#i should put this in the whump tag they’ll love this

[dozydawn]

figure skaters worrying over their injured partners...

Zhang Dan and Zhang Hao (fall)

Marie-France Dubreuil and Patrice Lauzon (fall)

Anna Cappellini and Luca Lanotte (collision with another skater during warmup)

Nora Hoffmann and Attila Elek (cut by another skater’s blade during warmup)

Ingo Steuer and Mandy Wötzel (fall)

Kana Muramoto and Daisuke Takahashi (fall during warmup)

[abhainnwhump]

IMYM Chapter 29: For Our Future: Nightmare

(Content warnings: Domestic abuse, lab whump, brief mention of suicidal ideation. I feel like I should have this tagged as something else but I don't know what.)

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“I see . . .” Nightmare copied the address down from the letter in his hand. He spoke to no one but himself. He wrote a list with his quill pen. “Perfect.”

He finished the reservations for his and Ribbon’s wedding. The venue would take place at an old chapel in Mafiatale. He toured the place recently to make sure everything was as expected, and it was. Ribbon liked it too, though he liked anything he did. The list was almost complete. Outfits, reception, catering, cake, photographers, florists, the guests, the vows, and the honeymoon. He even hired extra guards. Nightmare didn’t want to risk his bride getting hurt or abducted. He couldn’t have anything go wrong on this day, his wedding needed to be perfect. Nightmare wasn’t interested in battle on his special day, especially for as much work as it was to set it up. Speaking of . . .

Nightmare looked around and tried to sense Ribbon’s aura. He couldn’t find him. Nightmare stood up and left his office. He couldn’t help his apprehensive building. The dark king walked until he felt a nervous aura. It was difficult to believe that wasn’t Ribbon. Not even Error’s uneasiness was this extreme and he had been torturing him for over two months.

He followed the aura until he walked to the entrance of the castle and opened one of the massive doors. Nightmare looked down. Ribbon sat on the front steps of the castle. His chin rested on his palm as he stared into the distance, ignoring his fiancé behind him. His aura was a mix of emotions, dominated by anxiety. His other hand played with the skirt of his dress.

Nightmare sat next to him. His tendril rested on his hand and squeezed and Ribbon jumped. Nightmare smiled. “It’s just me, no need to panic. Is something bothering you?”

Ribbon pulled his string and rubbed the charm. “Um, no. I’m okay, Nighty! I’m just a little sleepy . . .” Chuckling, he blushed and looked away. His permanent smile looked tense.

“No lying to me Ribbon, you know that’s against the rules. And did you forget I could read emotions? I know you are dim-witted, but you’re not that dim-witted.” Nightmare pulled Ribbon closer to him, pushing his head onto his shoulder. He put one finger on his chin and made him look up. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I don’t like seeing you this upset.”

Ribbon bit his lower jaw and looked up with his soft lilac eyes. “Promise you won’t get angry?”

“Depends if it will make me angry, I doubt it will.”

“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure . . .”

Nightmare sighed. “I promise I won’t be angry at you. Now tell me what’s bothering you. That’s an order.”

Ribbon rubbed his arms. “I’m scared. I have wedding jitters. I want to get married to you, I do! But I don’t know. Marriage is a big thing and before I met you, it’s something I never planned to do. What if I mess up? What if you don’t like me as your wife? You deserve a perfect wedding and if I start stumbling over the vows or trip in the aisle-”

Nightmare raised his right hand. He worried Ribbon wanted to back out, which if he did, Nightmare would never allow. His tendrils stroked Ribbon’s leg as he moved closer to him. “Ribbon, nervousness is a normal thing to feel and I’m not mad at you for it. If someone mocks you or hurts you, they’ll lose their hands. I know how shy you are, it’s one of the things I love about you. The only monster you will have to talk to is the officiator, you can stay silent for the whole reception. All you would have to do is smile and look adorable. And I have an exceptional plan for the honeymoon. But I won’t tell you, it’s a surprise.”

The doll beamed. Nightmare planned to take Ribbon on a week-long cruise. No stress, no work, just the two of them spending time with each other. He’d take a hiatus from his multiversal destruction. He looked forward to having Ribbon in general, it felt . . . special, important.

Nightmare caressed his face with his hand. “If it will ease your anxiety, remember that you don’t have to make any of the difficult choices. I will choose your wedding dress and veil, I will tell you what to say, and all you will need to do is listen. You made some excellent choices. I knew you would pick out something beautiful.”

“You thought it was beautiful? I- um, thank you! I don’t have many ideas right now, but I’ll think of something! I’ll make it pretty for you.” Ribbon nuzzled up to Nightmare. He held him close, rubbing his shoulder.

