’ as he says to irritate his darling employer) has ever laid eyes on. He’s clad all in black, from his plain linen shirt to his tight leather trousers; Jaskier thinks he’d also look rather lovely in dark blue or perhaps forest green.

In front of him, wrapped securely against his chest by one strong arm, sits a little girl with ashen hair and frightened eyes. Haunted eyes. Jaskier’s mind fills with ballads, some familiar and some oddly dreamlike, their lyrics half-obscured and hazy. Ciri, he thinks for no reason. Her name is Ciri. And she is a Princess.

The brunette scurries from the garden alongside the house to the kitchen, searching for the familiar cloud of Yennefer’s strong perfume. “My Lady?” 

“Darling?” the sorceress replies, coming around the corner. She raises her perfectly maintained eyebrows and her lips quirk up into a smirk. “Did you sprint all the way from the west lawn?”

“There’s a- strange man- on the- drive!” he huffs. “White hair- horse!”

“Oh,” her eyes go wide with surprise. Then, in a split second, they narrow to slits. “Oh.”

“Do you, uhm, know him?” Jaskier asks, twiddling his fingers. “He’s rather handsome, Yen. Is he a former lover?”

“Unfortunately,” she growls. “I can’t believe it’s taken him two fucking months to get here. He’d better have a damned good excuse.”

By now Jaskier can breathe normally again and he straightens up, shaking his long, shaggy hair from his eyes. “He had a child with him. She looked scared, Yen.”

“Cirilla!”

Yennefer dashes for the front door and Jaskier follows instinctually. They’re always together and he can’t bear to let her confront this man alone. He’s spent every waking moment with Yen since he awoke that first day and she has grown to be his dearest friend; he’ll protect her even unto death. “Yenna, what’s wrong? Who is he!?”

“Geralt of Rivia,” she snarls. The name seems familiar; maybe from a ballad or story? Perhaps Yen has mentioned him before? 

“What about Geralt of Rivia?” a low, rumbling bass asks from the front hallway. Jaskier and Yennefer arrive in the doorway together and the man, Geralt apparently, takes a shaky step back. He recoils a bit, as if he’s been slapped, and Yennefer’s smile grows cruel. His voice, still incredibly low but now with a slight tremor to it, stutters out; “Wha- Yen, what is he- Jaskier? I only came to ask for help with Ciri, I didn’t know- I didn’t-”

Geralt’s stammered speech tapers off into silence and Yennefer’s brow furrows a second time. When the sorceress sets eyes on the child, who cannot be more than twelve years old, her expression softens again. Jaskier watches the most imposing woman in the world kneel, taking one small, pale hand in both of her own. “My name is Yennever of Vengerberg, former Sorceress of Aretuza. I am honored to meet you, Princess Cirilla. Geralt has come seeking protection, no doubt, and it is easily granted. I will do everything I can to help you.”

“Thank you, Lady Yennefer. And, uhm… Ciri’s fine,” the girl replies. Her voice is high and reedy, shot through with anxiety. She’s so young, Jaskier frowns. And yet she seems to have weathered an incredible storm.

“Ciri,” the bard bows from the doorway, low and dramatic. He sweeps his arm out to the side and bends his knees as awkwardly as possible, “I am Jaskier, private troubadour and gardener extraordinaire, under the employ of the magnanimous and dangerous Lady Yennefer, here. It is my greatest honor to make your very mighty and very royal acquaintance.”

“You’re silly, Master Jaskier,” the child giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hands. Geralt’s eyes grow wide and dart between Jaskier and the girl. Yennefer makes meaningful eye contact before nodding toward the door. Jaskier looks down at Ciri again when she asks: “Do you grow lots of flowers in Lady Yennefer’s garden, or just herbs and things for magic?” 

“I grow lots of things all over the property,” the brunette man steps forward and offers Ciri his hand, gesturing towards the front door with the other. “Would you like to come and take a look? I know all the scientific names, you can even quiz me if you like.”

“I know some,” she smiles shyly, accepting the offered hand. “May I go take a look at the gardens, Geralt?”

“Go ahead,” the Witcher nods dumbly. “Jaskier will take good care of you.”

“That I will. Now, let’s take a look at the flowers and let these silly adults have a chat,” Jaskier grins. He winks at Yennefer and disappears out the door, exiled Princess in tow. 

The two lively companions have toured through all the medicinal herbs and are halfway through Yennefer’s large collection of rose variations when the two other members of the party approach. Geralt looks sheepish, his eyes downcast. Yennefer looks triumphant; she is radiant in her victory as always. 

Geralt steps forward, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Jaskier, I’ve come to apologize for what happened when we parted.”

“Excuse me?” the bard chuckles, raising an eyebrow.  "I don’t know what you’re apologizing for, exactly.”

“When I yelled at you after the dragon hunt. It was only two months ago, Jaskier, surely you remember?”

Jaskier blushes, glancing anxiously between Geralt and his friend, whose violet eyes are stormy with emotion, “I'm truly sorry, but I don't think we've ever met."

Geralt gasps sharply and takes a step back, as he did in the entryway. Jaskier winces, seemingly on instinct, and shies away from the larger man. “You don’t remember me?”

“No…” Jaskier sighs. “I really don't. Should I?”

“You don’t… You don’t even remember Toss a Coin?”

“Oh, that ditty from town?” Jaskier perks up. “I know that song! It always gets stuck in my head.”

“You… You wrote that song,” Geralt’s face crumples. “About our first adventure together outside of Posada. With the elves and the sylvan...”

“I’ve never been to Posada,” Jaskier laughs, waving his hand dismissively. “They hate bards. They prefer troupes of traveling play-actors. Posada is far too serious for my tastes.”

Geralt seems to be in agony. His chest rises and falls unevenly, as if he’s on the verge of tears but unable to shed them. Can Witchers cry? 

