#haunted by whumper

[ashintheairlikesnow]

It Will Be

For @whumptober 2022, No. 10. Using Alt prompt 8: Made to Watch

Jameson’s masterlist

CW: PTSD/trauma recovery, panic attack, references to past torture, noncon, murder, dehumanization 

-

It's too hot to move.

Nat’s air conditioning is broken, and while the guy fiddles around with it outside, Jameson lays splayed on the hardwood floor in the living room directly under the ceiling fan, his joints aching with the heat. 

Heat is supposed to help, he thinks, but his bullshit body only throbs worse with every trickle of sweat he feels moving slowly down his temples to soak into the soft hair growing in where his bald spots used to be. Still there… but less obvious now. 

Brief bursts of relief come with the brush of cool air from the fan, or when he manages to get his stiff fingers to close around a cold wet rag he’s keeping nearby to wipe his face with. 

He took his shirt off - only Nat and Vince might see him, and the scars aren't new to Nat. Vince is gone, off to meet someone and, he told Nat before he left yesterday, start unraveling this stupid pointless life. 

Nat told Jameson after he was gone that Vince is selling his house, planning to disappear and start over. Like he's one of us, Jameson has said, and Nat only smiled.

Very like that, she had said quietly. 

Jameson gets it. He couldn't go back to Nanda anymore, even if Nanda was still alive. Nanda would barely recognize him, and probably wouldn't like him like this. He wouldn't want to leave Allyn, either, and Nanda would hate Allyn's willowy grace and softness.

And Jameson wouldn't give them up to go back, not anymore. It feels like a betrayal to Nanda, but it’s not like Nanda is here to punish for it.

Jameson just isn't the pet any longer - and Vince, having slit a throat in his own house, isn't really just Vincent Shield. 

Nat likes and trusts them both, even though both of them are killers, murderers who didn't pull back when they thought their own survival was on the line. It makes Jameson wonder what Nat has done, that she's so unfazed by it all. 

Maybe they just aren't the first killers she's made a home for. 

The TV’s on, but he isn’t really listening to it. It’s just droning background noise, a pile of nothing important that lets his brain slide like syrup through his nonsense thoughts about Nat and Vince. It’s sort of nice to do absolutely nothing. 

Nearby, up on the couch, Trash Cat sleeps on her back, paws curled, her little pink tongue just barely visible peeking out between her teeth. One of her paws twitches, as if she hunts mice in her sleep and has caught one. 

For all the misery of the heat, it isn't so bad to just lay here with the air moving slow over his skin like Nanda's softest kisses.

“... investigation reopened by federal agents,” Drones the TV, Jameson barely aware of the words, “As new evidence emerges in the cold case involving longtime Rancher's Rest resident Robert Weber, recently revealed to be responsible for a string of disappearances throughout the Western United States over the past three decades when his own sudden death resulted in the discovery of more than two dozen bodies, many still unidentified. New evidence suggests that at least two of Weber's victims may in fact still be alive."

Jameson shoots upright so fast he lurches, stomach flipping as his back protests how he twists to look, wide-eyed, at the television screen. 

Robert?

A still photo of the front of Robert's house is right there behind the news anchor's shoulder, overgrown by now with a weedy front yard and little saplings popping up from unclean gutters, a broken window. Yellow crime scene tape winds around, muddy and faded with time and sunlight. 

How long has it been there? When did they find out about him, about his basement? How long ago did they find his house and realize what had happened inside? How long after Jameson had fled, begging his legs to cooperate until he could find somewhere safe to hide?

The yard looks awful, except for the bobbing bright yellow heads of too-tall dandelions, untouched and unencumbered, free to tip themselves up like tiny suns. 

Robert would hate it being so messy outside, Jameson thinks. Even the rosebushes look straggly and dead or dying with no one to water them. Robert loved his rosebushes. 

It's with a sudden flush of bitter, hateful satisfaction that he thinks, good. Everything you touched died, why not the roses, too, motherfucker?

Two unknown sets of fingerprints. One set… one set had to be his, right? He feels a droplet of saltwater escape the nape of his neck, dip under the neck of his shirt, and trickle slowly down the center of his back. His legs bend at the knee, just a little, without his consent or knowledge. He can't stand up.

"Sets of fingerprints lifted from inside the house have long been of interest to investigators," Continues the news anchor with an expression of carefully neutral severity, leaning into the seriousness of the subject while staying distant from it. Her voice is a burst of something floral on Jameson's tongue, like rosewater, but bitter. "The FBI now says that they have been able to locate a match for one set for the very first time."

All the sweat on Jameson turns to ice. 

He doesn't even try.

He just swallows, unable to look away as a photo of the man himself is on the screen, the little tagline Prints identified in Rancher's Rest cold case.

It's Robert, sitting at the kitchen table. Oh, Jameson knelt by that table for many meals, waiting to be fed whatever scraps the bastard put into a bowl and set on the floor, forcing him to eat without his hands or starve. In the photo, though, Robert’s seemingly alone, just smiling and drinking a beer. 

So who took the photo?

It wasn't me, Jameson thinks, even as he wracks his brain trying to find any such memory. He wasn't allowed to use his hands, ever, except for when Robert wanted to fuck into them and then laugh at the pet's defiant glare as he made him beg before he'd clean off the muzzle and his face. He wore those fucking mittens too much to have ever taken a photo. The fucking mittens. What Robert, cackling with laughter, called his paws. 

Oh, are they hurting today, dog? Maybe if you're good I'll let you have a couple drinks and settle that hurt down…

Jameson's fingers ache now, too, as if simply remembering summons the pain. He looks down to see them curled at the knuckles, not quite in fists, and shudders - but then he looks back to the TV. 

Seeing Robert's face… it feels like even after he's dead, he can make Jameson look at whatever he wants. 

Robert never, ever had people over, never let anyone in the house. He always had a victim in the basement, or at least all their rotting bodies stinking up the air-

Jameson groans, leaning over and pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes. He can still smell it, that's the worst part. Just remembering it brings back the goddamn smell. His stomach flips just recalling the decay, the sickly-sweetness layered underneath the Lysol spray or scented candles from the fucking Wal-Mart. It always smelled like death, underneath everything else. He jerks forward, fighting the heave that tries to travel up his throat. 

Robert knew his house smelled bad. He never let anyone in the house.

So who the fuck took the photo, if it hadn't been Jameson?

Had there been someone else before him, or after? Someone who wasn’t killed over moments or days or a couple weeks at most, someone who was allowed to stay in the cage in the living room, watching the light behind the curtains to track the passing days?

"The little town of Rancher’s Rest was torn asunder a few years ago by the discovery of more than a dozen bodies buried in the basement of a beloved, longtime local resident who turned out to be hiding a very dark secret."

Jameson flinches as if the Anchorwoman had slapped him when she speaks again. He'd gotten lost in his mind, distracted by the memory of Robert's smile, and the way he would press his fingers into the paws until he could feel Jameson's trapped fingers twitching, desperate to straighten out again. 

He wore the mittens all the fucking time except in the cage and the basement… until he left. He'd had them off when Robert tried to make him help bury the last one…

Did they find his prints on the shovel handle? On doorknobs, or the dresser where he'd gotten some clothes? 

But, no. Two sets and only one identified. Maybe it's someone else. Whoever took the photo of Robert, maybe. 

Please, he thinks with a desperate fear followed by immediate, painful shame for being so weak. Please not mine, please don't let them be mine. 

"Between multiple still-unidentified victims, implications found in Robert’s own belongings that he may be responsible for even more deaths than previously known, and the lingering question of the fingerprints, this cold case has never been far from the mind of FBI investigators. Today, at a press conference held at the Butte county courthouse in Chico, lead investigator Agent Roland Brandt announced a person of interest has been identified in relation to prints found inside the home."

There’s a second where she stops speaking, and Jameson can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can only think to himself, in a loop that lasts forever and happens in an instant, please don’t let it be me please please don't let it be me as the screen shifts to recording of a man in a dark suit standing before a small handful of reporters. 

Jameson's eyes close, but a hot breath that chills against his neck forces them open again. Watch, Robert whispers, voice dripping like oil inside him. A flash of cold white light. Jameson stops breathing. He can hear his own blood rushing through his ears, but it isn't enough to drown out the news. 

“I-I don’t want to-”

Watch, you useless goddamn dog, Robert says. The hair at the nape of Jameson’s neck moves, shifted by the air from the ceiling fan, but Jameson feels it as Robert’s fingers grazing the short soft hair just at the base of his skull. 

He does what he’s told.

