#heavily implied needle whump

[shootingstarpilot]

okay listen. listen. i'm sorry, i had to get this out of my head, it's been haunting me and i want to get back to working on the next proper chapter-

the mimic lives au.

mimic is brought into the fold without question, of course. and needle- oh, needle's borne witness to the nightmares that force helix awake, shaking-not-screaming, and he knows enough-

so he makes mimic a voice.

it takes him just over a week to record the entire gbs dictionary. he breaks it down, keeps it alphabetical so it's easier to find the words. dictionaries of other languages are on the list. needle thinks maybe mimic can pick and choose which ones to prioritize later. they'll have time.

(they'll have time, isn't that a novel thought-)

but the dictionary is only part of it. there are plenty of manufactured voices out there already, after all.

the datapad becomes needle's newest conversational partner. he sets it up when he's on his own and lets his train of thought derail. spinning out stories both real and fantastical. drawing out threads until they reach the boiling point of absurdity and send him into a fit of giggles. he repeats the stories he'd told mimic just that afternoon, tells him about the jedi, about the temple, about making their own home. then he remembers what helix had said about mimic wanting to be a pilot, and goes and bullies comet into educating him on starfighters. he recites his lessons to the camera each evening in the moments of stolen solitude he can squirrel away before one of the others comes looking for him.

"it's like learning another language," he says, and wags a finger at the camera. "you're welcome."

needle gifts it to mimic a week after they arrive at the temple with a wireless earpiece to match. no pressure, of course, he says, grinning, just thought it could be a good resource to have, words to borrow at your fingertips, but i know i'm only tolerable in small doses, so-

he squawks when mimic's hug lifts him clear off the ground.

anyway. so. you see my vision.

helix jumps a mile when he first hears needle's laugh in mimic's mouth. stitch yells at needle for a bit about talking so much, needle, is this why your voice was so hoarse- and then restricts him to tea for four days until he's sure his throat has healed. sometimes it's too much, and mimic will stick his earpiece to the fridge and borrow words spoken right in front of him until his brain stops buzzing-

but it works. they work.

and then.

it's a few months in. they're comfortable. they're setting down roots.

then one night needle doesn't come home.

helix doesn't wait to raise the alarm. needle doesn't spend every night home, but he's good about comming when he'll be staying elsewhere. he knows helix is struggling with letting them leave his line of sight.

and now he's gone. and he didn't comm.

the first three days stretch into a week.

then a second week.

then a month.

and now, the vision that has been HAUNTING ME-

helix, clutching mimic's datapad, sitting on the edge of his bed.

the lights are low. his eyes are red.

he hits play.

"-ah, i love them," needle says, laughing. the laugh stretches into a yawn-

(that holds for one, two, three seconds, helix knows it now by heart-)

a knock at the door sounds in the video. needle hunches his shoulders, grimacing- his eyes are dancing, he's not annoyed, not really-

"be right out!" he calls, and then- helix's voice on the other side-

"get your beauty routine under control!"

needle waits until his footsteps have vanished before turning back to the camera-

(six footsteps before they fade enough to become inaudible- helix has counted them so many times-)

"i don't need one," he says, and winks at the camera- his eyes are shining, bright and happy- "he's just jealous all of this is effortless. night, mimic. talk to you in the morning."

the video ends.

helix sits in the dark.

after a moment, he taps at the datapad again.

"ah, i love them," needle says. his laugh- snorting, open, happy-

(one-two-three for the yawn-)

helix hits pause. rewinds.

"i love them," needle says.

pause. rewind.

"i love them."

pause. rewind.

"i love them."

pause. rewind.

"i love them."

"i love them."

"i love them."

[blackrosesandwhump]

The Pestilent League, Part 1

The first part of my new lab/circus whump story featuring a rewritten OC of mine, one I liked so much that I wrote a new story for him.

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Shaking and Shivering

Whump Prompt #42

CW: kidnapping, implied amputation, bandages, lab whump, restrained, manipulation, prosthetic limb

“Please, you don’t have to do this…you don���t have to kill me this way…” The voice that burst from Eli’s mouth split the silence of the examination room. The masked figures paused, inches from the table, their blank faces turned toward the young man’s restrained body. Eli gasped for breath, shaking, unable to control his shivering body.

They were going to kill him. He was going to die, after all that had happened to him….he was going to die. And he couldn’t even see his killers’ faces.

“We are not going to kill you, Eli,” one of them assured. He didn’t know which one��their voices all resembled each other too closely—but the figure standing closest to him stretched out a gloved hand and lightly touched his heavily-bandaged chest. Eli flinched, unable to shrink away from the stab of pain. “We are not going to kill you,” the man—at least, he thought it was a man—repeated, drawing closer. “On the contrary, we want to keep you alive.”

Alive? They had a funny way of showing it. But maybe, just maybe, they were telling the truth.

He heaved in a breath, then another, staring up at the dark ceiling. The other two drew closer; he could hear them shift, could feel their presence closer to his body. Goosebumps skittered up his right arm and the back of his neck.

“Then why…why did you kidnap me?” he whispered.

The man tilted his head and raised his hand. He was holding a cane. “We will tell you, in time. First, let us do what we came here to do.”

You mean, what you kidnapped me to do, Eli thought. He didn’t say it.

The masked man detached the top section of his cane. The slim rod in his hand looked like a wand. Eli forced himself to breathe again, still riddled with panic. Something didn’t feel right. The way the masked faces were peering at him, the way they drew close as if preparing for something. What were they waiting for? Why had they kidnapped him? Why—

A sudden, inexplicable feeling flashed across the stump of his left arm. Strange beyond anything he’d ever felt. He held his breath. Not painful, not yet anyway. But strange. Pressure, a weight that was both familiar and foreign. Almost like his arm was growing back. But that was impossible—

Pain pricked across his skin like hot needles. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fist against the table, gritting his teeth. Anything to keep from crying out. The circus had taught him not to be afraid of pain…but not this kind of pain. It intensified, searing up into his shoulder and collarbone. A whimper built up in his throat.

Make it stop, please, what are you doing to me—

“It is done. Open your eyes.”

Panting a little with the bizarre weight on his left side, Eli obeyed.

His heart leapt in his throat where the whimper had been. It stuck there, vibrating with shock and fear.

This isn’t real, it can’t be real.

His arm had grown back.

No, not grown back. Been replaced. With an artificial one, carefully articulated and obviously well-designed. And it had been almost seamlessly attached to the remainder of his upper arm.

“What…what did you do to me,” he breathed. He could barely get the words out. He could hardly even breathe.

“We have restored you.” The one with the wand-like thing lowered it, sliding it back into the rest of his cane with a light click. “We have made you one of us. With your artificial limb and extensive scars, you belong with the Pestilent League. You will never belong with the rest of the world again.”

“But that’s…that’s stupid,” Eli sputtered, his voice returning along with a flare of anger. He struggled to sit up, but his right arm was still fastened to the table. “Of course I still belong…the circus will take me back, I know they will—everything will be normal again—”

A low sniff of amusement came from the masked figure standing close to his feet. “How do you know that?”

How did he know…a prickle of fear danced through his insides. How did he know?