How does he know that Geralt is a Witcher? Is it the two swords, the scars, or the strange eyes? How does he know that those are common Witcher traits?

His stomach lurches and he turns away from the group in case he needs to be sick. The ground spins and shivers in little ripples around him, unstable and impermanent beneath his feet. Yennefer is calling his name from somewhere far away and a pair of warm, strong arms are looped around his waist. Still, he can’t seem to breathe. Or focus.

There’s something missing. 

He starts to hum, trying to remember the words of that damned song.

The rest of the world fades in and out around him, finally disappearing altogether.

---

He’s gorgeous. 

Jaskier shoves another roll into his pocket. His eyes are focused on the man in the corner. He has long, snow-white hair and his shoulders are hunched forward protectively, as if he can hold the world out by sitting by himself. He’s glaring the table into submission, one fist clenched around his tankard. 

I want to write him a thousand ballads. I want to know what his hair looks like when he wakes up in the morning, before he brushes it out again. I want to know if he snores. I want… he stops himself. 

He makes his way across the room with eyes only for the stranger. “I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.”

The man looks away and Jaskier notices that his irises are gold. “I’m here to drink alone.”

Gods, his fucking voice… Velvet and gravel all at once. Melitele, does Jaskier want. “Good, yeah. Good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance… except for you.”

The man, the Witcher, Jaskier realizes, rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” he wheedles, sitting down across from the gorgeous stranger. “You don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting. You must have some review for me, three words or less.”

The man’s face stays stoic, expressionless. “They don’t exist.”

He realizes shortly thereafter that this man is not just any Witcher but the infamous Butcher of Blaviken, Geralt of Rivia. He could try to disengage himself from such a daunting character; he could easily make some kind of excuse and disappear back to the troubadour’s path, heading towards civilization, but it’s already too late. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt’s side ever again; he wants to write all those ballads he was thinking about earlier, when he glanced across the room. 

Jaskier has fallen head over heels in love. ---

Geralt cradles Jaskier against his chest and presses his nose deep into those chestnut brown waves. “Wake up, Jaskier. Come back to me, bard, it’s been too long.”

“Don’t you usually go all winter without seeing him?” Yennefer asks from the doorway. 

“It’s hell,” he replies easily. There’s no point in hiding his feelings from her. “I miss him every minute of every day.”

“Verbose this evening,” she remarks, taking a seat by the fire. “He’s dreaming, you know. He’s remembering you.”

“He’d forgotten?”

“He’d repressed it all,” she shrugs. “When I found him that day, feverish and nearly dead on the side of that godsforsaken mountain, he was barely coherent enough to open his eyes. He just kept asking for you, Geralt. Over and over he called for you, reaching his arms up, weak as they were. Gods, it was pitiful to watch.”

Geralt swallows. 

“I thought you were going to come back sooner. I was surprised when his memories didn’t resurface after two or three weeks. Short-term memory loss after a fever isn’t uncommon but repressing twenty years worth of feelings and experiences-” she whistles lowly “-it was impressive and tragic, all at once.”

“He forgot me?”

“Entirely.”

Geralt glances down, shame-faced. He adjusts Jaskier in his arms, holding him close and pillowing the bard’s head against his shoulder. “I deserve it, Yen.”

“He’s remembering now, though. He’ll probably be a little less than pleased to see you when he wakes up, but he knows who you are.”

“When will he wake?”

“Can’t say,” she shrugs again. “After I brought him back from the mountain it took three days for him to wake up. The first day was magically induced but after that it was just him… exhausted and heartbroken to the point of self-induced amnesia.”

“Fuck, Yen,” Geralt groaned, pressing his forehead into the soft warmth of Jaskier’s cheek. “How can I make it up to him?”

“Stay.”

“Hmm?”

“When he wakes up and he’s angry and upset, stay. Don’t stomp off or blow up or freak out,” she instructs. “If he asks you to leave, go, but otherwise… prove yourself, Geralt of Rivia. You wanted to be a knight once, didn’t you? Now’s your chance to play Prince Charming. Get down on your lovely knees and beg and apologize.”

“Hmm. How’s Ciri?”

“Fed, bathed, and put to bed. I’ll take care of her for as long as it takes you two morons to make nice again. Good luck, Geralt, I’m sure he’ll forgive you too easily for my tastes.”

She stands from her seat and leaves just as efficiently as she entered, carefully closing the door behind her. Geralt lays Jaskier back on the bed and takes a seat beside him on the mattress, kneeling just within touching distance, should Jaskier reach out for reassurance in his sleep. Geralt closes his eyes and slips easily into meditation. 

The Witcher is pulled from his trance a few hours later when Jaskier makes a startled sound and tries to sit up. Geralt opens his eyes and splays one warm, broad hand against Jaskier’s chest, forcing him back against the goose down pillows. “Stay still, Jaskier. You’re feverish and weak.”

“I’m still dreaming,” the bard grumbles, reaching to rub at his eyes with the heels of his hands. It’s adorable and Geralt grins widely, warmth spilling into his chest from some newly discovered fount of happiness. “You’re being too nice to me, Witcher.”

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier, for everything.”

“What’s everything, Geralt?”

“I’m sorry for pushing you away when I was angry and confused instead of communicating with you. I’m sorry for hurting you with my brash words and foolish actions; you have always deserved so much better and I’m so afraid that I can never give that to you. I take the wrong step at every turn, it seems, and yet you stay by my side. I didn’t want to risk hurting you the way I’ve already hurt Yen and Ciri, by tying us together against your will.”

“Darling Geralt,” the bard sighs. The Witcher scoots slightly closer and Jaskier lays a gentle hand atop his thigh. “It has always been my greatest pleasure to travel the Path with you and write of our adventures. I appreciate your concern for my agency and wellbeing, dear heart, but I am quite happy spending my entire human life in your presence.”