No matter how hard he fought, he always did, in the end.

They'll know, he thinks, even his thoughts spiking with panic, barely even coherent, just fear, and the pain. They'll know I did it, they'll know I killed him, they'll find me and scan my barcode and send me back to WRU to be refurbished, they'll find Nat, they'll find Allyn…

They'll take me away from Allyn-

"... find some prints remaining on a series of photographs found in the deceased's possessions," The investigator is saying, sounding almost bored even as the hysterical wordless fear is rising higher and higher within Jameson's mind. 

His hands hover in the air, knuckles bent and twisted into a shape they are no longer forced to hold. His breath is short and shallow, gasps that barely have oxygen, and he feels dizzy as his lungs cry for more and he can't provide it. 

They won't even let me remember Allyn-

"Thanks to some accidental preservation due to being packed how they were, we have strong fingerprints, and now a strong match."

They'll take my memories of Nanda away-

"No," Jameson whispers. Tears run down his cheeks, blistering hot compared to the cold fear-sweat everywhere else. He blinks them away as they blur his vision. "I won't lose Nanda. You can't fucking take him away, I'm the only one who really knew him, you c-can't-"

"A recent arrest made in Idaho has given us our first break in this case in a long time. Unfortunately, the individual posted bail and disappeared before we received notice of the matching prints. I've distributed the mugshot of the person of interest we are searching for-"

Wait. Idaho?

Jameson feels Trash Cat rub the corner of her eye and her cheek against one of his frozen hands, as she pushes her way onto his lap, a warm slight soft weight that starts up a loud, cracked purring. 

The mugshot is the next thing on the screen. It's a man older than Jameson, by a decade, maybe a little more. He has short blond hair, kind of ashy-colored, slightly longer on top and shorn short on the sides. He isn't looking into the camera.

He has scar around his neck, an angular face with sharp cheek- and jawbones. There's a scar on his nose visible even through a television screen. It's small, but Jameson knows what it means. 

He knows what the neck scar means, too. 

This man has worn a collar before… and a muzzle. 

His eyes are empty, blank above a flat expression. He went into his own mind a long time ago, and maybe never came all the way out. 

Jameson knows that look, too.

"If anyone has seen this man or comes into contact with them, please let us know immediately. He is approximately six feet, two inches tall. Officers who arrested him stated he has an accent, probably European, but they weren't sure. He did not provide any answers to officers’ questions, and his identification was proven to be falsified. His current alias is Charles Ingvall, also known as Chuck or Chaz.”

Chaz? People are still nicknamed fucking Chaz?

“Charles Ingvall is currently wanted for human trafficking charges. We have reason to believe he has become involved with the criminal elements in the expanding pet liberation movement and is guilty of trafficking runaway pets over the border with Canada. Since his fingerprints matched one of the unidentified sets of prints in Robert Weber’s house, we believe he has information pertaining to Robert Weber's case and that he resided in the house for some time."

Jameson exhales. 

Someone else.

They're hunting someone else.

It's not him. 

Someone else left that house alive, and they're looking for that poor bastard, not him. 

Then he remembers the other set of fingerprints, still unidentified, and feels himself go cold and still again. If they ever check with WRU, they’ll know it’s him. They’ll tie it back to Nanda’s death, they’ll know…

Jameson curls over Trash Cat, who makes a soft mrrow of protest, but she doesn't try to twist away. Instead, she settles in, and purrs louder. 

It's not him they’re looking for…

Not yet.

But one day, it will be.

Told you, he nearly hears Robert whisper, with that awful laughter creeping around the edges of his tone, that I’d own your life and your death, too. And doesn’t this count?

-

For Whumptober taglist: @whumpworld 

Jameson’s taglist:   @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @astrobly @thefancydoughnut @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

[mj-iza-writer]

Whumpee and Caretaker(s) visit Whumper’s grave, and while Caretaker(s) might not understand why Whumpee processes grief (and trauma) the way they do, they are there to support Whumpee through whatever they need, despite their own complicated feelings towards Whumper

@3-2-whump

Caretaker took a quick glance at Whumpee while they drove into the cemetery.

Whumpee cuddles a small bouquet of flowers closer and watches out the window.

Caretaker took in the visible scars that covered Whumpee's arms. They had just gotten a little more comfortable with showing their scars. Caretaker was so proud of them.

Caretaker sighed as they parked near the grave sight of the bastard who placed those scars on their Whumpee.

If it was up to Caretaker, Whumper would have been burnt to ashes and flushed down the toilet for what they had done. Unfortunately, Whumper's family made the funeral and burial arrangements. How they were able to live with the fact that the bastard had done horrible things to others and still give a proper burial was beyond Caretaker.

"Alright", Caretaker turned to Whumpee, "and you're sure you want to do this again? We can go get ice cream, or do something else even. We don't have to be here."

"I-I know, but I want to", Whumpee looked back at Caretaker, "i-is that okay?"

"Yes that is perfectly fine", Caretaker reassured, "I fully support anything you need to do for your recovery. Even if I fully do not like it, and will be honest on that. Your recovery is very important to me. If this helps you, then I will support you."

Whumpee smiles, "thankyou", they whisper.

Caretaker made their way to a nearby bench. It was close enough to watch over Whumpee, but they could stay out of the way.

Whumpee slowly walks to the grave. Caretaker always took in how cautious Whumpee was. Almost as though someone may jump out and startle them.

Whumpee stood at the foot of the grave for a few moments before kneeling down.

Caretaker wasn't close enough to hear what Whumpee said next. This is how it played out every time, like clock work.

After several moments, Whumpee would hold up the flowers as though they were offering them or showing them to someone. They would whisper one more thing before standing and placing the flowers at the head of the grave.

After a few more minutes, Whumpee would then walk back toward Caretaker.

Caretaker would then mumble something like, "Bastard", under their breath, then smile at Whumpee.

"Could we by chance get ice cream?", Whumpee smirked, "you said it, and now it sounds really good."

"We can get ice cream", Caretaker chuckled as they stood.

Whumpee enjoys their ice cream sundae on the park bench while Caretaker drinks a coffee.

"This tastes so good", Whumpee smiles.

"Yes the coffee is good as well", Caretaker agrees.

Caretaker studied Whumpee for a few moments before sighing.

"Are you okay?", Whumpee gives them a questioning look.

"I always tell myself what you do at the grave sight is up to you. It's none of my business, but I'm just curious why you want to go monthly to visit. Then also what you say", Caretaker paused, "you don't have to tell me, of course. Like I said, it's personal to you."

"Oh uh", Whumpee looked at Caretaker and smiled.

Caretaker frowned, "you don't have to tell me."

"No, it's fine. Just part of it is probably a little silly to most. Whumper was always afraid of death. It was their biggest fear. Though they were not nice to me, they deserve to have some sort of visitors. Plus, I can make sure the grave is still there. I can know for sure they haven't somehow came back to life. I know it's dumb, but it's a comfort to know they're dead and have proof of it. I always tell them that I brought flowers, then as I leave I beg them to stay there. For them to stay dead."

Caretaker smiled comfortingly, "I see, you use that as a reassurance that they are truly gone."

"Ymhmm", Whumpee nodded, "stupid, isn't it?"

"No, not at all", Caretaker chuckled lightly, "like I said. I fully support anything you need for your recovery. I fully assure you though. That bastard is dead."

"I know, and I might believe that....once they are gone from my nightmares at least."

Caretaker looked at Whumpee sadly, "I'm sorry you still dream about them."

Whumpee nodded, "thankyou so much. Also, thankyou for helping me. Your support for me has been so helpful."

"You're welcome", Caretaker smiled,"I'll always be here for you."

Caretaker watched as Whumpee took a few steps away to look at some baby ducklings swimming past. Their mind replayed those first few days after Whumpee's rescue. How traumatic it all was. The thing that kept them moving forward was the fact that their Whumpee survived it... all by themself.

Caretaker knew they would never experience what Whumpee had experienced, and they would work hard to make sure it never happened again.

That's why it hurt when they still had to visit that graveside.

Caretaker knew the bastard was dead. Caretaker killed Whumper themself. Unfortunately, the bastard still lived on and Caretaker had no way to quickly dispose of Whumpee's nightmares.

Caretaker just had to wait until the therapy started to work.

Caretaker whispered to themself, "only a matter of time. Everything will hopefully be back to normal. In a matter of time."

I am really sorry about the wait, I had a lot of requests come at me at once, and I got a little overwhelmed, so I needed a little creativity break. I know I'm apologizing a lot lately. So yeah. I really hope you enjoyed this story though. I will attempt to get the next two requests out for everyone. -MJ

Taglist. As always please let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list. It's not a problem at all.