Nightmare took Ribbon’s hand and held it out in this. He touched his ring with his fingertips. Ribbon cuddled closer and Nightmare kissed his head.

“Have you thought about kids yet? I don’t mind them, I’ll . . . I’ll do it if you want me to.”

Nightmare pondered it. He hasn’t considered children. He practically had three with Killer, Horror, and Dust. He imagined Ribbon against an oak tree, laughing with a little skeleton. It would leave him with a true heir. As an immortal, Nightmare didn’t believe he would ever leave the throne. But the idea of having a successor, whether a prince or a princess, did interest him. It would make him look more powerful. “I would like a baby, at least one. It’s a simple spell, we have to combine our magic and willpower to summon a soul and take care of it. You would be an excellent mother, my little doll. A child of two guardians . . . it’s never been done before. Hm, creativity and negativity would be interesting concepts to mix . . .”

Ribbon’s aura darkened and his voice lightened. “Um . . . Nighmare? Do you have to be a guardian to be immortal?”

“No, but why do you ask? You are a guardian, albeit only partially. Unless . . .” Nightmare’s tendrils tensed up, curling. “Ribbon . . . what did you do? Tell me now.”

Ribbon rubbed his hands together. “Um . . . I was talking with Error again and he was nicer! He let me pet him! But he was also mad at me. Before you took him, uh, I broke this big sphere. It was like, six or seven months ago? Error said it would’ve my guardian powers in it and he couldn’t read the code in it.”

“I’m sorry, what did you do?”

“I didn’t know, I’m sorry! It scared me! It made me think bad thoughts and I panicked! I didn't tell you because I was scared of punishment and I didn't realize it was that bad.”

Nightmare’s soul beat faster. If Ribbon destroyed his guardianship, that made him a mortal. His time was limited. Nightmare didn’t know how long that period was. The Lord of Negativity struck Ribbon across the face.

Ribbon rubbed his cheek. “You- you promised you wouldn’t be a- angry.”

“The promise was only about telling me your fears. I don’t count this as part of it.”

“But-”

“No buts, I don’t know what has gotten into you today. You hid crucial information from me, and now you’re talking back? You know how to be good, act like it. Do you realize you ruined my entire plan for us?”

Ribbon lowered his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. You’re right, I should’ve told you. I was a stupid, stupid little doll. Please don’t call off the wedding!”

Nightmare tapped three fingers together and Ribbon switched to being on his knees. Nightmare couldn’t help but feel bad. The doll’s big teary eyes and trembling stance beneath him softened his soul. Nightmare pat him on the head with a tendril.

“I said nothing about calling off the wedding. You’re fine. But if you ever hide something like this again, I will punish you much harsher.”

Ribbon nodded quickly. “Thank you, Nighty. I'm sorry for making you mad . . ." He smiled up at him. “Can I go on a walk in the garden? Please?”

“Don’t get your dress dirty, don’t hurt yourself, and be back in an hour, no later.” Nightmare stood up. Ribbon’s reveal tore at him, no matter how much he tried to say otherwise. If it was anyone else, even another romantic partner, he wouldn’t care. No one would be or would ever be the same as Ribbon. A redrawing of someone else’s art would never be the same, and was often inferior. Nightmare considered all of this as he walked to his office. He sat down and set his head on his hands as he considered this.

Ribbon was running out of time.

The concept haunted Nightmare. The idea of his perfect, helpless partner dying within years while he lived for eternity. He had come to terms with it happening to the Murder Time Trio. As much as he cared for them, they were always mortal, they were always going to die. But Ribbon . . . he was supposed to be immortal like him. Nightmare imagined him having to hold Ribbon’s hand and watch him die.

The logical part of his mind understood he had little to fear. The doll body had to keep him alive longer, yet he was uncertain. The surgery was so experimental that he wasn’t sure if it could be out one day. Artificial body parts stopped working as soon as the person died, so Ribbon must be the same. Yet the paranoia wouldn’t fade. How long did Ribbon have to live? It could have been anywhere from days to decades. Nightmare clenched his fists. He despised not having an answer and he hated not having control.

Nightmare clutched his skull with his tightened fist and shook. The fuzzy feeling in his spine and soul became unbearable. His tendrils lashed out behind him, wrapping around whatever was close by. Sludge dripped and leaked down his body. His arms felt numb yet full of energy. Everything burned with the strange pain he couldn’t put a finger on. He couldn’t think. All he felt was pain and the burning need to protect.

“Boss?” Horror’s voice sounded farther away than it was. “I heard . . . something crash.”