“Hmm,” the Witcher frowns. “You’re going to die someday.”

“And? So are you. So shall Yennefer, maybe.”

“Not likely,” Geralt jokes. Jaskier grins and the sight of it is so heartwarming that the Witcher wishes he could break down into tears. At least then Jaskier could see just how deeply his feelings ran. “I’m sorry, Jaskier, for blaming you for things that I brought upon myself. I love you dearly, and I hope that someday you can choose to travel with me again.”

“Excuse me?”

“I hope that you’ll-”

“No, the other bit.”

“I love you?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Oh. Yes, I-” Geralt clears his throat and looks Jaskier in the eyes, gold and blue locked together, “I love you very much, Jaskier.”

“Fuck.”

“May I kiss you, Jaskier?”

“Yes,” the bard breathes.

And then Geralt is lifting him up into his lap, one hand cradling Jaskier’s skull so so fucking carefully. Geralt’s other arm supports his waist, holding him steady. Their lips come together softly, carefully, and Jaskier’s soul spirals up to the ceiling with joy, his body abandoned. He is merely a vessel for the happiness that comes with kissing his Witcher. When they pull apart, both men are grinning like fools. “Oh, dear heart.”

“Yes, my love?”

“Never stop calling me that.”

“I swear I won’t, my love.”

From downstairs, Geralt hears Yennefer mutter, “Fucking finally.”

It takes twenty-two years, seven months, and one day, but Geralt and Jaskier manage to figure things out.

[spookyboywhump]

I literally rolled over and closed my eyes to go to sleep, only for them to snap open and me immediately grab my phone to write this

CW: minor electrocution, mentions of past captivity and past trauma

***

He scowled as he tried to unplug the charger, unable to get a good grip on it due to the size and placing. He managed to get it slightly unplugged, and that’s when his fingers slipped, touching the metal prongs that were still partially plugged in. He yelped as his hand snapped back, sitting back on the floor and holding his hand close to his body, staring silently at the outlet, nearly holding his breath. His arm hurt from his fingertips all the way up to his shoulder, the entire limb felt like it was buzzing with energy and a dull, pulsing pain. It was nothing compared to things he’d felt before, yet it was too much, especially after all the time that had passed.

Eli came into the room to see him just sitting there, but he knew something was wrong right away. He could see it in how tense and rigid he was, that look in his eyes like he wasn’t entirely there right now. He didn’t know what triggered this, he’d hurt him yelp but he didn’t see any blood or physical injuries, but he was holding his hand up to his chest. He approached him cautiously, hesitantly putting a hand on his shoulder, only for Zander to whimper.

“Zander…? Hey, what happened? Are- are you alright…?” He asked softly, but he didn’t respond, he was still just… staring. He knelt down next to him, reaching over and gently pulling his hand away from the one he was holding close to his chest, balled up in a fist. He still couldn’t see anything wrong, and Zander seemed to let him take his free hand. He briefly glanced at him, but it looked as though he wasn’t even really seeing him. “Zander.” He said again, sternly this time.

“H-Huh…?”

“Hey, are you okay?” He asked, but Zander just slowly shook his head, that blank look still in his eyes. He wasn’t sure what to do at first, he didn’t know what had caused this, he wasn’t sure if he was even actually hurt or upset, but something was wrong. He thought it over for a minute before lightly squeezing his hand to get his attention, deciding to try something Everett had done with him in the past. “Zander, do… do you think you can do something for me?” He asked. “Just, tell me some things you can see, just five things.” He said, and he could see his eyes dart back and forth, taking in the room around them.

“U-uhm… you…” He said slowly, briefly glancing at him. “I-I can see you… th-the couch… your bedroom door… the Uh, the coffee table…”

“Good, just one more…” He said gently.

“I Uh… the picture, the one on- the one- the one beside your- your bedroom…”

“Alright, that’s good. How about some things you can feel? Only four?” He asked. It took Zander a moment to speak up, squeezing Wren’s hand first.

“Your hand… it’s cold… a-and my arm hurts ... um… my collar is tighter… and, and I can feel my hoodie…” He said, finally moving his other hand to fidget with one of the drawstrings on his hoodie. He was starting to seem more present, which Eli took as a good sign.

“Okay… what about three things you can hear?” He asked, trying to encourage him to keep going.

“Y-you… the wind outside… and- and the uh, the music you were playing in the kitchen…”

“Two things you can smell?”

“I… I can smell the food you were making… and that- that candle you have on the table…”

“And one thing you can taste?” He asked, squeezing his hand again.

“I… think I taste blood…? I bit my tongue…” He murmured.

“That’s… not good, but you did good.” Eli told him. “Take a deep breath for me?” He asked, taking one himself just to demonstrate it to him, and Zander shaking copied him, seeming to relax just slightly. He was still shaking though, he still wouldn’t look at him, but he squeezed his hand back when Elias squeezed his. “Do you think you can stand?” He asked, and he slowly nodded. He helped him up, leading him over to the couch and telling him to take a moment to relax, leaving him so he could have some personal space.

He sat there silently once Eli left, staring at his lap, at his hands that were still shaking. He was fine, he told himself, he was fine, he was safe, he was inside Eli’s apartment and he was okay. He wasn’t with Cain, or Vanessa, or Nicholas, or anyone else like that, and he wouldn’t be shocked again, be it with a collar, a taser, or a cattle prod. What happened was an accident, a small accident, and surely wouldn’t even result in a burn, much less something as serious as a seizure.

He raised his hand to rub at his still tingling arm, looking up as his eyes darted around the room, as though he expected to see something out of place that would give away that this was all a dream. The TV was still on, and next to it he could see a photo of him and Eli on a bookshelf. When he placed his hand down he could feel the soft fabric of the couch cushion, and his other hand rested on his leg where he could feel the fabric of his jeans. He could hear Eli in the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans and a song he liked playing. It smelled like something was burning. He could still taste blood.