@villainsandheroes @the-beasts-have-arrived

@sacredwrath @porschethemermaid

@monarchthefirst @generic-whumperz

@bloodyandfrightened @freefallingup13

@notpeppermint @cyborg0109

@idontreallyexistyet @painfulplots

@whumpbump @everythingsscary

@skittles-the-whumpee @expressionless-fr

@theforeverdyingperson @legendarydelusiongoatee

@candleshopmenace @whumpanthems

@lavndvrr @ivymyers

@starfields08000 @a-living-canvas

@lumpofsand @watermeezer

@indigoviolet311 @whumpy-mountains

@3-2-whump @risk606

@electrons2006 @paperprinxe

@whumprince @kaz-of-crows

@mis-graves @decaffeinatedtimetraveler94

@sausages-things @ragin-cajun-fangirl

@isikedmyself878 @daffyduckcommittedtaxfraud

@valravnthefrenchie @glennemerald

@jasperthecapser @does-directions

@deafeninglittlecrown

[screams-n-shackles]

"No matter how far you run, you will never get rid of me."

[paingoes]

Crash Out

Nimrod III

the gang goes on a bender

(Content: (ex) royal whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, sadistic whumper, immortal whumper, drugs, dissociation, amnesia, blood, guns, threat of dismemberment, actual dismemberment, psychological torture, addiction mention, fainting)

==========

“Do you have painkillers?” Lorelai picked at the bandages on her arm. Paris looked at her through the side of his eyes.

“…Obviously I have painkillers.”

He didn’t like them much. He didn’t like anything that felt like it was slowing him down, not before and especially not now. Still, he had a bit of everything stashed away in the compartments.

“I want them,” Lorelai said softly.

“Is it that bad?” There was some small worry in his voice. Johanna had nicked him too, in many different places, but it hadn’t felt like much at the time and it didn’t feel like much after. He guessed his own pain tolerance was a bit skewed. Still, he didn’t like the thought of her messing with them. “Take the aspirin first. Let me know how you feel after.”

She shrugged, pulling the pack out from the first aid kit. She chewed down on the chalky tablets so they’d absorb faster. Her phone went off. He noticed that it was a different phone from the one she had when they had first left — or at least a different case. This one had irregular pearls all over the back of it. She read off the notification.

“I want to go to Xcelcia’s Fair. We’re gonna fly over it tonight,” she hummed in a weary voice.

“I think you should go the fuck to sleep.” 

==========

“When did we get to the mall?” He blinked. She looked up at him in surprise, wearing different clothing than she had been the moment previous.

“Two hours ago?” she guessed. He could tell it was a guess.

“Did we sleep yet?” he asked.

“You blacked out? No. I don’t know. Were you blacked out that entire time?” Lorelai laughed a little. It did nothing to conceal the concern evident on her face.

“Why are we in a mall?” It was eerie. They had been living like vampires, only ever among the living in the dead of night. The bright sun coming in through the skylight gave everything an unreal quality.

“I needed new sneakers. And you said you wanted to come.”

“I don’t think I would say that.”

“I swore you did.”

Her eyes were bloodshot. He was starting to get freaked out. They carried on throughout the mall anyway, the sneakers having not yet been acquired. He sipped idly at the blue razz slushie that was already in his hand — he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have got that, either. Just carrying it made him feel like a dickhead. It tasted decent, though. The sugar helped. Water probably would’ve been better.

“Oh what the fuck.” He squinted as the aura hit him again. 

He looked up to see Johanna walking by on one of the upper balconies. As if she could sense his eyes on her, she spun around on her heel to look. Her initial reaction was instantaneous, so easy to miss, but it was surprise. Or at least the mockery of it. She hadn’t even been hunting. Just bad fucking luck.

“Your Highness!” She broke into a grin, yelling loud enough for everyone in a two block radius to hear. “We can’t keep meeting like this!”

Johanna leapt down from the balcony, the whole story. She did an — admittedly beautiful — tuck and roll to avoid absorbing the fall’s shock. Why bother? Even if she had broken her ankles, they’d heal in two seconds.  

Lorelai bolted just as soon as she’d heard the voice. He realized she didn’t have the gun on her, remembered he didn’t have his sword. Johanna had the damn sword; he’d left it in her chest. He took off too, not knowing where they were going. Lorelai seemed a little more there than he was. She might at least remember where the ship had been parked. 

Something exploded loudly. He dropped via trained reflex, tugging Lorelai down with him. It’d been the right call. Large pieces of shrapnel flew right over their heads. 

“What the hell?” Lorelai whined, stretching out the syllables, “Was that for us?”

Johanna limped forward, carrying the smell of smoke. A piece of pipe hung out of her shoulder. Her glistening blood coated her shirt.

“That one was for me, actually.” The smile she wore then was not the same one it had been a few moments ago.

Lorelai scrambled back to her feet, taking off again. Paris’s own curiosity slowed him. He looked in the direction of the explosion, the same direction Johanna had come from, but it was clear she hadn’t caused it. A few people circled behind her, prowling. They had guns. What the fuck kind of mall was this? They seemed to know her pretty well. She shot him a last look, seething, smirking. Saved by the bell. She turned to face them instead.

He knew if they shot her and missed, it’d go straight into him instead. That was just the kind of day he was having. He hurried himself out of their sightline. Another explosion went off. 

My name is Johanna, she had said so proudly the first time they met. Was he actually supposed to know what that meant? Someone with a lot of explosives did. He made it outside. Lorelai honked the ship’s horn, beckoning him over. He crawled into the passenger’s seat.

“What even was that? Right?” Lorelai wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like her.”

“I literally don’t know what the fuck is going on right now?” he said.

==============

But he was fighting her again. He’d just taken something, he didn’t remember what. It made him faster, made him hit harder, made him fucking terrified with such a deep sense of foreboding he was sure he was about to die. Not that Jo would let him. That obviously wasn’t what she wanted.

He knew he was kind of losing it. If he’d ever snapped like this in the field, he’d have already been pinned down and sedated. He wasn’t sure if that had ever happened or not — it seemed plausible, though when the thought entered his head there was no specific memory he could attach it too. He could not attach anything at all to Johanna. She wasn’t a girl. She wasn’t even a person. She was blight. She twisted all about him like she was made of air and smoke. He had trouble holding her at all. 

He had the sword again. She’d brought it back to him. She had meant to threaten him with it, but he’d managed to wrestle it out of her hands. In an act of manic desperation, he cut straight through the bone of her arm, severing the limb. He did not think much of it at the time. It was simply a thing you could do to a body, among many other things you could do to a body. Maybe he’d just been curious. Nothing else seemed to work.

==============

Again. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he knew he’d fucked this one up severely. Johanna’s freshly grown hand was curled up in a fist in his hair. The other twirled the knife. He recognized, distantly, that it was a collector’s item. He’d had one just like it. One of her knees was planted on his elbow, the other on his chest, one boot planted firmly on the wrist of his opposite arm. She gave the knife a little toss in the air, catching it deftly, taking her time. She placed the knife’s edge right by the skin of his shoulder and did not wait a second before slicing it open. He writhed. It didn’t do any good.

“Stop,” he said, “stop stop stop stop stop s”

It cut in half an inch below the surface. He could tell she had hit muscle. His arm twitched involuntarily even as it was held in place.

“top stop stop stop stop stop stop stop st”

Johanna laughed. She pulled the knife out before it could reach bone. He had never seen blood gush that way before. He thought it only did that in horror movies. She winked at him. Just kidding. She went back to spinning the blade between her fingers. It moved like she had it on a string.

“Did you even feel that?” She asked. “You didn’t, did you? Oh, I’ve got to try it again when you’re sober. That’s not fair.”

===========

He blinked. Back in the passenger seat. His arm was bandaged around the shoulder. Lorelai was covered in blood. None of it was her own.

“Thanks,” Paris said numbly, filling in the blanks.

“Don’t mention it.”

He looked out the window and into the vastness of space. He still couldn’t figure out what time it was. He reached into his pocket and was relieved to find his vape was still there. It was the only constant in his life.

“I think we should blow up her ship,” he suggested.

“How?”

“I don’t know. Don’t you know any bomb recipes? I thought you were a radical.”

“Not off the top of my head. Don’t you?”

“I should, right? Like, I swear I learned them at some point. I think I have legitimate fucking brain damage. I’m not even kidding.”

“No, I think that’s true. You’ve been hitting your head a lot.”