Nightmare didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. He looked down and realized he shattered his quill ink glass. Black liquid spread across the floor like the blood his torture victims would be drenched in. The same color as Ink’s blood.

Horror ended up checking the other side of the desk. He was at least a little surprised to see his boss so tense. He grabbed Nightmare’s shirt collar with his massive hand and pulled him up. It helped Nightmare snap out of his trance. “You . . . alright?”

Nightmare took a deep breath to calm himself and clear his head. “I’m- no, I’m not. Help me up and check my soul for signs of damage.”

Horror looked confused but followed the order. He lifted Nightmare with ease. “Uh, something’s wrong.”

Nightmare looked down at his black apple soul. An aura of pink magic floated around the apple. He knew what it meant, yet it's never happened before. If a soul overloads on emotion, it would begin to glow. Nightmare's soul burned with desire and euphoric love. Whatever these strange emotions were, it was all for Ribbon. It was killing him. A thought came to mind. Nightmare opened his top left drawer and removed a black compact. As he expected, he had heart-shaped eye light. His eye twitched as he thought about Ribbon.

Horror's breathing became more audible. “I’m . . . not that good with emotions but . . . I think you're overwhelmed, boss.”

Nightmare snapped the compact closed. “Elaborate.”

Horror took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I'm guessing . . . this is 'bout Ribbon. You're only like this . . . with him, whenever it's 'bout him. You . . love Ribbon. I don't know why . . . you're ticked, what he did, but . . . it's making you act weird. We did this for the . . . multiverse. We have to . . . stick to that first, we're close."

“Wait . . . that’s it,” Nightmare gasped, the pieces clicking together. A vision of Error flashed through his mind. “I’ll take advantage of what I have. Horror, keep Ribbon distracted for a few hours. He’s in the gardens, I’m assuming by the roses, he adores those. Play with him, understand?”

Horror looked confused and skeptical, but he obeyed his boss. As soon as he left. Nightmare wasted no time. He pictured the book page in his mind and went to the castle library.

Nightmare went to the spell book section and his tendrils pulled books off the shelves. He flipped through five texts at once, trying to find the right one. He read every spell book in this library, he knew it existed. It took several books before he found it. The book had no title, no author, only a caduceus with a skull on the top. Nightmare grinned, checking the table of contents before flipping to the correct spell. The one that would ensure his teddy bear would never die in his arms.

Seelen-Reset

This is one of the highest-risk and most difficult spells in this book, yet most effective. Only the most powerful souls can perform it. Seelen-Reset empties a soul and it’s memories, experiences, and any modifications. The only pieces will be core magic skills and remaining lifespan, including immortality. Unlike Memoria Alteration (see pg. 124), it overwrites a soul’s entire history instead of a single event. It is also far more dangerous; the spell has a 75:25 ratio of failure. The soul can be transferred to another body with this spell without the identity taking over. This spell can treat monsters with souls damaged beyond repair. However, it will cost the life of the former soul owner. Their body will melt and die. It is unknown if these monsters will reach the afterlife.

Seelen-Reset can be cast in two ways. The first is to use a verbal curse, the second is to create a tonic. The recipe is on the following page. The tonic works soonest when shot with a syringe to the soul, yet drinking it will also work. The injection takes three minutes to go into effect and drinking will take twenty. The verbal curse makes the removal less painful for the previous owner. Rather, the tonic is easier to create as long as you have the correct ingredients. The final step for either method is for the new user to wear a blood ruby.

Once cast, it is impossible to reverse. I have yet to find a remedy. The victim may become defensive as a part of their subconscious knows something is wrong. Other side effects may include headaches, fatigue, confusion, codependency, paranoia, and migraines. If the spell fails, the victim could experience paralysis, loss of cognitive skills, and madness. The key signs of failure are incoherent mumbling, glazed eyes, persistent confusion, and lack of response to stimuli. The only way to cure them is to dust them.

If the spell succeeds, give them time to adjust to their new soul and offer painkillers if necessary. Keep them away from stressful situations or bright lights to prevent more migraines. Hypnotherapy has also helped speed up the healing process.

To perform the verbal spell, follow the scribe below. To create the tonic, follow the recipe under it.

Nightmare had cast this spell only once, two hundred and eleven years ago. He attempted to use a soul to heal one of his allies. But his magic fell short and it cost him to go insane. The tonic recipe under the words seemed safer, he was only missing one ingredient, the blood ruby. He knew he could find those easily in Moltontale, they grew like dandelions if you knew where to look. Knowing this would protect his beloved Ribbon soothed the feeling in his soul.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Nightmare speed-walked to his office, analyzing the spell and planning the ingredients. His mind raced as he read and couldn’t help but read some of the others. Due to Ribbon’s help in corrupting AUs, he grew twice as powerful as he was without him. Another reason he must keep him safe and close.