“You will never be able to perform the same way again, Eli Ward. Not with your injuries and artificial limb. What makes you think you could return to the life you used to lead?”

The world seemed to spin. Eli lay on the table, frozen, ice flooding his restrained body. They didn’t know what they were talking about, they were lying, they had to be, it wasn’t over, his life couldn’t be over—

He didn’t move as a pair of gloved hands unbuckled the straps and freed him. He didn’t speak as one of them helped him sit up.

They’re lying to me, it’s not over, I can go back, I have to go back—

The one holding the cane looked down at him, tilting his head slightly to the side in an almost inhuman manner. “You cannot go back, Eli Ward,” he said, “so you must join us. We will welcome you with open arms.”

Eli looked down at his bandaged chest, the raw, scarred skin peeking around the edges of the gauze, the inhuman machinery that now comprised his left arm up to the shoulder.

The truth crawled over him and into his mind slowly, almost painfully.

They were right.

And he was now in their debt.

@forthetaintedsorrow-whump @whumping-to-conclusions @whumping-out-of-time @brutal-nemesis @ziptiesnfries @badthingshappenbingo

[whump-a-la-mode]

Do you think you can write something along the lines of a patient either bring put under using medication restraints (like Haldol or something) for their own good- they have a meltdown, ect. And/ or slowly waking up to find they have been strapped down? Their kind but stern doctor comforts them as they wake up. It's all just a stressful and heartbreaking experience for the whumpee. They are usually fairly stoic, but now, they feel so weak and defeated. Maybe include some tears? Sorry if this is too specific!!!

I really like this idea! I didn’t intend to go towards any specific genre of whump, since you didn’t specify, but I ended up going a little in a lab whump direction. I hope that’s okay! Thank you so much for the ask, and, again, sorry these are taking ages.

CW//Medical settings, chemical restraints, restraints, sedation, non con drug use, implied lab whump, syringes

Whumpee was screaming.

That was the only thing that could be processed by anyone in the Emergency Room as the gurney was unloaded from the ambulance and rushed through a pair of swinging double doors. Before the doors could so much as swing their way closed, the patient had already been deposited upon an ICU bed.

Around them, doctors swarmed like locusts. The doctors were swarming, and Whumpee was screaming.

“Hold them down!”

“Haldol, dammit! Get me Haldol!”

“I said, hold them down!”

Yet, to the supine patient, there were no doctors. No hospital. No, as far as they were concerned, this was a laboratory in everything but name. A torture chamber in everything but name.

And such was reflected in their movements.

Upon the bed, already half-laden with various pieces of tubing and wires, Whumpee howled, thrashing their limbs about with wild abandon. To them, movement was an end goal. As long as they were moving, there was hope of escape.

As long as they were moving, the pain wasn’t quite so bad.

“Hold, hold!”

“Where in the world is that Haldol?!”

“Right here!”

Even the words could not make their way into their their mind. No, there was no sense in their mind, only the most vague knowledge of flashing colors, of bright lights, of the horrid stench of antiseptic that they knew all too well. Each time a face appeared to them from the shroud, it quickly morphed into that of their former tormentor, eliciting nothing from them but another anguished wail.

Whumpee was not expecting the pain, though perhaps they should have been. Their arm was pushed down to the bed, half a dozen hands working to stop their ceaseless writhing. First came cold, then the prick.

“There. There.”

That was when the hyperventilation began, thrashing escalating along with it. By then, beyond their knowledge, their scope of sanity, the room had been flooded by eight doctors, nurses, and orderlies, all struggling to stop their emaciated body’s struggling.

Whumpee looked like a lab rat upon that bed, blue lines sprouting from pale skin, practically begging their veins to be pierced and flooded. The thought made their tears start, sobs tearing through their chest, jutting ribs and all, as they twisted back and forth.

Yet, at a certain point, their panic reached a peak. Its crescendo ceased, and its downfall began. Slowly but surely, each of their cells was turned to sand until they were more useless and heavy than a burlap sack.

“Clear. Running the line.”

It was a series of words that they had, up to that point in their life, heard far too many times. But, now, there was nothing to be done. No pleas or threats to be howled. Instead, they only breathed heavily, watching as the long, plastic tube pierced its way into one bulging vein.

“Line in. Clear to start the drip.”

And drip it did.

Drip -

Drip -

Drip -

Out.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Whumpee laid upon the beach, their consciousness flowing in and out as the tide.

For one moment, vision gently flowed along the sands, showing them hazy views of sterile lights and clipboards and dangling tubes. Then, once more, it receded, washed away into unconsciousness. The next time that the water flooded in, the waves were higher. Alongside visions of white tiles and dancing monitor screens, there was sound. Beeping and buzzing and voices.

When the tide came in for the third time, it stayed.

This time, the first things that occupied their newly-revived senses were not the lights, the tiles, the buzzing. Instead, they were assaulted by the sights and sounds of their own breathing-- quick, shallow, barely enough to move adequate air into their lungs.

That was, until their thought process was interrupted by something far more jarring. A voice.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

It wasn’t the softest of voices, nor the kindest. Though it wasn’t sharp, it was most certainly firm. More of a bark than a yell.

Whumpee blinked, vision once more threatening to fade. The tide dragged along the shore...

But, they were awake. Wakefulness meant confusion, and confusion meant a sharp terror, gripping at their throat.

Sterile lights. White, tiled walls. The reek of antiseptic. Every hallmark of a lab, and more. In an instant, the subtle wave of consciousness turned to a flash flood as adrenaline eliminated even the most far-off hopes of returning to slumber.

And, too, the flood came with more visions. Imagery striking at them, pounding upon the inside of their skull like a mallet. Lab coats, gloved hands, the bars of a stainless steel kennel. Shimmering needles. Pliers and scalpels.

Upwards, they jerked, a desperate attempt seizing them to sit up, as though they had just been struck by a defibrillator. But, they proved quite immediately unsuccessful, a force upon their chest keeping them held firmly down.

Whumpee knew that feeling well. Even with vertigo making the lifting of their head impossible, they did not have to work hard to imagine the restraint strap, most certainly stretched taut over their chest. More panicked experimentation showed that their wrists and ankles were similarly limited.

“Stop.”

Their wide gaze, eyelids straining to open wider as their pinprick pupils shivered, shot to find the word’s source.

The lab coat sat perched upon a stool, legs curled deliberately beneath themself. There existed a firm, focused stare to those eyes. Whumpee felt as though they could not so much as breathe without being observed.

Then again, that was what the doctor was upset at them for, huh?

Well, if they were going to be in trouble, they may as well give something to be in trouble for. If these wackjob scientists thought that they were just going to sit quietly for another hellish procedure, they had another thing coming! At least they were out of their kennel, out of their cage.

“Let me up, piece of shit!” Whumpee snarled as they made another useless attempt to sit up. Of course, the restraints limited them just as well the second time.

“I don’t think I’ll be doing that.” A moment later, it was no longer simply the pressure of the strap that pressed down upon the chest. Too, a strong hand joined, pushing. “You’re staying down.”

“And what are you doing to do to me this time?”

Though there were a few moments of confusion, there was nothing reassuring about them.

“If you cooperate? What I’m going to do to you is ensure a full recovery.” The restraining hand retracted.