“I meant from the alcoholism, but yeah. Probably both.”

“Oh.” She frowned. 

It was the first time he’d ever called it that. He thought it was a bit unfair to scapegoat alcohol specifically, considering all the other shit he was putting into his body. But that was simply what came to mind first. He hit the vape.

“I’m going to pass out,” he informed her.

“You’ve been meaning to do that. You know-“

He did not hear the end of the sentence.

…………

tags:

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

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

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[whump-blog]

Prompt 49

Whumper has been a terrible person, mercilessly destroying and crushing the lives of those who stood in the way of his beloved nation to which he was blindly loyal. Yet his loyalty did him no good when those he had always served betrayed and turned against him.

Now all Whumper can do is escape from his own kind.

Curious is the fate when Whumper, exhausted, wounded and starving after weeks of being hunted, ends up in the hands of those he had once harmed.

More is his surprise when these people decide to save his life and give him a second chance.

Loyalty is not a big enough word to describe the things Whumper will be willing to do for his saviours and the gratitude he feels for them.

[scratchandplaster]

What Remains

CW: referenced murder, ghosts, supernatural Whumpee, Whumper-turned-Whumpee

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Whumper lies awake for another night. The cobalt-blue specter at the foot of his bed guards any sleep, a silent whine is their constant escort. Through the moonlight, every lash and stab wound glows visible on their defiled shape: translucent, floating above the carpet floor.

"My body," the living dead whispers with a hollow tone.

When they speak, nothing but these words leave them. For weeks now, even after Whumper thought he got rid of them, the haunting cold they bring with leaves him restless, unable to close his eyes for even a second. As a single tear slips down onto the pillow, the sunken-in stare rests on Whumper's helpless body.

This would be a waking night, like they all had been; it didn't matter in which room or which house he might have tried to flee to, ever since Whumper squeezed the last breath out of the cursed guest, they decided to pay a visit until sunrise.

"My body."

It had been a mistake to take them in, there were plenty of folk that would have made fitting additions to his collection. Unmoving, Whumper prays to a nameless force to end this, to let him rest.

But they can't be reasoned with, their request will never be fulfilled. Even before the first haunting, it had been too late; the object of desire was thrown in the bog, like Whumper did to all of his guests. 

So he just withers away also, alive but fading into nothingness.

"My body!" the phantom howls desperately, as if they can read the thoughts of their torturer like a book.

What else could they be offered? What satiates a trapped soul? Desperation catches on, and Whumper finally joins their hopeless whining.

"I'll do anything," he mutters, still frozen in endless horror, "just let me be. What can I give to you?"

A long silence settles between them but apart from the electric purr around, only a sudden hint breaks it:

"A body."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterpost]

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whump Week - Day 4

This one was SO fun omg thank you @week-of-whump!! Dw too much about being unfamiliar with this risen demon au just know that the war mages are dead now and all have grudges. c: Shout out to @whumpr for inspiring this one bc I WAS gonna do something fluffy but this sounded like way more fun.

Prompt: "Your blood looks so pretty" TWs: Intimate whumper, creepy whumper, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned whumper, death mention, murder mention, gore, hauntings, hallucinations, flirting but like in a threatening way

Luis rubbed his eyes, suddenly awake. The room was dark and quiet. His wife was sleeping peacefully next to him.

Nothing was lurking in the corners. No rings of white peered out from their halfway-open closet. He sat up. There were no fingers curling around the white frame of the door.

He'd been seeing things lately.

He needed some water. Something in Luis' gut told him to suck it up and go back to sleep--it said that something was in his house. He got up anyway.

Luis padded through the familiar, dark hall of his home and into the warm glow of the kitchen. The dim light above their sink wrapped him in safety as he drank long and slow. The winter chill of the water lanced through his head--a brain freeze. It grounded him, soothed the instinctive dread.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

This was his home, the space he shared with his wife. He'd lived in this house ever since they had first gotten married. He'd fixed leaks and renovated it, repaired it after bad storms, if it needed doing then he'd done it. He knew their house like he knew the scars on his palms.

There was nothing to be afraid of.

Luis washed the glass and put it away. He ran his hand under the tap and washed his face, breathing deeper as the cold pulled the rest of his tension from his shoulders. "I am being silly."

When Luis turned back to the hall, he stopped.

A tall, slender figure stood in front of his bedroom door. Its platinum blond hair hung down past its shoulders and glowed in the darkness. Two white rings shone out at him. They met his eyes. He knew that shape.

It started to walk closer.

It led its gait with its shoulders, prowling forward. He knew that walk. His war mages walked like that in their gear. Dimitri had walked like that even when he wasn't in his gear.

Dimitri had walked like that when he found Luis trying to hide Laredo's body. He hadn't stopped when Luis had ordered him to stand down. He'd pounced, instead, face contorted in fury as he flung himself into a fight he couldn't win.

Luis still remembered how Dimitri had sobbed and called him a monster.

Dimitri smiled, coming into the light. "Luis." He purred, sharp teeth glinting. "It's been a while."

Blood dripped down from Dimitri's throat, the hole that Luis had burned through him gaping and taunting him. Deep red splattered into the hardwood floor with every step Dimitri took. He had two sets of horns now, and feathery wings that filled the hallway. A long, thin tail swished, the pointed tip shivering happily, like he was a freshly-fed cat.

There was nothing to be afraid of. Luis knew that stress could cause hallucinations. Hallucinations couldn't hurt him.

Luis smiled. "It has, Dimitri." He met Dimitri's eyes, remembering how many times he'd seen that same sharpened bloodlust glittering on his most violent war mage's face.

Dimitri's hand raised to Luis' face, hovering less than an inch from his skin. He smelled like burned flesh. Blood dripped from his mouth. He was still in the clothes he'd been wearing when Luis killed him. Short shorts, a crop top, some fishnets and heels. It had been Dimitri's day off. He and Laredo had had something planned, some date. "You know, you were always very handsome, Luis."

"That's not appropriate to say to me, Dimitri." Luis said. It was habit. Dimitri and Laredo had always liked to jokingly flirt. An odd little game the three of them had played, usually to test Luis' mood.

"I know." Dimitri said, leaning closer. Their noses were almost touching. "But I'm not your soldier anymore. And I think you deserve to hear this." Dimitri's voice was soft.

Luis backed up. Dimitri followed. He matched Luis' pace, up until his back hit a wall. Brown eyes with their pupils ringed in white bored into Luis' own. Luis couldn't look away.

This was a very vivid hallucination.

Dimitri's hand came to rest on Luis' face. His thumb pressed into his cheek. Luis froze. Dimitri was warm. He was solid. His hand was smooth. He felt the points of Dimitri's new claws pressing against his skin.

This was not a hallucination. Dimitri was dead. Dimitri was right there, cornering Luis against a wall in his own home.

"Please." The word slipped out before Luis could stop himself. "I don't want to die."

Dimitri laughed. It was soft and quiet and the worst noise Luis had ever heard in his life. He wondered how many times Dimitri had cornered someone like this on the field. He wondered how many unexpectedly quick interrogations had wound up with the person not even an inch from Dimitri, like this, aware that their life could end in an instant.

Was this how Dimitri had felt? How Laredo, or Izan, or Manuel, or Mariano had felt? Had their hearts raced too quickly? Had the world closed in until it was just them and Luis?

"Oh, Luis. Sir. I'm not going to kill you." Dimitri's thumb pressed in harder against Luis' cheek. The point of his nail sank into Luis' skin. "I won't even hurt you. Not really. I just want to see you like this."

Luis flinched as Dimitri dragged his thumb along Luis' cheekbone. The claw sliced him open as easily as if Dimitri had pulled his favorite knife on Luis. Luis shook.

"It's a shame you didn't ever go on missions with us." Dimitri continued. "We never really got to see you on the field. All battle-worn." Brown, inhuman eyes followed a drop of blood as it escaped the cut, clinging to Luis' face, following the sharp curve of his chin and down his neck. "Because this is a good look on you. You have pretty blood."

Luis blinked.

Dimitri was gone.

The blood had disappeared from the floor. His face still stung. When Luis brought his hand up to his own face, he felt his blood smear.

Luis washed his face. He got another cup of water. He got a bandage from their first aid kit.

Luis could still smell cooking flesh and the metallic tang of his own blood when he slipped back underneath the blankets. His wife snuggled up to him again, oblivious to it all. He felt like he was vibrating.

As Luis was drifting off again, mind racing, he could've sworn he heard Dimitri laugh from the hallway.