Nightmare entered the medical room and stepped into a smaller space. Dust enjoyed working in this section; it was full of magic plants and chemicals. Dozens of AUs made up the collection. Nightmare laid the spell book down and pulled out a beaker. He filled it up with hot water and gathered the needed ingredients.

Glancing out the window, Horror, Killer, and Ribbon walked through the garden. Nightmare pressed his mouth into a hard line. He knew he shouldn't feel jealous over such a frivolous thing, Ribbon loved him and only him. But the way Ribbon smiled and awed when Killer put on his theatrics . . . Nightmare's mind spiraled, twisting deeper into the dark abyss it already was. Ribbon belonged to him, not them.

Once he finished the potion, he needed to choose a soul to take. Obviously, he would take Error's. His soul was the safest and most stable out of the three guardians remaining. Core's soul was scattered across space and time. Nightmare couldn't even infect it with his parasite, his magic needed a soul to latch onto. Dream's soul was the highest quality, but it meant Ribbon would always suffer. It wasn't worth giving up the multiversal control for something like this. Error's soul was a glitching mess, but he knew the glitches would lighten when he was injected.

In any other circumstance, he would be against sacrificing Error. He was a powerful ally who served him through times of need, even if he was never on his team. But Error betrayed him the moment he tried to steal his doll.He deserved his death. Nightmare picked the petals off a dried eclipse rose.It was a rare plant but now was a worthy use. Ribbon's life was almost worth the multiverse.

Nightmare paused as he regarded it. What if the tonic failed and it drove Ribbon insane? Nightmare's hands switched to fists and he smiled. He could always retrain Ribbon. Yes, he could go through the conditioning process all over again. It didn't matter if the doll was in pain as long as he was the one doing it. It meant he had the power. All Nightmare cared about was having Ribbon alive and having him here, no matter the risk.

Nightmare had his attention only focused on the potion. However, he did spot Dust from the corner of his eye light, wrapping his palm with bandages. Nightmare considered if he should hide this, but he decided against this. One of them would have to wonder where such a crucial soul like Error went to. He forced himself to calm down. “Dust, is there something you need?”

The murderer jumped and looked into the room. It was lit by nothing but Nightmare's eye light and a single candle. “Yeah . . . I was gettin’ some rubbin’ alcohol and bandages because I sliced my hand open. I got a knife through it. What are you makin'?”

“Something for Ribbon. He lied to me, so I'm going to fix him."

“Boss . . . he can't get sick.” Dust hovered the book over with his telekinesis. "Forbidden magic, why am I not surprised this is for Ribbon."

“It's necessary. I would appreciate your help. I need you to measure and cut the rest of those plants. If he does, then I will deal with him.”

Dust read it over and looked at Nightmare from the corner of his gaze. "Oh."

Nightmare expected Dust to argue or call him insane, but he went along with it. It wasn't the most illegal experiment he had ever done on Ribbon. Nightmare remembered how he first discovered Dust's passion for science and experiments. Only three weeks after he brought him to the castle, Nightmare caught Dust tinkering with beakers. The murderer revealed he was making poisonous bullets for his pistols. Nightmare believed it to be ludicrous. But to his surprise, they worked on his targets, and quite well. He assumed Dust learned from the years he spent alone in his AU. His silent nature was also appreciated. Nightmare was proud of Dust. Someone who once wanted to throw himself off a cliff changed into one of his most useful servants. Ribbon never would be who he is if it wasn't for him.

When the final leaf was added, the tonic bubbled and glowed with red and white streaks. Nightmare switched the liquid into a syringe, pattting Dust on the shoulder with his tendril. Dust sighed. "Thank you for your help, Dust. But I will need to do this last part alone. I need to think."

"I saw that part on the bottom, I know. Fine. I'm staying here so I can finish what I started." Dust said. He picked up his bandages and finished wrapping his half-healed hand. Nightmare ignored him. He picked up the syringe in one tendril and the spell book in another. Nightmare's head pounded. He almost shattered the tonic from sheer strength and emotion. He feared his death if he waited too long. All he wanted now was a damn answer to Ribbon's lifespan question.

Nightmare only had one piece left of the spell to complete, then he could inject Error. He focused his energy on the syringe and summoned magic from the pits of his black soul. His fingertips glowed dark gray with streaks of blue. Streaks of pink mixed in and shot his finger toward the syringe.