It’s fine. You’re home. You’re safe. You’re not a dog anymore. You won’t be shocked, because only pets get shocked, and you’re not a pet.

He tried everything he could to reassure himself he was safe, he was a person, and a small, accidental shock wasn’t enough to change that. His arm still hurt, but it was fine, and tomorrow he likely wouldn’t even feel it, and if he was careful then he’d never be shocked again. Nobody was trying to hurt him, he wasn’t being punished, he was safe. He repeated that last part over to himself, I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m fucking safe.

By the time Eli came back to check on him he felt like he was entirely there again, safe and at home in his apartment. When he asked what had happened all he could say was that he was shocked, and he was fine, because beyond that, he had no idea how to explain what had just happened. He told himself it didn’t matter though, because he was safe, and he was never going to be intentionally shocked ever again.

***

Tag List: @whumpthatboy , @legallylibra , @to-whump-or-not-to-whump , @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi , @grovegrocer , @renkocchi , @whumpasaurus101 , @inky-whump , @lonesome--hunter , @ladygwennn , @simplygrimly , @withering-whump , @lave-whump , @whatwhumpcomments , @thatsthewhump , @just-another-whumper , @starnight-whump , @unicornscotty , @wingedwhump , @a-series-of-whumpy-events , @myst-in-the-mirror

[pandoraborn]

im so sorry for the vagueness of this, but please. any kind of ghostbur+sbi angst. please.

Characters: Ghostbur, c!Tommy, c!Techno, c!Phil Word count: 1497 words Content: canon divergence, techno’s execution, post exile, Tommy is sick, Techno is injured, gore, blood, whump, angst, hurt/comfort, mention of death, SBI, sleepybois inc,

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

He sees the anvil drop.

He sees Techno crumble, falling to his knees before springing back up. Ghostbur can only stare, as if hypnotized by the gory scene before him, because Techno is very much a skeleton, slowly being stitched back together by some unseen force. Logically, he knows it’s the totem of undying working its magic, but emotionally, Ghostbur knows he’s never going to purge this memory from his brain.

He holds Friend closer to himself as he watches Techno jump away and disappear in the following madness. If he had a heart, it’d be pounding rapidly. If he had lungs, he’d be wheezing and gasping in fear. The ability to cry is also nonexistent, leaving the ghost unable to do anything but stare at the empty cage. Ghostbur stares for a long time.

When he looks up at Phil, trying to find some explanation for what happened, he finds that Phil’s house is empty. Phil must’ve snuck out in the chaos, when Tubbo and the rest of the ‘butcher army’ hadn’t been watching.

Now he’s alone. There’s no one else around, no distant voices to help him come back to reality. Reality is watching a long time friend turn into a skeleton and magically stitch himself back together, before running for his life. Reality is his father being put under house arrest simply for protecting Techno.

Reality is Friend bumping into him, startling him out of his swirling thoughts. Ghostbur puts a smile on his face, taking the lead and tugging Friend inside Phil’s house. The sheep will be safe here for the moment, while Ghostbur thinks of someone to turn to. He needs comfort from someone who can actually speak to him.

Tommy comes to mind.

Part of Ghostbur wonders if he should even talk to Tommy, because he hadn’t seem Tommy since before his party. Would Tommy be angry with him for not showing up? Maybe it’s a risk worth taking, because it’s Tommy, and they love each other. A dim memory surfaces; he remembers Phil mentioning the other day that he’d been in contact with Tommy, and Tommy’s now safe from any sort of harm. Ghostbur wonders if that means Tommy’s at the cabin, so he heads in that direction.

It doesn’t take long for Ghostbur to reach the cabin. He hopes the others are already here and in one piece, but Ghostbur can’t get the image of the execution out of his head. If he had the ability to feel sick, he’d probably be vomiting in the snow.

Techno’s clearly home, because Ghostbur can see the trail of blood leading toward the cabin. Carl, his horse, is also just outside, unharmed.

Before Ghostbur can enter, he hears raised voices. He pauses at the door, leaning closer to hear more clearly, but nothing he’s hearing sounds great.

“Techno, hold still, you’re bleeding everywhere! You’ll also wake Tommy.”

“I’m sorry, I had to rip my arm out of an entire bar, right after being executed! I’m not exactly going to remember my manners for the stupid kid beneath us. He can always sleep later!”

“If you don’t shut up and hold still, I will splash you with a weakness pot and smack you over the head so I can heal you properly. Your bones need to set and you need stitches.”

Ghostbur’s heard enough. He barges in, trying to plaster a smile on his face, but it feels off when he sees the wound on Techno’s arm. It’s not just a deep gash, but a giant hole where muscle and skin should be. There are tears in the pig’s eyes, there’s an expression of anger in Phil’s eyes that render him almost inhuman. If Ghostbur were to actually let himself think about it, he’d admit he was terrified of them both right now.

“Ghostbur,” Phil says curtly. “Go downstairs and check on Tommy.”

“Your arm-”

“I’ll explain it to you later Ghostbur,” Techno grumbles. “Do what Phil says and don’t ask questions.”

“I was there! I saw what happened! Phil, I left Friend in your house.”

“Ghostbur, go downstairs and sit with Tommy. He needs someone more than Techno does.” Phil’s voice has an air of finality to it; Ghostbur doesn’t want to argue with him. Shoulders slumping in disappointment, he disappears down the ladder to check on Tommy.

 Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the boy since before his beach party. Would Tommy be mad at him for not showing up? Why is Tommy even here, isn’t he supposed to be on holiday? Everything is far too confusing anymore, but even those thoughts are pushed out of his mind when he sees the teen sitting in a bed.