[aspergirl2022]

Poltergeist Whump

Poltergeist: the kind of ghost who find really funny to move stuffs in your house or do some strange noises.

Okay so here is the context: Whumpee was a captive of Whumper until their death. That’s sad but fortunately Whumpee is still alive, well as a ghost now.

Whumpee decide to take advantage of their new “powers” and turn into a Poltergeist to take revenge on Whumper, or it was their purpose in the beginning because now they just do it for the fun of tormenting Whumper.

What Whumper should do?

Should they go to the police and confess their crimes in hope Whumpee would leave them alone after that?

Should they move house and cross their fingers Whumpee can’t follow them to their new location?

Or should they ask for the help of an exorcist? Not any exorcists but Caretaker, the well know exorcist?

[favouritefearlesswhumper]

Demon Whumper and Human Whumpee is always a great one.

Demon Whumper that's a curse or accidental summon/possession.

Demon Whumper that shows up in mirrors, where only whumper can see. Only whumpee can feel claws digging into their skin, hot breath at the back of their neck, a laugh hissing in their ear.

Whumpee unable to sleep at night, knowing they'll wake up with gashes ripping into their back, their sides, their thighs- blood spotting the sheets, and their limbs burning. Memories of an impossibly hot body pressing against their own, of cruel taunts and promises of eternal torture. A long tongue sliding up the skin at their cheeks, soaking up the tears that fall.

Whumpee waking up to find a strange tattoo-like symbol on their lower back- but one not imprinted with any ink from this world.

Whumpee choking back a sob as they realise what this means-

Realise they've been claimed.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Ghost Story

Jameson's masterlist (scroll down)

-

CW: Traumatized whumpee/PTSD, references to past murder and torture, some dehumanization references, chronic pain, grief, a wee teensy bit of choking at the end

-

He fell asleep on the couch with a movie playing, Vincent Shield and Nat settled into armchairs on either side. Shield holds his water bottles like they'll vanish if his knuckles aren't white from the effort, and Jameson had watched him off and on, catching the way one hand shakes a little, the bouncing of his knee. The nearly visible craving for a drink that he tries to drown in juice and water and coffee.

They were there, when the movie started. When he wakes, they're both gone and there's a heavy blanket laid over him. That'd be Nat, always taking a second to do a good thing when she could just ignore it and no one would mind. His crutches are still leaning against the wall, waiting for when he gets up.

He can, vaguely, hear Trash Cat trying to break into a the cabinet in the pantry where her food is kept. The sound of her little paw trying to force it open despite the baby-proofing cabinet lock Nat bought is a constant soft thunk. thunk. thunk. thunk.

"Fuckin' quit it," He groans. The thunking sound briefly pauses.

Rrrrrow? Her little chirp is barely audible, curious and surprised. She must've forgotten he was down here. He hears her tap-tap-tap her way into the doorway, look at him, and then tap-tap-tap her way back to the pantry again.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

His eyes barely blink, working hard to squint and see the time on the clock.

2:45 am.

"Jesus fuck." His voice is a mumble, heavy with his exhaustion, as he rubs a hand over his face. There's stubble around the spaces where scars stay smooth and hairless, the cockeyed lift of one side of his mouth pulled always where a knife had been dragged like cutting cold butter.

Even goddamn better: his legs won't unbend. They stay curled, bent at the knees, throbbing agony down to his toes and up into his hips when he tries to straighten them. He can damn near feel the buckles from the braces he hasn't worn since he stabbed Brute to death. He can damn near hear Robert's echoing, rasping laughter.

He can't walk. He could hardly crawl.

He doesn't want to crawl around like a fucking dog anymore.

Maybe he'll just stay here til dawn. Why the fuck not?

The house is silent around him, with that particular empty weight of a home waiting for its people to bring it back to life come morning. A place between something and nothing, and Jameson isn't enough on his own to fill it.

He's barely a drop in the bucket of what you need to feel alive, at a time like this. Absolutely alone in the darkness, staring up at an old popcorn-style ceiling where a fan spins lazily, barely moving air.

Hey.

His head whips to the side at the voice, wide-eyed, pushing himself up on his elbows, heart pounding. There's someone in the doorway between the entryway and the living room, where Trash Cat had been before, watching him in shadow.

You passed out on the couch again. Gonna go to bed any time soon, or am I going to have to tiptoe around your dumb ass in the morning?

His head hurts. Maybe from having woken up from dreaming at the wrong time, it pulses pain with the same rhythm as his heartbeat, at the throb in his knees. They pull up even tighter, and he has to bite back a whimper he absolutely will not let out.

"... who the fuck-"

Call Mom, by the way. You haven't called her in like a week. She says you have 48 hours or she's calling the cops.

He collapses back against the arm of the couch, breathing slowly. His headache is taking over, wiping everything away but itself. Jameson closes his eyes.

Is he still goddamn asleep?

He counts to ten, breathing more slowly and evenly with each number. Then, on the final, torturously slow exhale, he cracks his eyes open again.

The shadow is still there. It hasn't turned into a person, only sort of smudged outline of one. There's a hint of blue jean seams down the legs, the suggestion of hair very much like his own. Even the glimmer of dim moonlight and streetlight from outside against a pair of hazel eyes.

Not that he can see what color they are from here.

He just... knows.

Just like he knows the taste of that voice, even though he can't remember having ever heard it in his life. It's a taste he's known his entire life.

Did you hear me, dumbass? I said call Mom.

"... who the fuck are you?"

Hey, so, while you're here. It's like he didn't say anything, or like the shadow is acting out the words of a script, not actually present or hearing anything he says. It moves, and Jameson flinches violently backwards only to see a beam of moonlight pass right through it as it goes past him, to the window. One grayish-nothing arm lifts, like peering through the blinds. I wanted to say... fuck. I guess just... sorry. About the other night.

"Wh-what-"

It was stupid. I knew you liked her and I still asked her out. That was really shit of me to do, Johnny, I'm sorry about that. You're just way better than me at getting girls to, like, see you...

"I d-don't know what the fuck you're talking-... who's-"

His head.

The pain is like a flash of lightning, bright white and chilled ice behind his eyes. He can't hold this sound back and whines like a goddamn animal as he curls up, hands up over his head, pressing his palms against his eyelids like somehow he can force the pain out of him if he only tries hard enough. The flashes keep sparking, again and again.

"Oh, God-... oh fuck, jesus-"

I broke up with her anyway. So, like. Sorry. Again. Can we not fight about shit like girls, anyway? I hate it. Who am I supposed to talk to if I can't talk to my brother, you know?

Tears run hot like tracks of sun-soaked water through desert down his cheeks. He's sure they'll leave rising blisters in their wake, as he chokes back one sob, and then another. His heart is twisted up in his throat and his legs are bent and useless, his hands hurt where his fingers are twisted into his hair, yanking at it ineffectually, unconsciously. "Please, it h-hurts, fucking stop-"

It's not your fault, Johnny. I was the idiot, you know? We had a fight, fights happen. I didn't have to leave it like that. I shouldn't have left it like that. Still. You didn't have to leave it like that, either. Takes two to fix a fight, right? You could have apologized, too.

There's a long beat of silence.

His headache starts, finally, to slide somewhere further back in his mind. It's still there, still a throbbing immovable force, but he can just barely manage to open his eyes.

The shadow is an inch away, staring at him.

Why didn't you apologize first?

He flinches backwards again, and the sharp spike feels like ice picks right through his eyes as his back arches, a tense bow of pain everywhere. An electric shock, discipline for the wrong thoughts, false memories clawing their way to the surface.

He hasn't worn a shock collar since training, but his body knows what happens when he remembers the life he left behind.

It punishes him anyway.

Why did you let me walk off by myself in the dark, Johnny?

"No-... no-... I s-signed up, I don't want you, I didn't want you anymore, it was t-too much, fuck, fuck off, fuck you, I didn't want to hurt anymore they promised I wouldn't miss you anymore, go away go away go away they took you out of my fucking head go the fuck away this hurts-"

Everything would be okay if you had stopped me. But you just let me walk away, like an asshole.

The shadow of his dead brother watches him with unsettlingly calm eyes, the thatch of his dark hair, the glint of teeth straightened by years of braces.

You let me walk away angry at you. You let me walk right up to him, didn't you? You never even tried to stop me from leaving. Who would I be if you hadn't let me die?

"Please... please, Hank-"

I was still alive when he threw me in that ditch near the woods, remember? Do you think I was awake? For that last hour or so? Do you think I was conscious? Do you think I was thinking about you?

The shadow of his brother might be smiling.

Do you think that I was still angry when he slit my throat?