The magic flowed from both hands with ease. The tonic glowed a bright blue and Nightmare could’ve sworn he heard a crash of lightning, despite the lack of rain. The light faded until the syringe was its normal color. Only the touch was an obvious change; it was far colder.

Nightmare clutched his chest in pain. His soul beat faster; the pink aura glowed brighter. The complicated spell drained his energy. His eye socket fluttered and he fell unconscious on the office floor.

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

“Nightlight? Are you okay? Please be okay . . .”

Nightmare opened his eye, looking around his bedroom. His coat and shoes were missing and he was tucked under the covers. Ribbon looked down at him with a worried expression, which was adorable with his frozen smile. Nightmare sat up. “Ah, Ribbon. Yes, I’m okay. Could you tell me what happened? I’m afraid it’s a blur.”

Ribbon lay against him and nuzzled by his side. “I went to check on you a few hours ago to see if you were still mad because you were in there for a while. I walked into your office and you fainted on the floor! I used some of my paint to help carry you here, I'm too weak to carry you. You also had a book half-opened on the ground so I put it back on your desk. Oh! And I made you some tea. Lavender is your favorite, right?”

“Right.” Relieved Ribbon couldn’t read, Nightmare lifted the cup from the nightstand and took a sip. He gave him a head pat. “A tad lukewarm, but it tastes perfect. Thank you.”

Ribbon sighed in relief. His ring glinted as he wiped his porcelain cheek. Nightmare touched that hand, giving it a light squeeze. He looked up at him. His face had sparkling pieces of dried resin, his tears.

“Have you been crying?”

Ribbon looked ashamed. “I . . . I wasn’t sure if you were going to wake up. I tried shaking you and calling your name but it didn’t work! You were barely breathing and were dripping a lot of goop.”

“Aw, my little lamb. Come here.” Nightmare opened his arms and Ribbon crawled in. He rested his skull on his chest. Nightmare scratched where his ear would be, listening to the clockwork in his head. A steady creaking. It didn’t matter if he overreacted, the curse was already cast. Ribbon wouldn't die unless Nightmare gave the command, which would never happen.

Ribbon relaxed and peeked up at the Lord of Negativity. “Are you still mad at me for lying?”

“No, I'm not. I found a solution to your mistake. I'll tell you when the time is ready." He traced a finger down his chin. "You would never try to leave me correct? Leave me for . . . someone else?"

Ribbon shook his head. “I'd never leave you! Where else would I go? I'm too dumb and weak to survive on my own and most of the multiverse wants me dead. I need you!" He clung to Nightmare's arm.

Nightmare kissed him on the skull again. Nightmare tapped his fingers together and Ribbon went limp. He set him on the bed and cuddled him, taking in every part of his body. His tendrils tickled his neck and Ribbon burst into giggles. Nightmare smiled. His happiness was the only positivity he could tolerate. No, not just tolerate. Adore. Crave. He couldn’t get enough of the strange feelings Ribbon gave him. It made him feel fulfilled and happy, more than any amount of negativity could give him. He couldn’t imagine living without it.

Holding Ribbon relieved the aches and pains in his soul. He was here and no one could lay their hands on him. Dream couldn’t lay his hands on him. No one would take his source of positivity away. Not even death.

Nightmare stopped cuddling him and sat up, still holding Ribbon in his arms. He stood up and helped him off the bed. "Come on, let's fetch the Murder Time trio. I have a mission we need to begin."

"Ooh, a mission? Okay!" Ribbon bounced. "I'll grab Blossom!"

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

Moltontale was a difficult AU to traverse and take over. The ground was made of scorching rock and obsidian. The monsters were all made of fire or fire-proof flesh. Gaster Blasters were useless here, the hot magic beams were useless.

Nightmare stormed through Moltontale, spreading negativity and corruption wherever he stepped. He used his tendrils to move faster, gliding across the hot terrain. One of the tendrils carried Ribbon, Nightmare refused to let him be on his own. Killer, Horror, and Dust fought and murdered.

Nightmare searched one of the massive caves he found. Ribbon looked around from the tendril he stayed in. The rubies had a distinct glow that was almost pink. Ribbon helped look around, narrowing his eyes to see better. Nightmare ended up staring at him longer than he searched for the rubies. This would be Ribbon's final mission, he couldn't put him in more danger or risk. He would always stay inside the castle unless Nightmare needed him for business or singing.

Bright orange lava lit up the pure black caves. Nightmare took advantage of the light to find the gems. Ribbon began to squirm in his tendrils and pointed to the left. "Night! Is that what you're looking for?"