Tommy is far too thin and sickly looking. His skin is too pale, almost colorless, with dirty, greasy hair falling into sunken eyes. Each breath he takes is a painful wheeze, his fingers tremble too much to grip the bowl of food he’s trying to eat.

Tommy’s gaze flicks up briefly when he sees Ghostbur, glancing back down a second later. “Hello.” Even the boy’s voice is rough.

First he watches Techno die, now he has to see his brother sick and malnourished? What kind of holiday had he been on?

“Tommy?” He moves closer, just as afraid of the teen as he was of Techno. Ghostbur already wants to forget today’s events and go back to being ignorant. He’s happier when he doesn’t have to think about anything.

“Surprise, we’re all alive.” Tommy’s tone is unbelievably dark, as if he doesn’t believe it himself. “One minute I’m contemplating everything that went wrong, and the next, Philza’s carrying me here like I suddenly matter. I go to sleep, and wake up to Techno missing half an arm. Dunno what happened there, neither of them will tell me.”

“I watched Techno die,” Ghostbur blurts. He probably shouldn’t have phrased it like that, but the words are out. “He had a totem though, so he survived. It’s a good thing, I think.”

“Ah.” Tommy sets the bowl of food aside, lying back down. Rather than looking colorless now, he’s turning a shade of green. “That’s information I didn’t need while trying to eat.”

“I’m sorry Tommy.”

“Are you okay?” Tommy asks. “Forget about me, I’m in great shape. You, on the other hand, look pretty shaken up.”

“Ah, yeah.” Ghostbur looks away. “Tommy, I forget a lot and I’m not the best, but what happened to Techno isn’t fading. I’m not sure how to process it.”

“You need a hug or something?” Tommy stretches one arm out toward Ghostbur. “Because you look like you could use one.”

“Are you sure you’re not using that as an excuse to get a hug for yourself?” Ghostbur can’t resist the tease. Nor can he resist the offer, letting himself move closer until he’s in Tommy’s arms.

“Fuck you, I don’t need a hug from anyone.” Tommy’s voice is muffled. “I’m independent and can do anything I want to on my own.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Phil’s voice interrupts. “Even on your deathbed, you’re going to give us all a headache.”

Ghostbur’s eyes nearly bug out. “Deathbed?” His gaze whips back toward Tommy to make sure Tommy isn’t actually dying. “Does he need a tot-”

“Ghostbur, relax. Tommy isn’t dying, and I assume you’re here to talk about Techno. He’s not dying either. Everyone here will be fine.” Phil rolls his eyes. “All three of you are the most dramatic shits I have the misfortune of knowing.”

“Fuck you Phil,” Tommy groans. “I can still fight you.”

“If you can get up without fainting, I’d love to take you on,” Phil laughs.

“Is... Techno’s really okay though, right?” Ghostbur asks. “Because-”

“Ghostbur.” Phil sombers up to give the ghost his full attention. “I’m sorry you had to see that earlier. I know it’s not easy, and judging by your reaction, your brain isn’t letting you forget it so easily. Techno’s strong, Tommy’s strong. We’re all going to make it out of this in one piece, alright?”

Ghostbur looks down. “Three of you will. I’m afraid it’s a little late for me, dad.”

No one has a come back to that. Whatever fragile bonds still connect this broken family are still fraying. Ghostbur may be there, they may be able to see and hear and touch him, laugh with him even. At the end of the day though, it’s a harsh reminder that he is not Wilbur, that the Wilbur they’d all loved is still dead, and not even his ghost can replace him.

“Hey Ghostbur?” Tommy tugs on his sleeve. “Will you stay with me for awhile?”

“Yeah.” Ghostbur lies back down, wrapping his arms around the teen. Everything about the boy is too bony, nothing about his appearance is okay. He wonders if Tommy actually is dying.

Nothing more needs to be said though. Broken family or no, at least all four of them are together.

[kim-poce]

Burning to Ashes 13 - Four Calling Birds

Muzzled | Memories/Flashbacks | Favorite Holiday Memories

First | Previous | Next

CW: Captive, muzzle, implied future torture, starvation, multiple whumpees, backhanded, briefly mentioned lady whumpee.

Burning to Ashes - Masterlist

========

Whumper gathered all of them, to show how her new toy had finally bent and broke.

Ash crawled behind her to another room, he had realized by now that all that floor was underground, it must have taken a long time to build, was it before she kidnapped the first one? Will he ever see the sun again?

"Get in", Whumper ordered, unnecessary kicking his side.

The living room would have a comfortable atmosphere in another circumstance, but there was an armchair placed as a throne, and the captives were kneeling on the floor.

Ash obeyed, crawling into the room, and there were so many people inside, he saw Dog, Shy, and Toy were kneeling quietly, but there were more of them.

Ash glanced at them and at the collars, "Sugar", "Water", "Crumb", his stomach twisted looking at how thin the person was, "Shock" had a metallic collar and Ash knows Whumper enough to know what this means.

Ash hissed when Whumper hit him again and gestured to a spot beside Sugar for him to sit, and he did.

Whumper sat on the armchair gesturing to Sugar with her hand, they quickly, and so desperately, got up, Ash saw how they seemed dizzy and almost fell, Ash understood, he is hungry too.

Sugar took a champagne bottle from the small table in the middle of the room, holding their breath as they poured it into Whumper's glass.

Ash held his breath with them, he can't even fathom how hard the punishment for dropping the champagne would be, but from the way Sugar's face was pale they know.

"Ash, come here", Whumper ordered, and he crawled to her feet, feeling a chill, Whumper took a muzzle from a small box she had with her since before.

Ash made his best to be still as Whumper put it on him, even if she was putting it too tight.