“Torture doesn’t usually help with that, just sayin’.” A weak smile appeared upon their face-- all they could manage.

“You’re not there anymore.” This time... this time, there was the slightest twinge of comfort to that tone. As though they were explaining a procedure. Clinically outlining the process in a way designed to minimize panic. “You’re in the hospital.”

“That hellish lab isn’t a hospital.”

“I’m well aware of that.” They didn’t sound all too pleased at being interrupted. “You’ve been removed. You were taken here in an ambulance.”

“I was-” They tensed.

“And sedated for an adverse reaction to rescue.”

“You stabbed me.”

“It was a syringe.” They countered. “Barely a poke.”

As though Whumpee hadn’t been poked enough.

“Whatever.” They at last hissed. “Let me out of this crap, if you’re so intent on rescuing me.”

“You’re already writhing about like a fish out of water. It’s for your own good.”

They clenched their hands to fists.

“What would be good would be letting me go! I don’t need your help.”

A howl of laughter.

“Yes, kid. Yes, you do.” The doctor sighed. “I’m afraid you have a very, very long road ahead of you. And if you don’t want to spend that journey under the influence of Haldol, you’d better learn to calm down.”

[thewhumperinwhite]

And Then You Kill Me, Part 1

hey, it’s been a hot minute, huh?

been sorta Going Through It, so uh... Vampire Time, featuring Art and Karim from FBI AU. (Though, for the record: this is their original incarnation, hence why fbi au is Called That.)

I’m gonna tag @whumpitywhumpwhump and also @sweetheartblue bc Karim is... her oc once removed, basically, so if you like this, Thank Sweetheart

Blanket Warning For This Story: this story heavily features suicide, including multiple suicide attempts.

TW for: attempted suicide; mentioned/”threatened” murder; slight foot whump; implied vampirism; referenced parental abuse; referenced captivity; prescription drug abuse; drowning mention.

----

Art doesn’t know how far he runs, or for how long, but by the time he stops the air smells like salt water, and also his feet feel like they’re filled with glass.

He hasn’t been out of his room for a full month. Or his father’s house for longer than that. There’s a sharp ache in the center of each of his calves, and muscles jumping in his thighs; he hasn’t used his legs for much of anything in weeks. He hasn’t even paced back and forth within the confines of his room like he did at first. Didn’t even stay on his feet for the entirety of his last few too-long showers.

The maid who let him out is new, at least to his wing of the house. She’s been bringing his meals for three weeks at the most, and collecting the trays after he refuses to eat it with increasingly visible discomfort.

She’s the only member of staff who broke his father’s injunction that no one should speak to him; said “You must eat something” in a soft, accented voice, looking around furtively.

He wasn’t been sure his father had actually given specific orders—thought maybe they all just hated him, or had decided among themselves that he was too much trouble to bother with—but this new girl was so clearly afraid of being caught, just speaking one sentence to him, that he knew his father must have said their jobs were on the line. For a little while he wondered why his father would bother. And then he felt stupid, for still wanting the old man to need a reason for things.

The new maid’s name is Noa. It took her a week to talk to him, and two more after before she felt brave or sympathetic enough to sneak him out.

Which means she probably didn’t know that this was always what he was going to do, the second he was out. Last time he didn’t do it fast enough, and the cops found him before he had the chance; this time he isn’t taking any chances.

Noa might feel guilty when they find his body. He thought about leaving a note—to tell her thanks, and that it wasn’t her fault—but he didn’t want to risk getting her in trouble, if she somehow managed to help him without getting caught.

Anyway, she hasn’t known him very long at all. She’ll get over it before too long.

He hasn’t been to this part of the city before. In fact he’s not sure what part of the city this is; he’s been running through a thick mental fog since he first left his father’s manicured lawn. He makes himself really look, now, blinking in the dim yellow light of the streetlamps.

He’s made it to the edge of the city, near where the river that runs through the center meets the ocean. It’s hard to believe this is the same river where his mother sips martinis and watches races between indistinguishable blinding-white boats (largely captained by indistinguishable blinding-white men, though Art doesn’t have much room to talk on that score, obviously).

Art steps out onto the dock. The wood is damp and rough, ice-cold on his bare feet, but it’s solid, and not very slippery. There’s an old railing along the edge, and he leans against it, wrapping already-numb fingers around the rough metal. The river’s wider here, the city lights on the other side further away than he’s used to. This must be where it starts to open out, stops being the river and starts being the bay.

The railing’s sturdy, but only as high as his waist. It’d be easy to climb over. The water must be freezing, maybe even cold enough to kill him on its own, before he has time to drown.

But he doesn’t know what the tides are like, here. His corpse might wash right out to sea, and then what will have been the point of any of this?

Art pries one hand off the railing—it’s already stiff with cold, and it takes more effort than it should—and puts it in his pocket, wraps his stinging pins-and-needles fingers around the reassuring shape of the pill bottle.

Art closes his eyes, and breathes in. The water smells worse, here—like industrial waste, mainly, with a hint of rotting seaweed. But it doesn’t smell like too-fancy cologne, or any of his mother’s preferred cocktails.

Art figures there are worse places to die.

He’s turning his head, looking around to see if there’s any place to sit or if he should just sit on the ground and lean against the railing—and then he spins wildly on his heel, stumbling back against the railing, his heart stuttering in his chest.

There’s a man standing at the edge of the dock, under the nearest streetlight, watching him.

The man is wearing a full suit, and Art can tell immediately that it’s been professionally tailored and that it’s at least partly silk and for a moment that’s all he can see—neatly pressed trousers and shiny black shoes, with patterns on the soles that leave bruises anyone could recognize if they wanted to, if they looked at Art’s face and throat and hands for even a second—

“—to startle you,” the man is saying, in a blessedly unfamiliar voice, and Art shakes his head, hard, to force his eyes back into focus.

The man is holding his hands up in surrender and looking slightly alarmed, presumably worried that Art is about to swoon at his feet. There’s a red silk ribbon hanging untied around the collar of the man’s shirt, and Art’s father only wears plain black ties.

The adrenaline runs out of Art’s veins in a rush, and this time his knees actually do give out on him, and he slithers down against the railing until he’s sitting on the damp wood, which is very cold through the thin fabric of his jeans.

The man blinks at him. He has big, long-lashed eyes, over-bright against his light-brown skin. His hair is bleach-blonde, glowing white-gold under the streetlamp; it’s mostly slicked back, with a few curls flopping loose over sculpted black eyebrows.

He isn’t standing on the docks themselves, but his suit—now that Art can really see, it’s pretty ostentatious, satin-shiny in the yellow glow, not something his father would wear at all—looks very out of place above the dirty concrete sidewalk, between two dingy, abandoned-looking buildings.

“You’re wearing a suit,” Art says, before he knows he’s going to say anything.

The man blinks his glow-in-the-dark eyes at him. His lashes are so long they cast visible shadows on his cheeks. He looks at Art, and then down at the suit; touches his own lapel gently with black-gloved fingers, like he’s just remembering that it’s there.

Then the man looks back up at Art, and says, “It’s Boglioli,” in a surprised sort of voice, like it’s a conditioned response.

“Ugh,” Art says, with perfect sincerity.