Nightmare turned around and spotted the gems. He was tied up in a snowbank and shivering in thin clothes. Nightmare pulled a small chisel from his coat pocket and stabbed it into the rocks. The gem gleamed with the same color as fresh blood, hence the name.

The lava began to turn into a mix of black, teal, and purple malice. The air turned colder, the negative aura of the AU grew. Nightmare let Ribbon go. Ribbon looked at the gem in awe. "Ooh, it's so pretty! What is this for anyways?"

"It's for you, my sweet little doll. I have it all under control." Nightmare's eye glinted with a mad light. All he needed now was to inject Error and everything would be according to plan.

[dominimoonbeam]

Hopeful and Dogged

I was asked for a Quinn torturing David whump fic. Did I whump? Fuck, I’m so bad at terms. Did I do it?? I tried! I hope you like it!

tags: Quinn, Captured David, Violence, Non-Con Biting...you know because QUINN.

David & Asher, David & Sam, David & Darlin

Posted here and on ao3.

Hopeful and Dogged

David woke up and for one blissful second didn’t know where he was or what had happened.

“What do you think will happen?” Quinn asked when he knew David was conscious again. “That weak beta of yours will be in charge. They might think you’re dead. We left such a mess on that roadside. They would have gotten to your truck and found the blood. You put up such a fucking fight… I really thought the wreck would take it out of you but I guess you’re alpha for a reason. Still. Three vamps and those broken bones…”

David choked back a shout when Quinn pressed down on his shoulder, sending echoes of agony through his broken collarbone and his left arm.

“Still, they are wolves. Hopeful and dogged,” he smiled when he said it. David heard it and bared teeth at it even when he was too tired to open his eyes. What time was it? How long had it been? Where was he now? “You probably don’t remember the part where we dragged you through the river. Have to lose those dogs…”

“I remember the part where I bit your friend’s throat out,” David mused, voice rough.

Quinn was quiet for a second and it was gratifying. And then he was on him. His fist slammed David’s head to the side, rolling his body and jarring more broken bones. Oh shit. He was really messed up. And he was lying on concrete. He spit up blood and forced his eyes open, staring at a corner of brick walls in a dim room. No windows. No knowing if it was night or day.

“Do you think they’ve told your mate yet?” Quinn asked.

David growled low and used his good arm to push himself to sit up, or at least to try. His chest. Something was definitely wrong. It hurt. It was hard to breathe.

“What will happen when they realize it was me? Do you think they’ll kill my Misfit? I mean, it was their fault.”

Darlin. He meant Darlin.

“Or will they just be banished? Kicked out? Exiled? What do you dogs call it?” He laughed, amused with himself, and came back to David, squatting down close to him. He seemed to notice David’s struggle and decided to help. His hands were on him. Grabbing almost gently now, sitting him up and leaning him back against the wall. Somehow that was worse than when he hit him. Quinn smiled and straddled David’s lap, sitting on his thighs and looking down at him. “I’m going to let them find you when we’re done. I’ve never killed an alpha before. You’re my first,” he said sweetly, fingers tracing a bruise on the side of David’s face. He curled his lip in disgust and tried to turn his face away but Quinn was inescapable now.

“You should have just given them back to me when I gave you the chance, Shaw…” Quinn mused, fingering David’s hair back into some order. “Now your pack will wither. Your mate will mourn. And my Misfit will die worse than if you’d just done as I’d asked. If you’d given them to me, I might have turned them. Now? Now, either their own pack will end them for your loss…or I think we both know they’ll do it themself when it’s all done. They act tough but we both know it’s weakness. They care. And I’m going to make them care so much they want to die.”

“You talk so much,” David ground out, sneering at his nearness and trying not to think about how right Quinn could be.

Fingers twisted in his hair, jerking his head back until his neck strained and he could barely get air. He hated the panic that jumped through his body, the way he tried to shift but couldn’t, not with all the blood he’d already lost and damage taken.

Quinn’s face hovered close. He could smell his own blood on his breath. “I’m going to leave your body in the open to be found. They will all know how you died. They’ll see it. Your mate, my misfit, that pathetic excuse for a beta. I will use you to break everything you loved.”

David shuddered despite all effort. He hurt. He was scared. He missed his family and his angel. He wanted to go home. But he flashed teeth he knew were pink with his own blood up at the vampire. “They’ll rip you to pieces, you dumb fuck.”