"There is a rule you have yet to learn", Whumper said, patting his head and he leaned on the touch as he painfully learned he had to, "No chores, no food", Ash froze, "You did nothing for me so no food until I say otherwise."

Please, please he is hungry already, please.

He whined, just to be backhanded in response, he went silent, "Behaved today, will you?", she said, gesturing to Dog, who immediately brought a brass knuckle.

Ash flinched away, whimpering, when Whumper backhanded him again he looked up pleading, please, he tried, but the muzzle didn't let him speak.

"If you behave", Whumpers said with a poisoning voice, "Maybe you eat something this week?", her smile was cruel.

Ash sobbed softly, and he didn't have permission to cry yet, and it will make things worse but he can't help it, he won't eat, it will hurt so much, this is just a little show.

Ash was sobbing hard even before the first punch.

========

@amonthofwhump, @cupcakes-and-pain, @badluck990, @temporary-whump-sideblog, @wolfeyedwitch

[redstainedsocks]

Human Again

For @amonthofwhump’s March Madness for the whump trope: choking

Here’s my whumpee Zach having a very bad wake up call. I know the previous four Zach pieces have been post-escape but, and hear me out here, he was just in need of some whumping. So have some out of context, out of order, pain. (Read more high up the piece for vaguely referenced thoughts of noncon)

Warnings: Forced nudity, implied torture, implied past noncon, choking, noncon kissing, shotgunning cigarette smoke, smoking, cigarette burns, manhandling, antagonistic language, blindfolds, captive whumpee, nausea mention, food mention, prisoner denied food

Zach woke up naked. He woke up stiff and sore, and though he knew he was on the thin mattress that was granted as his bed—he could smell the musty stink of it—he had no idea how or when he got there. 

The two things combined were enough to turn his stomach, and bile crawled up his throat. There were fuzzy memories, blurred indistinct ones of beatings and being bent over a table… but was that the last thing that had happened? Or was there more? Was that even yesterday, or two days ago? It all mixed up together, and he couldn’t work out what had happened when, or which thing it was that had made him lose consciousness. Was it drugs again? An electric shock? Or just the accumulation of pain and fatigue and he’d passed out naturally?

He only knew he must have been out a while to have been brought back to his cell. Not knowing if anything more had happened while he was unawares he shivered and curled up, wishing for a blanket to cover himself with. As he moved he felt the protest in his bruised ribs and moaned as he clutched his side. 

“Ah, he lives,” came a smarmy, grunt of a voice. 

Great, Mack, of all people, was here. 

Zach opened his eyes to better defend himself against whatever Mack had in mind and found something still blocked his sight. He groped for his face, arm numb from his own dead weight crushing it. 

“Leave that,” Mack said. “Don’t you fucking dare touch it, that’s your first rule of the day.”

Zach swallowed, groaned again and pushed himself to sit up, hyper aware of every inch of skin on display. He smelled Mack’s cigarettes before he heard the man move, felt the stale smoke waft over his face and another roil of nausea that it brought with it. He lifted a hand to rub his nose and coughed onto the back of his hand to try and rid the smell and the almost-taste of it from his body.

Mack’s hand—probably, unless someone else was here too—caught his wrist and squeezed painfully. “You deaf today or some shit, I said don’t touch your fucking face.” Mack twisted his hand until the skin pinched beneath his grip, and the joint protested. Zach hissed in pain and lurched into action to try and grapple his hand free, digging nails into the back of Mack’s hand.

Mack held on for a few more long moments before he shoved Zach, freeing his wrist, and he scooted further away from where he thought Mack was crouching.

“Actually you said not to touch the blindfold,” he replied tersely. “Try thinking before you speak it might help you get your point across.”

Mack grabbed the back of his neck, fingers curling into the ends of his hair and yanked his head back. Zach hadn’t known to brace for it and the jerk sent a wave of pain that ricocheted down his neck and jarred something in his aching hip. “Far too mouthy you little shit. If it were up to me I’d sew that mouth of yours shut.”

“But then how would we have these little chats I know you love so much?”

Another puff of smoke rolled over his face and he wrinkled his nose, stomach churning. He needed food, water... he needed proper rest, not just to pass out after some torment or other and wake up bruised and sore. Resigned to not getting enough of any of those things he focused on the slight sense of satisfaction of irritating Mack instead.

He heard the hiss of the cigarette being dragged on and hoped it was nearly gone. It was fruitless hoping when fingers gripped his jaw until his lips puckered, the heat of the cigarette sizzling far too close to his skin, held in the fingers that gripped him. Then Mack’s lips were on his and he sucked in a breath of surprise only to inhale a mouthful of smoke.

He sucked it down, drawing it into his lungs in surprise, hoping and hoping for clean air to come on the back of it. Mack’s lips were a seal over his own that breathed the filthy, cloying stuff from his own mouth—expelled it forcefully right to the back of Zach’s throat. 

Zach’s lungs grew tight and full and he needed to exhale but Mack’s mouth was still smacked over his own and his tongue was in Zach’s mouth too, invading and claiming and bitterly acrid. Zach grew dizzy, swayed forward as his lungs tried to force the shotgunned smoke back out, he coughed and wheezed and batted at Mack weakly. Over the sound of his own hacking coughs he heard Mack’s laughter. Why was it always funny to these pricks? Why did they have to delight in making him suffer or making him ill? 

The weight of it all was enough to drive him flat back onto the mattress, gasping for breath, aware he wasn’t going to catch a break here. Not even given a moment to try and process and remember the previous day’s horrors before the current day’s began.

“Your mouth has other uses too, I guess. Wouldn’t want to miss out on those,” Mack’s shoe nudged him.

He was about to respond when Mack’s heavy weight descended on top of him, driving more air from his lungs. The hand was back and it caressed his jaw as he grew tight as a bow string, muscles locked like he could fight this, change whatever was about to happen by being ready. Mack’s calloused hand slipped lower and closed around his throat... and squeezed. 