The man laughs, his full lips parting in a startled grin, and—

There’s something wrong with his teeth.

Art is still on the ground. There’s no sound except the river, behind him, water lapping quietly against wood. Art hasn’t slept properly in days. He’s prepared to believe he imagined it, except.

Except that the smile immediately drops off the man’s face, and his gloved hand twitches up as though in an aborted attempt to reach up and cover his mouth.

Art stares.

It was only for a second. But the man’s eyeteeth were too long, surely, poked down over his bottom lip, like they barely fit in his pretty red mouth.

Art’s ears are ringing. He feels cold, and then too warm.

The man takes a half-step back, his eyes not leaving Art’s face.

Art doesn’t move. He’s been out here in the cold for—an hour. Most of him is freezing, is almost painfully cold, but suddenly there’s heat in his cheeks and his ribcage and the palm of his hands.

He’s feeling something too big to identify. It doesn’t feel like fear.

The man is watching his face very closely.

“What’s your name?” he asks, finally. His voice is low and velvet-soft.

That does sent fear up into Art’s stomach like a knife. He shakes his head once, sharply, reaching up for the railing, ready to haul himself to his feet.

The man holds his gloved hands up again, in surrender. This time when he smiles he keeps his lips firmly together.

“No, alright, my mistake,” he says, smirking. It’s much worse than the grin; more controlled, less real. Art liked the grin better.

He liked the man’s smile better with teeth.

“I just, uh,” the man says, and he gestures toward Art’s feet, folded awkwardly underneath him. “That wood’s so dirty. Your cuts’ll get infected.”

Art’s feet do hurt. He’s run half the city with no shoes, they must be cut to shit. But he hasn’t left a trail of bloody footprints, or anything. Maybe the man can see that his feet are bare, but surely not more than that, not from where he’s standing.

When he leans over, a little, to see if his foot is a horrible bloody mess and he’s just missed it somehow, Art wobbles, and takes his hand out of his pocket to steady himself.

The bottle of pills clatters out of his pocket.

Art’s heart clenches painfully in his chest, and his head swims, and the bottle rolls easily across the wooden planks in front of him. The man takes one step forward, and it taps casually into the toe of his shiny black shoe.

The man picks the bottle up, frowning down at the label.

Art stumbles forward, onto his knees. “Give that back.”

“What is it?” the man says, voice nothing but curious. He’s reading the label. Art wants to tackle him and rip it out of his hands.

“It’s mine,” he says, and now he’s almost yelling. “Give it back!”

The man takes a step back, startled. “Huh,” he says, blinking down at Art, who is now kneeling practically at his feet. Art has no idea what kind of face he’s making.

“Really,” the man says slowly, and makes a show of squinting back down at the label. “This says… Honoria Lange, is what it says.” He raises a perfectly-sculpted brow at Art. “That’s you, is it?”

Art wants to rip this guy’s head off. “Maybe it is,” he says savagely, and reaches for the man’s hand; the man laughs and dances easily out of the way. “Give me my fucking pills back—"

“Oh, relax,” the man says, smirking again. “Seriously, what are you so desperate to—” He trails off, frowning down at the bottle. “…Huh.”

The man looks down at Art, thoughtfully.

“These are—what, sleeping pills,” he says slowly, and tips his head, like a curious dog.

Art’s stomach clenches painfully.

“Hey,” the man says. “Are you—”

Art throws himself to his feet.

This isn’t as good, Art thinks, while he swings his foot onto the lowest bar of the metal railing; they might not find his body for weeks, might not find it at all, he might die for nothing, but he won’t go back, he won’t go back to his father’s—

“Hey—Don’t!” the man yells, and he grabs Art by the hood of his sweatshirt, and yanks him backwards, off the railing.

Art gasps in a painful panicked breath and kicks out at the man with his bare, bleeding feet, aiming straight for the testicles; the man moves easily out of the way, not letting go of Art’s hoodie; Art overbalances and falls backward, just catching himself my scraping his hand bloody on the concrete at the bottom of the railing.

“Shit,” the man says, reaching for Art, and Art flails at him, wants to push him away, or to scratch out his shiny glass-marble eyes, or—

The man catches Art’s wrist easily. He’s leaning over Art, now, with one arm braced beside him, and holding Art’s arm; Art’s hand, his wrist in the man’s glove fist, is very close to the man’s face.

The heel of Art’s hand is cut open; a drop of blood trails down over his pulse point, and disappears into the fabric of the man’s glove.

The man’s pupils visibly dilate. When his lips part, his fangs are even more visible than before, like they barely fit inside his mouth.

Art feels his own lips part in response. Feels his fear—he’ll stop me he’ll call the police he’ll drag me back please no please please I’ll do anything—shift, pool lower in his belly.

The man is watching Art’s face—their faces are very close together now. He looks Art in the eye and—parts his lips slightly, so there can be no mistaking what they both know Art sees. Then he wets his lips, delicately, with an almost obscenely red tongue.

“Hey,” the man says, and his voice has gone slightly hoarse.

“No,” Art says—and his voice is hoarse, too, an embarrassing croak. His face is hot; he knows it must be red, now. “I don’t want it. Whatever you’re offering, I don’t—uh—”

Art tries to pull his arm back, as hard as he can. The man’s grip doesn’t budge a single inch. Like he could—like he could snap Art’s wrist, just by tightening his fist. Art swallows, his heart fluttering in his chest. His ribcage feels too tight. And now his pants are starting to feel that way, too.

The man studies Art’s face, very seriously. “I think,” he says, and his voice is softer, almost hesitant.

“I think,” the man says, watching closely for Art’s reaction, “that I am offering to kill you.”

[whump-mania]

ABC Masterlist

Here's where you can find the (mostly) chronological masterlist of the ABC stories (Aaron, Ben, Chloe). Anything italicized means it is not canon, and anything bolded is canon. Trigger warnings listed in descriptions and at the beginning of each story.

Enjoy!

~

READ THIS FIRST

Characters and Background - Context and summary of pretty much everything that happens. Contains character descriptions and picrews of what the characters look like. (TW: abuse, obsession, stalking, kidnapping, police, panic attacks, implied torture, gun use)

~

INITIAL CAPTURE

“No one is coming to help you.” - Ben’s first day with Aaron. (TW: kidnapping, blood, brief mention of amputation, knives, cutting, torture, cursing)

Mine. - Ben gets cocky, and Aaron reminds him of his place. (TW: kidnapping, abuse, blood, knives, nonconsensual touching)

“Do as you’re told or you’re going to make me angry.” - Aaron gets a bit peeved as Ben continues to try to be defiant. (TW: electrocution, hair pulling, cursing)

“Your screams are music to my ears.” - Ben tries to reason with Aaron, but apparently Aaron already has what he wants. (TW: torture, blood, knives, cursing)

Blackmail - Marcus blackmails Chloe into staying quiet and living with him, but what happens when she tries to run off? (TW: kidnapping, cursing, vomiting, abuse, video taping, blackmail, blood, whipping)

Three Years - Aaron takes his torment one step too far, after waiting three whole years to do so. (TW: HEAVILY IMPLIED r*pe/non-con, panic attacks, cursing (please don’t read this one if you’re under 18. thank you))