Quinn snarled and gave his skull a tug, ripping hair before pressing his face into his neck. His whole body tensed, legs jerking as if he could suddenly muster strength he hadn’t had the last few times this had happened. It was a living nightmare but all he could think was how grateful he was that it was him and not anyone else. Quinn licked his throat, over previous bites, up to a clean spot near his jaw. He hated it. He hated the way his gut twisted and the sounds that gathered in his throat, choking him when those teeth slid into his skin. It wasn’t the pain that was so upsetting, it was the forced intimacy and the helplessness.

How many times had this happened to Darlin? How many times had they tried to pretend they were okay with it and how many times had they felt just like this, unable to escape?

He grabbed at the other man with his unbroken arm, trying to pull him off even when he knew he couldn’t. He was losing feeling in his hands and his legs. His head felt heavy and he couldn’t open his eyes. No. No. Fuck, just don’t die, he thought as he slid toward unconsciousness again. This was awful but he could keep doing it, keep living it, as long as he kept living. He knew Asher would find him. He knew it because there was no way he or any of the others would stop. Milo wouldn’t lose his trail no matter how far the blood suckers dragged him through a river. He was bleeding. His pack would find that trail.

And Asher…

David hadn’t said a fucking word every time Quinn tried to needle doubt about his beta being left in charge. He didn’t argue when Quinn theorized on how Asher would crumble under that weight. He had obviously been watching them for a while, but he hadn’t seen them, not really. He saw what everyone did, that smiling, welcoming, friendly beta. He saw the joking, lighthearted friend to David’s grumpy, serious exterior. And none of that was wrong. Ash was all of those things, but he wasn’t going to buckle under the weight of this nightmare. David hadn’t chosen him as his beta because he was his friend. He’d chosen him because he knew he could do the job, that he could make the worst decisions, and that he would move fucking mountains for their pack.

David lost consciousness again. Out into the black, drifting and hoping he came back.

When he woke up again, he wasn’t sure what had drawn him from that deep and awful sleep. He wasn’t sure until he heard another howl.

He smiled against the stone floor at his cheek. Quinn wasn’t in the room. He could feel his absence and when he strained to listen, he heard screaming somewhere in the night.

Hands rolled David onto his back and he growled, trying to move his good arm to shove the vamp back.

“It’s okay,” Sam said, hurried, winded. “It’s okay. I promise.” His hands were held up, fingers fanned as if to prove his innocence. David almost laughed at that. It wasn’t like any of them had to carry weapons to hurt each other.

“I’m going to get you on your feet, okay? I have to touch, but it won’t hurt—”

David did laugh then, the sound rough and deep. He closed his eyes again. Magic washed through his arm, bones snapping back into place and torn skin healing.

He heard a wolf shifting at the top of the stairs before someone came down and forced his lids open in time to see Asher. His friend’s face was a perfect mask when he walked into that basement, prepared for the worst. When his gaze swept over David, his lip curled in a snarl, flashing blood pink teeth still a little too long. But relief brought him to his knees next to him. He leaned down and David leaned up, their skulls thumping together the same way they would when they were shifted. “Thank god,” Asher whispered, eyes closed.

“Angel?”

Asher laughed low. “Safe. Totally freaking out but safe. I’ve got wolves at the house with them.”

“Quinn?” David asked, forcing himself to sit up now, despite all of Sam’s hissing that he should stay put.

Asher huffed a laugh. “Oh, dead. Very dead. Along with the other blood suckers had had hanging out with him.”

Sam’s hand touched the side of David’s neck and David caught his wrist, shaking his head and pushing it away. The healer hesitated, gaze flicking to the bite marks there. “They’ll scar,” he said and Asher looked concerned too.

“So?” David countered. Darlin had more bite scars than any of them had counted. Well, maybe not any of them. Maybe Sam had counted.

Sam stared back at him, seeming to pick his words carefully. “I can heal it,” he reminded, like it shouldn’t need to be explained further.

David sighed and nodded. He didn’t relent because it obviously bothered Sam to leave it, or because he had any problem bearing the scars. Ultimately, he let Sam heal the bites because he knew seeing them would only drive the wedge between himself and Darlin that much deeper.

It took the two of them to get him on his feet and out of the cellar. The house was somewhere in the woods, now surrounded by wolves, cars, and the remains of vampires. They howled when he stepped out of the house into the light rainfall.

The pack in the woods that night, whether in human or wolf form, moved around him, brushing against him to reaffirm that connection and affection. Reminding themselves he was alive and him that they had come for him—that they were his.

 Asher walked him to the passenger side of his truck, but he took another minute just to stand there, breathing clean air under the evening sky.

He stared up at the moon, leaning against the truck. He felt empty, tired down to his core and a little cottony from all the healing magic that had reset and healed his bones. He rubbed the side of his neck. He could still feel tongue and teeth. Could still feel Quinn sucking the life from him.