Jameson pulls the blanket over his head. He can't think of anything else to do but hide.

The shadow can't find him here. The reality of everything he did, everything that's his fault, can't follow him this far into the warm darkness. The murder he could have stopped by being a better brother just one night out of a thousand belongs to the cold and the light.

It can't find him here.

It's ridiculous and childish and yet the voice goes silent, then, and his tongue goes numb. Seconds tick by, tracked by a clock Nat has on the wall. The quiet is heavy and Jameson fills it with every single thing WRU ever taught him.

His lips move mindlessly. He's never forgotten a single sentence. Every chant, every mantra, every constant repetition of his own lost humanity pushes the reality of what led him to it further and further away.

He keeps his eyes closed tightly, shivers in the chill of a cold white room entirely in his own mind, and whispers I signed up for it for a reason, I signed up for this, I was a slut with no future, I didn't want to be a person anymore, I ruined lives, it's all my fault, I'm better off this way, I don't have to hurt anymore, no one else will die because of me, I was made for this I was made for this I was made for this again and again.

The sense of the shadow watching him doesn't fully fade until he closes his own hands around his throat and tightens just enough to feel like a collar, just enough that he has to fight a little for air.

How long he stays like that, he doesn't know.

But eventually he realizes he can hear Trash Cat again, still trying inexorably to find a way into the cabinet where her food has been maliciously kept away from her need to constantly eat at all hours of the day.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Rrrrrow? Rrrrow. Thunk. Thunk.

He had a nightmare, he thinks.

Thunk.

Some kind of weird-ass dream. Something that tasted like a voice, frightening enough to have his heart beating and his body feeling wrung out and aching, like he was throwing punches in his sleep. Fighting something. Or fleeing from something.

What did he dream about?

There was a shadow, and hazel eyes, and a voice...

Thunk. Thunk.

Trash Cat apparently gives up. He hears her little paws tap-tapping along the floor as she tries her luck at shredding the toilet paper in the bathroom.

The nightmare's gone. He can't remember what was bothering him any longer. Still, his heart races and fear is a cold stone in his stomach. Fear and the sense that he has done something terrible. Something he can never make up for or take back.

He doesn't go back to sleep.

He waits, watching the ceiling fan spin, for the safety of dawn.

[amethystpath-writes]

Haunting

NOT A PR0MPT

******

Hero swore she recognized him. Thinking back on how he looked before was difficult as she looked to him now. Stared, rather. She shook her head, ducked it down, and moved along.

Leader would be expecting her any moment, so it was important for her to show up focused and prepared. Forget the familiar looking man; she had an idea for the agency.

Being only a door away, she thought it would be easy to slip away unseen. Alas, she was disappointed.

"Hero?"

She swore beneath her breath. It was exactly who she thought; it was Villain.

"God, it's been years. I thought I recognized you, but"- she gestured- "the beard threw me off."

He smiled. "I've had it for a couple years now, but I haven't seen you for the last four." He knew exactly how long ago it had been, what setting it had been in, what he had done. If Hero didn't know better, she would have thought he planned this encounter. Then again, maybe he had.

"So," Hero began, and she twiddled with a pen between her fingers, "how are you?" It wasn't the question she wanted to ask. She wanted to ask what he was doing here- or, what he could possibly need at the agency, knowing the man that he was. He was no hero. He had no business being in this building.

"I could lose a couple pounds," he joked. He had the audacity to laugh, despite being all muscle. Despite being more terrifying now than Hero thought then. She hoped to never see him again, but she had a feeling now that she would only see him more. Maybe she should have quit. Instead, she continued twiddling and shifting her weight. "Other than that, I'm okay. What have you been up to?"

The casualness at which he spoke...Hero felt sick. "Working. I have a presentation coming up."

"Is that right?"

She almost dropped her pen and her cheeks went red. Just stop messing with it, she thought, but it was futile. The pen was the only thing keeping her nerves intact.

"Less of a presentation and more of a pitch. It's nothing, really. Nothing exciting going on."

Truthfully, she just didn't want him to expect her around. If he thought this day was a pure coincidence, then he would expect to never see her again, and he would never come back. Because that's why he was there to begin with, right? To torture her. To bring a flood of memories. To paralyze Hero in her tracks and push her into the hurricane she evaded so long ago.

He didn't have to stop her.

He didn't have to pretend to be friends.

He didn't have to entertain himself like this- torture Hero like this.

Regretfully, she bit her lip. God, she tried so hard to suppress the nerves, the fear of seeing him, of recognizing him, and him recognizing her.

What made it all worse was when he said her name again. It would haunt her.

"I should go now. I'll see you around, Hero."

******

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whump Prompt 91

Write something inspired by the following line of dialogue:

"You want to know how I survived? I didn't survive. I died. And now I've come back to haunt you all the way to hell."

[thinkingofausername]

Istg I'm never getting over Arkham Knight

[paingoes]

Crash Out

Superstition 

hi. this is personally my favorite part so far. hope u enjoy it too :)

(Content: drugs, bad trip, paranoia, psychosis, discussion of institutionalized child abuse and death, discussion of past abuse, blood, burns, guilt)

“Okay so we have to take it at the same time so our trips sync up.”

“I know. I’ve done it before.”

“How much are you gonna take?”

“We can just split it.”

“That seems like a lot.” 

Lorelai rotated the froot in her hand. She stabbed along the ring with the scout’s knife, revealing the soft green flesh within. The juice dripped down onto her arm. She resisted the urge to lick it up before they could agree on the dosage. 

“I think we split half. We can take more later if it’s not strong enough.” She worked the knife carefully through the half of it. She gave the quarter piece to Paris and took the other for herself. She stashed the unused half back into the cooler bag. 

“It’ll feel weird if you take more while you’re already tripping. Not pleasant.” He ate the piece he’d been given anyway. She took her own into her mouth. The texture was surprisingly gritty. Little seeds got caught in her teeth. It tasted salty and earthen. She set her timer.

“Okay, onset is an hour or so?” She glanced up at the orange sky. “We’ll be inside by then, probably. It’ll kick in just as it’s getting dark out. Spooky!”

=========

It was an entire hike just to reach the site. The main road was swarming with cop cars. Every other path was carved through the thick wood. In the darkening light, the edges of the dirt road blended in with the foliage. They saw several people passing through, just as lost as they were. Lorelai jumped as the bear trap caught on the raised heel of her boot, just missing her foot.

“Aaaaa?” She yelled softly, mostly in confusion. Paris bent down to undo it. 

“How did that miss you?” He squinted. The mechanism jammed shut again with a loud clanging noise. It was rusted in places, visibly worn down by the elements. He was surprised it still worked.

“Fast reflexes.” She unhappily examined the new dent in her shoes. 

The venue came into sight as the tree line withered. It was a large stone building — or it used to be. The walls were jagged and uneven at the top, the same shape as torn paper. The second story was gone, along with the ceiling.  Thick vines and lichen grew along the stone perimeter. Lorelai said they were fighting for dominance. It looked like the lichen was winning.

The inner walls weren’t faring any better. It seemed like there might have been plaster once, but all that remained now was stone. There were marks on the ground where other walls had been. Someone had long ago removed them to make more space to party. The only real structures inside were the DJ booth by the north wall and the bar on the east one. Where the ceiling had been before, there were now just rails that lights could hang from. 

It was dark when they approached — and the music had already started. People poured out onto the lawn and into the woods, drifting in and out of the fortress as they pleased. Security was lax and the walls were porous enough to facilitate the exchange.

His teeth hurt. The two of them did their traditional act, drifting in and out of each other’s spaces as the night progressed. Crowd anonymity was a wondrous thing. It made him tolerate the presence of other bodies in the space and the indignity of motion. The drugs helped with that too. Then they didn’t. 

He felt something slip away, some invisible measure of protection he could not name. Eyes, again. Of course there were. People were everywhere. Under the strobe, they all looked pale and corpselike. He remembered a story he had read a long time ago about the girl who only danced with the dead. He’d had his fair share of ghost stories; sailors loved shit like that, soldiers even more. 

He had not expected it to crawl. When he’d eaten the froot before, it had hit him all at once, and receded not too long after. It was fun, if a bit underwhelming. This high had creeped up so slowly that for the first two hours he did not even realize it had arrived. He imagined his own thoughts to be normal and uncontaminated. All it was was just unease and unease and the dead left there too. He thought he felt something shift just beneath his feet, but all that was there now was dirt. He was surer than anything that he was being watched, him specifically. He pulled off from the crowd and out through one of the jagged holes in the wall. Grass grew there. He walked without aim. 