It trapped the air in his lungs, stopped the coughing in its tracks and he arched up, kicking his legs looking for the pressure to lessen. Mack held him on the knife edge of breathlessness until he went limp, allowed him a precious few wheezing breaths and then closed his hand again while he blew another round of smoke into Zach’s gasping mouth. 

Zach squirmed as his chest failed to expand and his lungs didn’t fill, the black behind the blindfold going haywire with flashes of light and colour and then fading to grey. There wasn’t room for breathing or thinking, he was only animal—desperate, hungry and directionless with the fear that came hot on the heels of being pinned down and choked out.

He clawed and kicked, begged with soundless words as he tried to make the shapes and couldn’t find enough air to give them voice.

Mack pressed tighter one more time and then released. Just as Zach thought it was over a burning, blinding pain sparked to life on his shoulder. He writhed, still sputtering inhaled smoke while a scream—half surprise as well as pain—was forced out of his throat. He smelled his singed flesh as well as the ashes of a cigarette on his shoulder. With a heavy hand he blindly flicked the hot ash from his skin, feeling it smear on his fingers with intense heat. He knew the scent would linger on his hands for a while, like some sick sort of reminder of the mornings activities.

“I’d miss that scream too, oooh man, you’re like a little girl sometimes. Can’t handle a little ciggy?”

Zach grit his teeth while tears swelled hotly behind his eyes and he only hoped to keep them at bay. He felt sluggish, no idea if it was from whatever knocked him out, or the lack of breath in his body, or just the general exhaustion and constant suffering. He almost began to laugh, and caught it before it turned into a pitiful whine. Drawing more attention to himself for being strange wouldn’t help him now.

“Think fast,” Mack said and a thud of something heavy landed on his chest with a slosh and a thud. “Drink up. Boss wants you in the training rooms today.”

Grateful for the fresh bottle of water, and hating that he was, Zach fumbled to screw the cap loose. The water soothed his abused throat, settled his stomach a little. Made him feel, briefly, more human. 

Mack pulled him off the mattress and to his feet and shoved a pair of loose trousers into his hands, holding him steady with a thumb pressed firmly on the spot Zach had just been burned. Zach steeled himself and ignored the sharp pain. He stepped one foot and then the other into the trouser legs, leaning on Mack for balance while he couldn’t see.

“Now you’ve got your modesty let’s fuckin’ get on with it, step to it Griffin, time to go see what else you’re good for today.”

With tired, heavy feet Zach followed where Mack steered him. Whatever dregs of human decency he was given were always taken away sooner or later. He wondered if today would be a day he remembered, or if it would fade and be lost to some indescribable pain like the day before. He shuddered, unsettled by the idea that maybe it was kinder if he forgot; if the memory was choked out of him into oblivion so he could sleep deeply and soundlessly. If all the days bled into one, would he really be living them? Or could he float through them like the moments he drifted, lacking in oxygen, somewhere between consciousness and sleep. 

He hated that that seemed appealing and wrapped a tentative hand around the bruises forming on his throat and pressed down, just because he could, just to feel the pain because he chose to for once; just to remind himself he was still very much alive, awake, and human, and that was worth fighting for.

[galaxywhump]

Never Alone

[Masterlist]