The Little Things - Ben refuses to eat, and heavily regrets it later. (TW: vomiting, food, starvation)

A First for the Both of Us - Ben fights back, and Aaron makes it impossible for him to fight again. (TW: broken bones, blood, brainwashing)

Sleep Deprivation Prompt - Ben’s broken hand makes it very hard to sleep. (TW: sleep deprivation, drugging, needles)

Arachnophobia - Aaron remembers one of Ben’s worst fears from the past. (TW: restraints, spiders, panic attack)

Caretaker Death Scenario - Aaron feels that Ben’s forgotten who he belongs to. So he simply reminds him. (TW: noncon kiss, blood, death, restraints, kidnapping, whipping, stress position)

~

CHLOE’S RESCUE ATTEMPT

Anything You Want - Chloe comes to Ben’s rescue and fails, so Aaron and Ben make a deal. (TW: EXPLICIT r*pe/non-con and threatened non-con, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF UNDER 18, kidnapping, non consensual touching/kissing, cursing, brief mention of nausea)

Movie Night - Aaron shows Ben and Chloe a “movie” that Chloe knows all too well. (TW: whipping, video, nonconsensual touching, intimate/creepy whumper, scars)

Keep Your Eyes Open - Chloe is forced to watch Aaron at work. (TW: blood, torture, abuse, whipping)

I Lied. - Ben pays the price for getting in Aaron’s way, and can’t take much more. (TW: burning, torture, brief mention of blood)

Please Hurt Me. - Ben is forced to beg for the pain to keep his sister safe. (TW: electrocution, torture, cursing, submission)

Backtalk - Ben breaks the deal, and Chloe pays the price. (TW: drowning, cursing, torture, blood, death threats, suicidal thoughts)

~

THE FIRST ESCAPE/RECOVERY

The Escape - Ben and Chloe make it out alive, rushing to find somewhere to call their new home. (TW: abuse, death threats, gun use, flashbacks, panic attacks, non consensual touching, implied noncon (please don't read if under 18. thank you.))

Nothing Left - Ben lashes out at Chloe when she tries to get him to open up. (TW: reference to noncon, yelling, cursing)

Still Out There - Ben has a night terror. (TW: panic attack, flashbacks, gun mention, mentions of abuse, brief mention of noncon, sleep deprivation)

Benny - A nickname sends Ben into a flashback. (TW: flashbacks, panic attack, blood)

Ethan - Ben meets his boyfriend, Ethan. (TW: implied domestic abuse)

The Talk - Ethan learns the hard way about what happened to Ben. (TW: flashbacks, abuse, referenced sexual abuse, referenced domestic abuse, triggers)

~

THE RECAPTURE

Revenge - Aaron pays Chloe a visit. (TW: HEAVILY IMPLIED R*PE/NONCON, female whumpee and male whumper, home invasion, abuse, blood, knives)

Welcome Home - Marcus makes a new deal with Aaron after the twins’ escape. On Ben and Ethan’s six month anniversary, things go south in regards to an uninvited guest. (TW: abuse, kidnapping, stalking, HEAVILY IMPLIED R*PE/NONCON (please stay away if under 18), blood, implied gun use, panic attack, nonconsensual touching, implied bone breaking, cursing)

I Love You - Ben, Chloe, and Ethan are captured, and Aaron becomes more and more attached to Ben and jealous of Ethan. (TW: kidnapping, nonconsensual touching, nonconsensual kissing)

Ethan Whump Ask - Some requested Ethan whump. Not canon. (TW: choking, abuse, blood, implied domestic abuse, victim blaming)

A New Approach - Aaron uses new methods to get Ben to love him. (TW: brainwashing, sensory overload, pet whump, cages)

Part of the Deal - Ethan reminds Chloe of the deal they made: tell each other everything. (TW: REFERENCED R*PE/NONCON, female whumpee+male whumper, cursing, reference to home invasion)

Breaking - Ethan tries to get Ben to return to his former self. Aaron gets angry. (TW: HEAVILY IMPLIED R*PE/NONCON, nonconsensual kissing/touching, death threats, cursing, brainwashing, pet whump)

SECOND ESCAPE (RESCUE)/RECOVERY

Dust - Aaron is finally taken away and his three captives are free. But Ben seems to be beyond broken. (TW: police, brainwashing, broken limbs)

His Name - Ben and Chloe are back home. Well, Ben’s body is. His mind is somewhere else. (TW: panic attack, small blood mention)

[redactedweasel]

Venom

As I woke up this morning, my brain went 'here daydream about this whump' and since I am benevolent, I decided to share. :) It's really the after-whump/comfort though so, at least it's that?

Content warning for needles, implied torture, restraint, unreality, and loss of body control.

Keet can't stop shaking.

The tremors ripple deep in his muscles, his nerves, and they roll one over another with barely even ever a breath of relief. It's almost like a vibrating massage except - he wants it to stop. It hasn't, though, not in at least a day, or maybe more, he can't be sure how time passes any longer.

He is on his knees, leaned heavily into the shackles and manacles that bind him - aware only distantly, now, of the ache this position causes. His own abdominal tongue - soft, heavy - rests along the ground from where it hangs out of a dry, panting maw. Blood coats it - evidence of his one, lucky strike - but Keet cannot taste it, cannot drum up even a lick of appetite.

Despite the body on the floor in front of him. Cooled, now - the large, venom-laden syringe they'd been holding resting not all that far from a hand. Stabbed through the head, the neck - basically decapitated because they had underestimated his adrenaline. His fight. They're dead now. Can't hurt him any longer.

He finally got them.

But the shaking won't stop. His body still won't quite listen. Keet can't /focus/. Feels so disconnected that it's as if he's simultaneously buried deep, deep into his body and also flying high, high above it. Every now and then he drifts back into the present, sees stark white walls and then the tremors get worse because fear twines into them, too.

And then, suddenly, a voice drifts into his consciousness, and without thought Keet snarls and lunges. Between his rebellious body and his exhaustion he doesn't make it far - meets nothing but empty air. Awareness seeps back into his eyes, only just enough to let them focus ahead - and he sees a human, there. Familiar, very familiar - but in his addled state he can only think of the one who hurt him and he begins to build up energy for just one more attack.

There is a clack sudden and sharp enough that it makes Keet jolt, and all at once the human is pulled away. In their place stands legs - and it takes Keet a long moment to realize that legs do not usually stand alone, and so he has to look up. Except he can't, even though he tries, and a long breath that borders on a sigh escapes him.

He tenses when he feels a hand curl around his chin. And then his gaze is going up, and up, until it is caught in another that is vividly amber and so, so sharp -

The pieces fall into place. Keet doesn't even feel the sob build - it is just all at once there, a single explosion of noise that rips out of his chest and through his throat.

Black. Purple. They've found him - they're here.

Black is careful as they let his chin lower once more, and then they move away - but Keet doesn't have the time to feel their absence, because Purple slips quickly back into their place. Keet feels himself jostled, slightly, by movements at the chains that bind him. Purple reaches out, smooths hard, almost desperate presses into his skin. Their hands move to his neck - it surprises him that he still has a neck - and Keet lets his eyes slip closed as they work, too.