There were enough people on the outskirts that he didn’t really feel like he was leaving the party, even as he drifted further and further from the building. He saw them all looking at him strangely as he passed; he would not learn until later he had been talking to himself the entire time. He would never learn what it was he had said. He ended up by the woods, still certain of something creeping and stalking and watching endlessly. Something was wrong. The dirt slipped out from beneath him and on purpose.

Something long and thin stuck out of the ground. He had thought it was a leg until he saw what it was attached to. It was top heavy, two legged, nearly furry with moss. The sign post was as overgrown as the building it described, but the letters were still readable beneath it. He stared up at it from where he was collapsed on the ground, reading it over and over and over again.

Beldam Institute. B-E-L-D-A-M I-N-S-T-I-T-U-T-E. He read it again, just to be sure. Beldam Institute.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered to himself, unknowingly interrupting the string of words he had already been muttering to himself.

He’d had his fair share of ghost stories; sailors loved shit like that, soldiers even more. Soldiers liked to think there was a life after death. They liked to think the people they killed would stay stuck there in the place where they had killed them, forever, their souls tethered to the earth and stood on display for all eternity. Tales of weeping ghosts and the undead children that searched endlessly for their murderers, reading to rend them limb from limb. Trapped together in the place where they had killed them, forever, their souls tethered to the earth and stood on display for all eternity. History couldn’t end, not really. History ate them all whole. The ground was heavy with bodies. 

“They buried them in the lawn the first few years,” Delta had admitted quietly, at the end of a long night, after Paris had spent hours prodding. It was the most he would ever say about it and the last time Paris would ever ask. “They had to stop, though. They ran out of space.”

His hand brushed up against something dry and brittle and thin like finger bones.

=========

“Whoa, whoa, buddy.” There were hands on his shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to stop him from flailing. Some douche with a tie wrapped around his forehead was trying to be helpful. He heard his own voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. His throat was hoarse and painful. 

“Here. Smell.” The dude held up a small piece of chalky material.

“Getthefuckoffme-“ Paris rasped. His hands were bloodied, somehow.

“You’re okay,” He pressed the chalk up to his own nose, taking a deep inhale, showing it was safe. Paris crawled back a few inches, breathing still irregular, fingers still twitching. The dude offered the chemical back up. Paris reluctantly hit it. The headrush was immediate, overpowering.

“Fuck.” He fell back onto the dirt. There was soil under his nails and furrows in the ground. 

“What’d he take?” A girl’s voice asked. He didn’t realize she’d been standing there. She was leaning back again the sign, totally oblivious to its meaning.

“This is a fucking mass grave,” Paris yelled, or tried to. His voice broke. “The bones are pushing up. Look!”

“That’s a stick.”

Paris collapsed flat on his back again, covering his eyes.

Only then did the two of them seem to notice the sign. The girl pushed off of it, clearing the view, studying the lettering.

“Hang on, I gotta look something up,” the dude said. The clearing was briefly lit in ghostly blue as he pulled out his phone. He typed slowly and methodically. Paris knew from experience that he was having trouble seeing the screen just a few inches from his face.

“Oh. Huh. Yeah, that’s what it is.” He nodded, looking perturbed. “I’d probably trip out if I saw some shit like that too, man. That’s wacky.”

Another set of footsteps approached without rhythm.

“I’m tripping balls,” Lorelai said. She had the gait of a baby deer. “Lol, is this where the party is?”

“Is this your man?” The girl asked.

“We’re all working through our feelings about institutionalization together,” the dude explained, “Your friend is having what we call a hard time.”

“What?” Lorelai collapsed down onto the mound just beside him. She pulled his head into her lap, combing her fingers through his hair. He wrapped his arms around her waist, totally helpless to do anything else.

“Beldam Institute. Where Delta went. It’s where they make them,” he muttered.

“Are you serious?”

They showed her the e-ncyclopedia page. Her jaw dropped.

“Wow. Oh my god, what are the odds? And they throw parties here? That’s…in very poor taste? Wow. What the hell. Wow.” She shook her head. He worried for a second she was getting caught in a thought loop. He made a silent vow to never taste froot again.

Yet another set of footsteps approached. 

“You guys good over here?” A wavering voice asked. Keys jingled loudly. For an awful moment, he thought it was the cops.

“Are you two the organizers?” Lorelai asked, “Why did you throw a rave where a bunch of children got tortured?”

“You’re talking about the Institute? I’m so glad you asked,” The other’s voice was slick, “We did a whole thesis on it. It’s a transformative project. We’re revitalize the space and making a statement on its history. All our proceeds go to our mutual aid fund for marginalized groups. We do it in the spirit of resisting imperial order.”

“Their bodies are still buried in the yard,” Paris muttered.

“What did he say?”

“He said their bodies are still buried in the yard,” the dude responded.

“That seems really fucked up,” the girl chimed in.

“We’ve been very conscientious about the whole thing,” the slick one responded, “I know it’s a lot to process, especially if one is, uh, open to the influences. Not exactly a pleasant trip environment. But that’s history for you.”

“Is he gonna be okay?” The girl asked.

“Yeah, he’s just sensitive.” Lorelai twirled his hair between her fingers. “I wonder if there was a basement?”

“There was,” the wavering one confirmed, “It was mostly cleared out by the time we got here. Very hush-hush. But we salvaged some stuff for the archive.”

Far away, the music changed. Lorelai shook his shoulder gently.

“Get up. I wanna dance.” Her voice was all swimmy. He can’t tell if the interference was on her part or his. She dragged him out of the woods and back onto the floor.

Despite how awkwardly she had stumbled, how failing her walk seemed to be, she danced with a surprisingly fluidity even in her drugged state. The air itself was fluid, heady, warm. He danced with her, quite sure she had never once looked like this before, that she never would again. The shaking in his own body stopped and the headache replaced it. All of it was dull and distant. There were whispers at the edge of it. Maenad, they warned.

Very abruptly, she dropped to her knees.

“Oh fuck,” she clutched her head, “I can see it.”

Paris half led, half carried her outside of the walls. She collapsed down on the dirt, looking all around her. Paris pulled the fur hat off her head. It was slick with sweat.

“Oh my god, I felt it. I think I saw the face of it. It was everywhere I looked. I could feel all the misery trapped inside of the walls.”

For a minute, he swore he could make out a skull and crossbones inside of her pupils. He hated froot. She looked terrifying.

He twisted the bottle open and held out both of her arms. The water poured over her exposed skin, bringing her temperature back down. She closed her eyes.

“More,” she said.

He poured the water over her forehead, letting it run down her face, smudging her makeup. She pulled her hair back in a bun. He poured the water down her neck. She gave a ticklish giggle.

“Oh, god,” she said, totally lost. He pushed the bottle into her hands. She poured the rest of it all down her throat.

===========

In spite of everything, the afterglow was incredible. They’d made it back to the room in one piece. He understood what the guides had meant about the aura. Everything felt soft and glowing. It wasn’t euphoric, nor to the point of mania. Just pleasant and calm. 

He could tell Lorelai felt it too, all smiles in the ship, even more after she showered. They both needed it badly, even without the time spent in the woods. The smell of smoke and alcohol had clung heavily to both of them. He washed the dirt out of his hair, his own blood from beneath his fingernails. The motel’s soap was scented lavender; he was sure he wouldn’t have noticed it before, but in the moment everything felt novel.

She’d crawled onto his chest when he laid down again, angling the phone so they both could watch. Some animated thing he couldn’t pay attention to. The colors were more vivid than they were probably meant to be. All he could focus on was her hair, the way the curls sprung back into place when he played with them. She nuzzled her face into his shoulder.

“Are you upset about Delta?”

Her voice was sleepy and entirely innocent. It was such a fucked up thing to ask when his walls are down. He’d been trying so hard to avoid it. She was a surgeon sometimes.

“I…feel bad that he died,” Paris admitted, “I don’t think it was my fault the way it happened. I didn’t know. But he was my responsibility. And I-” 

He cut himself off. It took him a while to find the words.

“…I don’t know. I hope it was quick. I hope he didn’t suffer.”

The image of Delta chained up and alone while that ship was going down flooded his mind. He squeezed her hand tighter.

Lorelai hummed, “You said it was a rebel attack? Did they say which one?”

“Their guess was Galatea.”

“Hm. Do you think he was the target? It seems a little terroristic for their taste otherwise.”