Timeline: set after Thorns

cw: discussion of death - murder and suicide, slavery whump, forced relationship, creepy/intimate and possessive whumper, noncon touching and kissing, swearing, alcohol, referenced alcohol abuse, gaslighting, begging, brainwashing, conditioning, hand gagging, creepy comfort, hopelessness, food mention.

~~~

On SV-240 even waking up has become a statement of I don’t want this, I don’t want to be here, I’m going to get out of here, a fight to keep the heart and mind free of the pleasant feelings of waking up well-rested. 

Above all, Wren dreads the day when he wakes up happy.

Today is, to his relief, far from that day.

He groans and squeezes his eyes shut when light explodes under his eyelids, and his ears ring from the slightest movement when he curls up further and hides his head between his shoulders.

“Sweetheart?”

“Fuuuck, leave me alone”, he mumbles, Daniel’s voice grating on his ears even more than usual.

“Hangover, huh?”

“Take a wild fucking guess.”

“Told you”, Daniel says in a playfully scolding manner, taking away all the weight of what had happened the day before.

“Please?”

He needs it. Just once he wants to ruin himself, drink until all he feels is the burn of alcohol and he wakes up the next day in the familiar pain of a hangover. Just once he wants to regain the worst part of himself.

So he begs.

“But we’ve taken such good care of your problem, sweetheart. Do you really want to ruin it now?”

“N-not ruin.” You never let me drink anyway, asshole, let alone too much. “Just this one time. Please, I… I need some more. Just tonight.”

“You’re going to regret it tomorrow”, and Wren’s first thought is torture, punishment for daring to ask for something that ridiculous, and he finds himself thinking that more alcohol would still be worth it.

“I know.”

And then, for once, Daniel agrees - unusual, Wren notes bitterly, given that the request wasn’t benefitting him in any way.

“Do you want to get up?”

“No.”

He just wants to stay here, sleep the day away like he would on Earth, alone - even though he knows that the last part is impossible. The first two alone would still be nice, though.

Daniel lays one hand on Wren’s shoulder, and this time he succeeds at opening his eyes to look at him, immediately paying the price of a sharp pain flashing through his head before giving way to dull throbbing.

“See, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid”, Daniel sighs, moving his hand up and down Wren’s arm. “Now you’re out for half a day at least.”

“It’s not like I had any plans anyway”, Wren mutters, averting his gaze.

“That doesn’t mean you should sabotage yourself like that, sweetheart.”

“What, are you playing my therapist now? Leave me alone.”

Daniel sighs again - it’s a heavy sigh that makes Wren’s blood boil, worried, as if Daniel cared about anything and anyone other than himself.

“I’ll bring you breakfast. And water. It should help a bit.”

Wren nods and follows Daniel with his gaze as he gets up from the bed and leaves the room; once he’s alone he fixes his gaze on the wall, trying to fight down thoughts that fill him with unease.

It’s more than he’s even gotten. On Earth he was always alone, left to deal with hangovers on his own. There was never anyone to take care of him, or even just call to check on him, to care.

He just wishes it was anyone but Daniel being kind to him, being by his side, kissing him, waking up before him and bringing him breakfast, saying the three words he’s not sure he even remembers ever hearing before.

He just wishes he had any point of reference. Anyone to have given him all the firsts.

Maybe that was the point, one of the factors that made his price so high. He was a blank canvas with insecurities and issues for Daniel to take advantage of. He had made himself that way, an easy target, not missed by anyone-

Stop. It doesn’t matter.

My name is Wren Rackham. I was kidnapped. I’ve been here for… over a year. I’m still fighting. I’m not broken.

And I’m never going to be.

Daniel comes back, carrying a tray - and Wren can’t help but wonder if it’s the exact same one he once was made to hold up - careful not to drop it, giving Wren a gentle smile that he doesn’t return.

Sitting up makes every muscle in his body protest - he hasn’t had a hangover that bad in years; he supposes that was to be expected after forcible quitting.

“There you go. Need anything else?”

“Yes, I need you to leave me alone.”

Daniel raises his eyebrows as he hands Wren the tray, and shakes his head.

“No need to be so rude, you know. But I’ll blame it on the hangover, and we can move on, alright?”

Wren glares at him briefly, and doesn’t comment further when Daniel sits down on the bed instead of leaving. Doesn’t matter. He’s through despairing every time his requests go unheard… or at least when those requests are this minor.

Being left alone isn’t minor. I’m just giving it up.

Doesn’t. Matter.

Once he’s done with eating, now taking his time drinking the water he was given, reveling in the feeling of no longer being completely parched, Daniel moves closer to him, and there’s touch, as always, a hand on his shoulder, the other brushing his hair away from his forehead, and it’s yet another thing Wren should be disgusted by but isn’t. It’s too frequent for him to care every single time. 

Brainwashing. It’s brainwashing. I should fight it.

“Feeling better, sweetheart?”

He gives a tentative nod in response, focusing on the thoughts, trying to rationalize with them.

I know it’s brainwashing. And as long as I know that… I should be okay. I’m fighting. And that’s what matters.

“I just want you to know that I’m always here”, Daniel says, and Wren shivers, hoping that that will be blamed on the hangover too. “Whenever you have a bad day, like today. I’m here to make it better.”

“You’re failing”, Wren mutters, and Daniel laughs, hiding his face in Wren’s neck, sending another shiver of disgust and fear radiating from the spot, which only gets stronger when Daniel wraps one arm around him, and, just like so many times before, he’s trapped by the casual contact. He flinches away from the touch, but the hold just gets tighter, keeping him in place with a silent threat even when Daniel laughs again.

“You’re hilarious, sweetheart.” 

A moment of silence, stillness, interrupted only by the clink of the glass as Wren sets it on the nightstand and crosses his arms, staring straight ahead. 

“But I’ve been thinking…”, Daniel starts again, amusement fading from his voice, and Wren uses a tiny opening to snark:

“Tragic.”

That doesn’t get a laugh. Daniel exhales into his neck before pulling back, to plant a brief kiss on Wren’s cheek.

“We have so many years together ahead of us”, he whispers, and Wren’s heart pounds with enough force to cause pain, “but… I’ve been thinking about the day when I can’t take care of you anymore. When I’m too old, too weak.”

He’s been thinking about that day too - the day when, if everything else had failed, if escape had proven impossible and all he can do is wait, he finally gains the upper hand.

It’s been at the back of his mind for a while now. Not plan B nor C, closer to plan Z, really, but it has been a small source of hope nonetheless, and - which he now realizes was a mistake - he believed that Daniel wasn’t thinking that far ahead.

“I’m trying not to think about it. What matters is the here and now.” Wren flinches under another kiss. “But I don’t want you to be on your own when I’m gone. I don’t want you to be left all alone on this planet, sweetheart.”

Wren closes his eyes and swallows heavily, his heart knocking against his ribs, its beating echoing in his hungover mind, his entire body frozen in horror and anticipation, it’s too much, too much, he wants to be alone today, he wants to be alone in all those years.

“So when that day comes”, the words finally come, one after another seeping into Wren’s ears, fueling his panic, and his breath hitches when Daniel’s fingers, feather-light, brush over his neck. “I’ll make it quick.”

The words click, the world stops, and Wren is falling.

“Painless”, Daniel continues, his every word careful, solemn. “And then, sweetheart, when you’re gone - and only when I’m sure you are - I’ll join you.”

“No.” Wren’s voice is choked, bordering on a sob, the word carrying all that’s tearing him apart, and Daniel pulls him closer, brushing through his hair with his fingers in a crude caricature of comfort.

“Shh. No need to be scared. It will take years before we’ll have to do it, so try not to worry about it, okay?”

“You’re- you’re fucking insane-”

Daniel covers Wren’s mouth with his hand, muffling his words which turn into a whimper, despair taking over the weak attempt at a snark.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I know it’s unexpected, but you’ll get used to that thought eventually, I promise.”

And Wren closes his eyes and sobs, overwhelmed, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, I’m going to escape long before that, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t argue, can’t rationalize the two nightmarish thoughts.

That of spending decades upon decades more in this hell - and that of never, ever escaping it, bound to Daniel until death.

Having his life taken from him once again, this time in the most literal sense.

 Next

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