His body comes undone, his chains release - and with not an iota of energy to bring to bear, Keet can't stop himself from falling forward. Purple catches him, strains but doesn't let him fall. Keet would cry, if he could - but nothing comes. Instead he only trembles, shivers - can't even form a whine or a whimper. He manages a sigh, though, as Purple does their best to bundle his mess of a body closer and closer. Black is soon there, too, and the job is easier with their many, many hands.

Purple is speaking, but Keet can't understand them. Their words pass through his ears - still not quite right - and out again, his addled mind incapable of translating them.

He gets it though, he thinks. Even beneath the confusion, and the trembling, and the body that refuses to listen - Keet feels relief start seeping through his bones.

They have him, now. He's safe.

[shiningstarofwinter]

Mica Whump Wip

Not a finished piece at all but more or less a doodle I’ve been writing for a kiddo of mine who started in a DnD group that went down in glorious flames. XD We tried to take down stuff above our level and mostly died. . . . As you do. Anyways, Mica is my lil healing/tank cleric lady with a small body, and a big heart. Who I like to be mean too . . . YEah. XD This is a bit of a mess as I’ve been writing scene chunks at oDark 30 when my brain wouldn’t be quiet. XD Winged Whumpee, Kobold Whumpee, Captivity, Lady Whumpee TW: Heavily implied drugging, TW: Non sexual noncon touching

Mica was. . . . confused and not at all sure what to think of this current situation. She had been pulled out to heal what if she was making bets had been a raiding party. That was getting to be all too normal, what had followed though had been completely new.   Mica had squirmed, hissing and whistling when after the healing session they had rolled up her tunic and started to unwrap her wings and chest. That her wings and been felt wrapped and mostly ignored both by herself and her captors had until now been one of Mica's biggest comforts.   "Hold still you stupid thing." Was punctuated by being shaken in the hand holding the back of her neck. Mica warbled and slapped at the legs of the woman holding her ineffectively with her tail.   "Don't know why the boss wants to do this anyways but the more you cooperate the sooner I can be finished."   This was not reassuring but Mica mostly settled with making low angry rumbles and panicky flashing of her bioluminesce as the wraps were removed. . . to Mica's astonishment her tunic was rolled back down and the guard put Mica on her feet once again. Mica's rumbling died and the flickering blue glow faded somewhat. Stumbling along with her guard Mica began a confused clicking in the back of her throat.  The guard ignored this subtle question and brought Mica to an open area of the encampment, where there seemed to be a pair of . . . Sandbags? Mica's hands were tethered to the sand bags without protest. "Can you get your wings out of that tunic yourself?" The guard asked and she sounded bored with this whole thing. Mica could normally tuck her wings through the wing holes at the back of the tunic with ease but shuffling the leathery appendages they didn't much want to move.   The guard stepped closer again and to Mica's growing confusion undid the buttons at the small of Mica's back to grab hold of a wing joint. Mica shifted uneasily, not liking the touch at all. It felt wrong at first and than it felt worse as the guard pulled the joint awkwardly up and out from under the cloth. Mica's wing joints were stiff and it hurt for the muscles and membranes to be stretched so. It could have been a lot worse. The flush of warmth and well being that flooded Mica whenever she earned her goddess's favor by casting healing spells had staved off some of the damage to be had from keeping her wings, and for that matter her hands, bound.     Blood rushed into passages kept tight and the tingling pins and needles pain of it was all Mica could think of for a few seconds. By the time she caught up to the sensations the Guardswoman was starting to pull out the wing on the other side. Mica jerked, her free wing twitching and the wing in the woman's hold pulling awkwardly. One of Mica's knees gave out and the pull of her own weight opened up the wing fully. A moment later Mica was dropped to fall forward onto the sand bags. Panting as heavily as she could through the muzzle Mica's wings stayed partially extended, drooping to either side of her heaving chest.   Time passed and Mica felt terribly exposed, flinching at every sound around her as feeling slowly came back into her wings. She kept expecting something horrible to happen. Images of torn membrane and broken bones flashed through her mind.Eventually she scrabbled back to her feet, wincing as her stiff wings protested the movement that ruffled them slightly. She was tethered by a short rope to the sandbags, which were large and heavy enough that Mica falling onto them had apparently not disturbed them at all. Mica could stand comfortably enough, but she doubted the rope was long enough to let her touch the ground, or the bottoms of the sandbags.   Mica glanced around hawkishly and found that there were several people around the open area, including the gal who had hauled her out here. None of them seemed to be paying her a whole lot of attention.The guardswoman was in the shade of a largeish building, she was running the blade of her sword down the surface of a whetstone. The soft hissing woosh of the blade’s passage rhythmic and steady. Mica eyed the guard for several seconds before tugging experimentally on the rope that tied her mitted hands to the sandbags. Nothing shifted, the bags were weighty and didn't budge at all. Mica tried grab the rope with her hands. Fine motor control with the canvas mitts on was impossible but after a few tries she managed a decent hold in the rope and tried to lift the sandbags. Straining she stopped as soon as she could feel the weight shift free of the ground lowering them back down. Not strictly too heavy to lift, but heavy enough to make it not worth the effort, at least not with escape in mind.  Mica was deep in thought when a gust of wind caused her wings to spread of their own accord. They were still stiff even if the tingling of the blood rushing back fully into veins had subsided and the movement hurt. Still it felt good to have them out again even if Mica was still twitchy and waiting for the other boot to drop.       The glowing patterns on her scales subsided as discomfort of her wings eased. The sun was bright out today and the glorious warmth of it across her spread wings dripped syrupy golden calm over Mica's thoughts anytime there was a long enough dip in the noise level around her.Each time the tromp of boots too close roused Mica it was harder to come alert. It had been a long while since she had felt this warm and content. Each time the sound of footsteps would fade and Mica was unable to spot any particular amount of movement in her area. Golden warmth would reclaim her when the area was calm once again. It was odd though, Mica had sun bathed before and this didn't quite seem like sun bathing had previously. The worry quickly sank into the golden tide in her mind and Mica soon found herself humming quietly as her wings ever so slowly stretched and flapped in the warm air like she had seen certain gliding seabirds do back home. A nameless time later Mica was drowsing when she heard the hiss of the whetstone stop. That probably meant something, but the golden warmth kept her from being too concerned about it. Boots headed her way coming closer and closer. There was something about boots, boots were. Not good?. Bad maybe? Mica's crest rose and fell, she folded her wings to her back, settling them, and resetting them again with a sound like ruffled canvas.She shuffled sideways and peered down at her hands in mild confusion when they pulled her to a halt.Mica tugged ineffectively at the ties staring at them in confusion as the bootsteps got louder and closer. Mica's frill wavered up and down, a shaky trill leaving her muzzle. Mica shot a look in the direction of the approaching steps and somewhat clumsily decided that tucking her wings into her tunic was a good idea. The leathery appendages tucked in without much trouble despite the unsteadiness Mica suddenly seemed plagued by.A tall one was coming too close, Mica skittered sideways, or tried to before coming up short when her hands wouldn't move any farther from where they were. Mica wobbled and flared her tail out for balance. Something heavy and warm landed on her shoulder  it helped keep her from tilting any further. Mica listed towards the warmth and found herself leaning against something solid while the weight on her shoulder had left, seemingly to pull at her hands.Being still the warmth enveloped Mica again and she listed until she was leaning against something that was also warm. The little kobold cooed a contented quiet sound.  Mica blinked blearily at the tall one she'd forgotten was there when they spoke, reminding her that the warmth was was leaning against probably wasn't a rock. "You sure are a lot more pleasant like this, no wonder the captain wanted to try it."   Mica's tunic was lifted, she shuffled her wings a little, even through the golden warmth that flowed over her she wasn't sure she liked this idea, and a flicker of panic flared briefly under the sunny syrup, Mica tucked her wings closer still to her back. The tall one didn't directly touch her wings though, just wrapped something around them and her chest. The tunic folded back down and that worry gone Mica drifted again.  Something tugged her forward and Mica followed it willingly enough. It wasn't as warm this way, but the golden warmth did not lift from her mind. Mica had no idea how long they walked but when she bumbled to a stop a hand grabbed the back of her neck and part of her collar bone. Lifting her up, Mica curled like a hatchling, tucking her legs, arms and tail close. A flash of something tried to rise above the golden syrup but whatever it had been it did not make it to the surface.   Another hand held her lower down supporting her hips, and there was a hesitation.   "This is new. . . Never knew you lot did this."  Mica felt that flare again, this time more strongly, this wasn't right, something was wrong. Mica squirmed, lifting her head and bending her neck towards her shoulder. It wasn't much of a wiggle as the flare of wrong sank back where it had come from quickly.  "You settle a lot faster now too." The voice commented.