“They shouldn’t have known about him. All the intelligence just listed him as machinery for a reason. There was nothing in writing to indicate that he was alive.” He’d never had to write any of it himself, but he did read over the field reports. The opacity they achieved was impressive. Critical temperature reached. Damage to internals. Improvised shutdown. There was no good way to talk about it.

“You really didn’t have a file on him?” She clearly found this difficult to believe.

“His doctor did. It was carryover from the institute. It didn’t make it into imperial record. Not mine, anyway.”

“…It just seems like an odd thing for them to do.” There was nothing short of reverence in her voice when she spoke of the resistance. She was struggling reconcile the two thoughts. She had liked Delta a lot. He could see her there, trying to reconcile a lot of things.

==========

She’d had to track them down the next morning — and after that, she’d had to bribe — but she secured one of the large albums they had rescued from the basement. She flipped through the pages as she sat in the passenger seat. Most of it was typed, but a lot of it was written, and all of it was in thick and outdated Latin that she struggled to decipher even as a native speaker. It was the pictures she was really focused on, though.

In some of the photos, it just looked like a normal boarding school. The kids were lined up in rows or going about their day. There were photos of the classrooms and the yard. The next page over, there were photos of the laboratory and the operating room. There were straps visible on the table and along the chairs. 

In the training section, the pictures of the students were spliced indiscriminately with the pictures of their victims. Violence marked the both of them. On their victims, burns covered every inch of their skin. Their bodies were twisted at odd angles like they were toys bent out of shape. They wore bags over their head and chains around their ankles. 

On the students, the injuries were more subtle. Schoolyard incidents. Short circuits. Disciplinary infractions. Some of the worst ones showed scars tracing up and down their limbs, disappearing beneath the fabric of their uniform. In some, the scars were in the shape of flames. Some were shaped like vines. Most commonly, they were shape of electric discharge. Eyes and fingers were missing, even in the otherwise calm shots. 

“Oh.” Lorelai let out a soft sigh. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

She plucked the photo out from the plastic lining, bringing it up into the light. She held it so that Paris could see. 

The picture was taken on the side of a hill. The terrain was marked by large scorch marks. A giant dead thing laid in the center of it, the arc of its long neck spiraling out of sight behind the mass of its body. Several kids surrounded it, some crawling over it, others bent down and poking at it. They were all dressed for safari. One of them stood off to the side of the corpse’s thick tree-trunk legs. His hair hung in a long braid down his back, nearly sweeping the ground. His hand was wrapped tight with gauze. Delta couldn’t have been more than ten years old. There was the same frightful intensity behind his eyes, even back then. He was staring straight into the camera.

“Yeah.” Paris looked away from it. “That’s him.”

There were no other photos of him in the album.

…………

tags:

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

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

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[stab-the-son-of-a]

For Now We See Through A Glass

No. 24 FIGHT, FLIGHT OR FREEZE Blood Covered Hands | Catatonic | “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Not so subtly inspired (directly) by @wormwriting's recent piece Stained Glass.

CWs: implied murder, implied drowning, mental health issues and instability, implied alcoholism, eye trauma

Tagging those who might be interested: @wolves-and-winters, @pepperonyscience

He has a pattern. He always has a pattern. A pattern, a ritual, a list of rules to follow. A ritual to unwind, a ritual to breathe. A ritual to be safe. 

At 7:00pm, he brews a cup of peppermint tea and places it on the coaster next to the remote. He pours out exactly three ounces of bourbon and places it directly on the table as far left from the tea as possible. He opens East of Eden to page 284 - On Thanksgiving of 1911 the family gathered at the ranch - and places it spine up on the right hand armrest of the couch; the binding is beginning to fray and he doesn't want to find out what happens when the spine finally breaks. There's always a breaking point. 

He turns the television on, turns up the volume, and carefully replaces the remote to the table, not allowing his hand to brush the mug. 

Then, each step taken like an ax chopping through wood, he takes in hand the worn blanket draped over the back of the couch and curls up, pressing himself between the left arm rest and the suffocating nothing to his right.

The same episode's opening credits roll. The same contrived plot plays out second by second.

7:14pm clicks over on the digital clock above the television. His heart cranks faster and his hand shakes right until the moment his fingers curl around the glass of liquor. It burns all the way down and suffuses through his throat, stomach and even his lungs. He keeps a posture of fabricated ease even as his ribs tighten and anxiety curls in his stomach. He drowns it in an ounce of alcohol.

But he can still feel it approach. The door opens. It's a silent motion, not announced by even the lock clicking open. It makes sense, if he thinks about it, but he does not.

He drains the final ounce and sets down the glass. He pretends he doesn't feel the pressure of a new being entering the room. He focuses on the actors and their simple quips and dialogues as if they're fresh and novel.

It flows around the sofa. It stands just to the right of the TV but he doesn't acknowledge it, doesn't look to the dark shape no matter how his eyes may want to skirt over the rerun he's seen countless times before. He knows each line by heart and could watch it behind his eyelids, but he knows better than to close his eyes. Not now.

His focus and vision narrows to a tunnel with the light at the end being a glowing television screen and trite acting. He tells himself he doesn't see it, but soon he can't deny it. 

A pressure divots the couch behind and beside him, ruining the embrace of fabric pressing against him, ruining the last vestiges of his illusion.

A flash of memory stabs him through the chest. Of shaking chains and of whispered pleas, of closing the door to lock the sounds behind him.

There are cold, cold fingers, and they find their homes around his wrist, layering over blackened bruises, or in between strands of his hair. 

He swallows a shudder, tries not to breathe, but the stench of stale water and musky earth still permeates his senses. Another flash. Reeds and bricks weighing down on a still chest, water soaking into wounds and a mouth left hanging open by a shattered jaw, like a door on a broken hinge. Bloodied hands washing bloodied hands in a too calm lake, surface broken only by the shoreline.

It whispers the next line of dialogue in his ear. Its breath is like leaves crunching underfoot; its laugh is like a broken wind chime strangled in the breeze. 

He breaks his own rule. He closes his eyes.

The hands in his hair and holding his hand grow sharp and harsh. Fingers dig into flesh until they become like claws burying into soil. Blood wells up in the cuts and drips to the couch cushion.

"You'd best not close your eyes for this part," the thing that was but now isn't Sidney snarls. It yanks Sterling's head back as it swings its ephemeral body over his, weightless yet heavy enough to crush his chest. Its presence is like cords of rope and its pressure is like the clay of the lakebed. 

His fear tangles in his veins and sends electric shocks all through his body. He breaks another of his own rules. He begs, "Sidney, please..."

"Open your eyes." It doesn't give him time to obey, just forces his head back further, straining his neck further, until his neck is bent over the edge of the couch, and uses one claw to pry open his eyelid. The pressure on his skull feels ready to cave in. His vision is blurred, though who can say if that's from tears or pain, but he clearly sees what will happen next.

The thing uses only one hand to hold him in place. That's all it needs. The other lifts high, long talons dirtied with soil and blood, flesh torn from the tips.

"Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"So sorry," it echoes, voice something warbling and distorted. "No, not yet."

Claws rake across bone, through skin and muscle and organs. Pain fills his mind, overwhelms his mind, and it becomes his soul, his very being. Blood flows free down his face and into his mouth as he shrieks –

Panting, Sterling bolts upright. The television still plays, sound up much too loud, remote on the floor, perhaps where his thrashing had left it. The glass is full again. 4 ounces. Perhaps he overpoured. 

He doesn't dare look around. Shivering in the nighttime chill, he brings the whiskey to his lips and swallows it all readily. He pulls the blanket around him as he lilts over, eyes staring at the screen but not seeing anything. His hand finds his wrist, feeling the fresh scabs and the hot pulse of fresh bruises under his own touch.

Cold fingers wind through his hair. 

"Not yet," something he doesn't acknowledge whispers. The room stinks of water and rot and alcohol, but the scent is fading. The peppermint tea is missing.

[whumpsmith]

OC talk~

A whumpee who is often targeted for his abilities and gets haunted by the ghost of his whumper~

More about he under the cut

Phil is initially introduced as Aiden's best friend, a columnist with a love for anything supernatural related, specifically the super heroes seen around the city. He loves to get to the bottom of things, even if that sometimes goes against better judgement.

Much to his surprise, however, he discovers he actually has his own abilities, and they're very powerful too, which immediately puts a target on his back.

A villain with the ability to steal powers is the first to get his hands on him, but before he gets the chance to extract the source of his abilities, Phil accidentally defeats him - something he regrets to this day since he didn't have control of his abilities at the time. (And it doesn't help that the villain then proceeds to haunt him either :) )

If you want to know all the juicy details you can read all about that in his story~