[emwhyarentyouwriting]

WEIRDEST HURT/whump-ish/COMFORT FIC I EVER DID TYPE.

I deeply apologize in advance... Especially to JJ because they the irl homie.

SOME WARNINGS: mentions of drafting (war), heavily implied s/m, MxM, just edgy overall.

Word Count: 1001

He lie there, absolute defeat, he could no longer keep himself together in the sight of his lover, "Real men don't fucking cry over this shit!" He sobbed, wailing to Mueller's shirt in the dark on the floor, a warm fireplace cannot thaw Nosreme's face from cold shock,"I'm not a man, I'm a freaking little girl crying on the floor because my mom wants me to marry some woman I never met before," Castillo could barely pull the words from his chest, heaving and drenching the lawyer's clothes in salty water, even his nose cried as well, it was quite a disturbing sight to see an individual of such status befallen to such extents, "Please, please don't leave me, I have to marry her. I don't love her, I love you. Please don't go.".

Nosreme felt his eyes needling the seams of sympathy, how many hapless nights has he wept for reasons so much more rediculous and theatrical? Far too many to count, and for arguably stupid reasons as well. Though, no one expects the great Mueller to be so tearful over his work spilling over and his secrets finally escaping into the open, he did cry, silently, for hours at night, stuck to comfort himself alone at night when there was nobody, now there was somebody and he's clung on ever since like the mother he never got to appreciate, but the one he holds dear is twice as fractured, "Just lie with me a while. It'll be fine.". Grazing over his face, kissing his forehead light as a feather and holding him next to him and the adjacent rug of the living room, "Your hair is quite beautiful tonight. If only I could see you in the light.". Like a distorted sunset, calming crackling illuminating further as Enile came closer and sat beside the man after he tried to avoid his touch.

Mueller came up with no other defense for pricking a tear himself, and he mildly saw his full face, pain. Nosreme couldn't stand to bear with it, he concealed his eyes and tried to glance away to where Enile could not see. Eventually he did, asking if he was okay, "No.". His body gave out on him, descending onto Enile and his lap, where he no longer held himself together, sobbing and clinging onto him like it's his last breaths. His voice gasped and creaked, broken, "I'm sorry. I can't fix it, I'm not good enough.".

Enile flooded Nosreme's hair with hopeless water that sanctified the mutual misery, because once the most hopeful person in the world has lost hope, he will do the same, "I don't know what to do anymore.". There wasn't a thing to combat with, the justice house is powerful and his own mother the queen is the purest law, and the law be against them, "All because of a damn war, one we shouldn't be in.". He cried and nearly suffocated each other in a shared need for any sort of consort, "They were talking about drafting you.". Enile sniffled and his voice shattered completely, he was clawing into Nosreme just to keep him there, as if he were ghosting away and would soon disappear into nothing, "I don't want you to die please don't let them do it!" A hitching voice and a pitiful position, they simply cried together, pleading to the ink of the night for the herring of mercy, "They wanna draft me too.".

Finally, a shed of hope, somewhat, as Mueller's fighting heart tends to migrate with dangerous butterflies, "I will be at your side until the absolute end. I promise.". He discovered within himself the strength of adversity, holding up Enile to sit straight and look forward, "I will never let a single thing even barely graze you. I will serve you until I can no longer, your highness.". He firmly yielded himself, chin up. His tearful grip on Enile's collar secured him to one place to look into determined eyes that still could not hide his fear, "I promise..." Still tight on his shirt, his other hand slowly raised, pinching the bridge of the prince's spectacles, retracting them away and lightly folding them, setting them on the floor's surface with a click of the frame tapping wood near the wisps of fire, "God.", he sobbed, "I love you so much.".

"I love you too.", Nosreme's eyes fenced through Enile's fingers lacing his face, the tips of black painted nails petting at his stubble. Jousting together their mouths, much to Mueller's surprise written in his electrified body, a kiss of desperation, a want and a need to find themselves where they've went lost. The nausea of knowing their eventual fates riddled their stomachs still, the overheating being too close to the fire becoming unbearable, neither cared. They sat in the same spot all the while unable to sit still with each other. Prickling breaths down their skin, then resuming where they left off, persuasive gestures, deep and rugged, ruminating and responding each and every tic naturally as clockwork upon the walls, passing and osculating again and again. Cries turned to the spiced intimate whispers through hesitant tongues and savage teeth, whose glowing warmth was of much comfort, worse, excitement. The men ought to make the most of their time, transpiring to ferocious, uncontrollable, bloodthirsty—never will the two experience this outside of themselves, brandishing sticks and blades, sugary threats that meant to dangerously soothe the state of mind into a weightless time and space, where they heightened themselves to the fullest extent to fall to the knees and take worshipful glimpses before the next lick to feel passionate awe—the eternal oddity of their language and expressions of love. Katherinne was traumatized, the people mock them along the bubbles of a park lake, they will surely fight this war. But, challenges, suffering, together, bonded and burned the edges of flays and slices of the soul, forever in their freedom to be bound to their promise.

[thewhumperinwhite]

Café: Clinic (3)

Kent wakes up. Sol speaks softly.

Previous: Teaser 1 / Teaser 2 / Hospital/Squad Car / No More Squad Car / Empty Bar / Used Car Lot 1 / Used Car Lot 2 / Gas Station / Roadside 1 / Roadside 2 / Forest / Treetops / Cottage (1) / Cottage (2) / Interlude: Police Station / Cottage (3) / Cottage/Car Ride / Clinic / Clinic (2)

TW for: self-hate, past self-harm (or at least attempting to self-harm by getting sick on purpose);  implied past neglect/abuse; over-apologizing; guilt; trauma-induced low self worth. 

@whumpitywhumpwhump​ @stephsspilledthoughts​ -- I feel like there was somebody else who wanted to be tagged for café but I could be wrong...? the best way to get tagged is to send me a dm because those are easy to check before I post and I have the Worst possible memory

As is the Prime Whump Experience: this was very fun to write and also I made myself sad.

----

This is a secret Kent doesn’t ever plan to tell, but as a kid he sort of loved getting sick. 

It was no good to just feel bad with no outward proof something was wrong, obviously, but when there was something measurable, like puking or a fever— even when Chase was in high school and generally too busy to bother with Kent, he’d drop everything to fuss over him. No matter how awful he was feeling—and it was better to be feeling really awful, so he knew he’d earned the time in bed and didn’t have to feel guilty about it—it was worth it to have Chase stay in his room, check his fever with a gentle hand on his forehead, read to him, sometimes, even when he was more than old enough not to need it. Once when Kent was in middle school his fever was high enough and lasted long enough to send him to the hospital, and Chase was almost frantic with worry, and— this is awful, by the way, this is an awful thing to think— Kent loved it, it was worth the terrible dry heat and the rib-cracking cough and the IV needles. He sometimes stayed out late on cold and rainy nights in the hopes it might happen again, halfway between hope for earning that love again and half deeply ashamed for being so manipulative, but it turned out to be a moot point anyway; Kent is now perfectly aware that colds come from viruses and not from wet feet like his mother used to claim.

All that to say, the feeling of waking up with a fever that has just broken— exhausted and sweaty and worn-thin, but blessedly clear-headed— is very familiar, but of course Chase is not here, wherever “here” is. It was different to trick Chase into taking care of him; Chase was his brother, but here... Kent doesn’t remember very much except that he is fairly sure he’s embarrassed himself rather badly. 

Kent is wrapped in a thick scratchy blanket that is now tangled around his legs and absolutely disgusting with sweat. He pulls at it, though it’s difficult to extricate himself because he’s stretched out on a couch that is about a foot too short for him. He sits up to attempt to free his feet, beginning to be frustrated, and then he stops, because he sees that Sol is in an easy chair next to him, fast asleep sitting up with his cheek resting on his hand.

There’s a new brace on Sol’s opposite wrist, which looks less swollen than Kent remembers it, and Kent has a memory, mixed in with all the feverish nonsense floating around in his head, of Sol leaning over him, voice fast and desperate, with tears in his dark eyes.

Kent flops back onto the couch to look up at the ceiling, feeling his cheeks heat up with a miserable blush.

He doesn’t—Obviously, it doesn’t matter what Sol thinks of him. In the long term, it’s much better for Sol to know what a—what an embarrassing crybaby he is; that might be the least painful thing for Sol to know about him. And it’s—silly, and vain, is what it is, to be worried about looking stupid in front of a cute boy during the end of the world.

Kent closes his eyes, and starts to heave a sigh that turns into a hard, chest-wracking cough, which feels like getting kicked in the stomach, hurts so much he doesn’t even worry about the noise he’s making until he hears Sol scrambling up out of his chair and feels Sol’s hand warm between his shoulder blades. Sol lays the other hand on Kent’s chest with gentleness that makes Kent’s eyes tear up even more than the stabbing pain in his ribs was already doing, and braces him against the force of the cough so it doesn’t tear him apart.

It takes him a long moment to catch his breath, and by the time he’s finished coughing all the dull aches he woke up with are so much sharper he can’t actually see while Sol eases him back against the couch pillows, let alone speak.

“Sorry,” he manages finally, though pushing the air out feels like needles in his lungs. “Didn’t mean—to wake you up.”

For some reason that makes Sol sigh heavily, and when Kent’s vision clears Sol’s handsome face is creased with a troubled frown. 

Kent has a vague, foggy memory of Sol telling him not to apologize. “Sorry,” he says immediately, and then winces, both because his breaths feel like knife wounds and also because every second he spends with Sol is more embarrassing than the one preceding it.

“It’s okay,” Sol says, and he puts his warm hand on Kent’s sweaty forehead and slides it softly over his stringy, greasy hair. It would feel wonderful if Kent could think of anything but how disgusting he currently is. “How ya feelin’?”

“Better,” Kent croaks. “I’m— I think I’m okay, now, actually.” He tries on a smile, but it feels wobbly even from the inside.

Sol’s frown deepens from “sad” into “actively upset,” because Kent is so, so terrible at this.

“Kent,” Sol says, “you’re not ‘okay,’ man. You have pneumonia. Your fucking lung collapsed.”

That— doesn’t seem like it can possibly be right. Kent tries to sit up, coughs again, falls back against the couch cushions because it feels like getting stabbed. “I don’t—” He shakes his head helplessly, and Sol is looking more worried by the second, and this is torture. “Sorry, I don’t really—” He can’t finish; it seems like every third breath sucks on the unpleasant heavy fullness he’s realizing he can feel in his lungs and he has to stop and cough again. “Sorry—”

“Please stop that,” Sol says in a small voice, and Kent stares at him, because he looks so sad, Sol is clearly feeling terrible and Kent doesn’t know how to tell him that he’s feeling it for no reason. “Don’t— God.” Sol runs free hand through his hair, the other still resting warm on the top of Kent’s head. “I have— I have about a million questions for you, but I’m not gonna push it when your lungs are all fucked up. So just— how ‘bout you don’t say ‘sorry’ until you can breathe again, huh?” He laughs, a little, and Kent realizes with an even bigger stab of guilt that Sol’s eyes are shining with unshed tears.

Then he realizes that Sol has threatened to ask him questions, and he panics so immediately he almost forgets to feel guilty for a few seconds.

“Woah,” Sol says, alarmed, and puts his hand much too gently on Kent’s chest, where Kent can feel his own heart hammering desperately against his ribs. “Relax— Kent, breathe, okay? I’m not mad at you.”

“You—should—be—” Kent manages, and Sol’s eyes flash; his hand tightens into a fist on Kent’s shirt and pushes him down— Kent hadn’t even realized he was trying to sit up.

“Shut up,” Sol says, dark eyes blazing. “Breathe. Slowly. Like you told the little girl. Breathe in.”

Kent, transfixed, does.

“Hold it.” The breath burns and bubbles in Kent’s protesting lungs, but he does what he’s told. “Now let it out, slow. That’s good.” Sol’s face softens when Kent lets out the breath, and takes another without having to be told, feeling his heart begin to slow already. He strokes Kent’s hair, gentle in a way that makes Kent’s stomach hurt. “That’s great. Thank you.” Sol sighs, closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them again and looks at Kent, his eyes warm in a way that burns but is impossible to look away from. 

“Quit telling me how you want me to feel,” Sol says, voice soft but firm. “For now, keep breathing until morning, or I really will get mad at you. Understand?”

The adrenaline from his twenty seconds of panic is running out and Kent is already exhausted again, feels sleep beginning to close over his head like black water. With a supreme effort, he nods at Sol.

“Good,” Sol says, his hand warm in Kent’s filthy hair, and in the last few seconds before he falls asleep, Kent lets the praise wash over him. He’ll find some way to pay for it in the morning, so for a few moments now he lets it feel good.