“Where’s Darlin?” David asked no one in particular.

He saw Sam tense, still standing close by in case David wasn’t doing as well as they thought. Or at least, that’s why David assumed he was standing nearby. Maybe he was close for this moment instead?

The pack had thinned from the clearing, given jobs and orders by Asher or Milo.

His troublemaker shifted from wolf to human when the crossed the grass to him, head down and eyes anywhere but on him. They were shaking. He hoped it was adrenaline and the rush of running here and fighting, but he suspected it had more to do with him and the fear of what he’d do now. Darlin thought they were responsible for Quinn and what he did. He knew his troublemaker would expect to be blamed—would have blamed themself.

They stood in front of him and waited for judgement.

They had blood on their hands and smeared on their cheek and neck, over those rings of scars that stretched from behind their ear down their neck to their shoulder. How many bites? How many times? Did they still feel the teeth the way he did right now? He reached out. Darlin flinched but didn’t move or try to block, eyes closed in surrender. Sam tensed, trying to restrain himself from intervening but David knew he would if things went bad. He was glad for that, even if it would never be needed here—not with pack.

He slid his hand over the side of Darlin’s neck, smearing blood and feeling those scars under his palm. He curled his hand around the back of their neck and dragged them in close. Their forehead to his forehead, his fingers lost in the back of their hair when he cradled their skull. “It’s done,” he promised them both.

Darlin exhaled hard, still so tense. “I’m sorry.”

David shook his head, that contact forcing them to shake theirs too. “The only one responsible paid. Let it die with him. Come home.”

Darlin shook and he knew they were trying not to cry now, swallowing hard like they couldn’t breathe. Yes, they’d been back in town. Yes, they’d agreed to come to pack meetings and even come to some pack get togethers, but he knew they were still one step out the door. And he knew now more than ever that it wasn’t that they didn’t want to be with the pack—it was that they didn’t know how to go back. They nodded tightly and he sighed relief, leaning back and mussing their hair a little more. “Good. Get in the fucking truck.”

Asher was already going around to the driver’s side, having told everyone else to clear out and head home.

David knew many of them would be sleeping in his house tonight. It was more instinct than tradition, something they did when someone was hurt or almost lost. It was a pack thing. He looked to Sam, nudging his head toward the backseat. “Hop in.”

Sam looked surprised for only a second before flashing a tired smile and joining Darlin, climbing into the truck.

[finduilasclln]

Welcome to my Buddie Fic Rec List!

Since I read so many Buddie fics, and some of them are so good, I thought I’d share them in some handy lists. I’ll be posting them in different categories, and you will be able to find all the posts HERE.

Disclaimer: Always read the tags and warnings! Also, tastes differ. These are my personal favorites, which doesn’t mean they’ll automatically be yours of course.

If you want to reblog and add some of your own favorites that fit the category, please be my guest! I always love discovering new fics. I will also add new recs of my own whenever I stumble upon them.

One last thing: Please like and comment when you’ve had a nice read. It means so much to authors to hear your thoughts! And don’t hesitate to share this post and spread the love for these fics around!

Buddie Fic Rec: "Hurt/Comfort - Trauma - PTSD".

Kind of a broad spectrum, I know. But we all love a good whump, right?

I, Hildy, by red_to_black || 10939 words ||

It's not often that Buck is the sensible one in their little fire family - but seriously, someone has to let Eddie know that Hildy isn't taking over the world.

That is, if Eddie would stop panicking about sentient technology long enough to listen to him.

(or - the many ways in which Hildy interfered with Eddie and Buck's life, until they got the picture.)

i've only known you to keep your word, by thisissirius (@thisissirius) || 4446 words ||

The prospect of going home alone, tending to his hurts and sleeping in that bed all alone—Buck’s breath hitches and he closes his eyes, forehead pressed to the lockers.

buck's lonely and eddie knows.

into the gravity, by renecdote (@renecdote) || 6025 words ||

“When you fell,” Buck says, and his voice is raw, like all the words have been stuck in his throat, screaming, clamouring to get out. “I swear I felt it. This sharp, stabbing pain in my chest. It was like—like I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t—”

He cuts himself off; doesn’t—maybe can’t—finish the thought. But Eddie doesn’t need him to.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know what’s like.”

In which Buck takes care of Eddie.

Love Language, by red_to_black || 6495 words ||

The one in which there's too much pollen around, Eddie pines, and Buck is oblivious.

Or - Eddie's love language is acts of service, and Buck doesn't totally get it.

the things that torment most, by renecdote (@renecdote) || 5150 words ||

Eddie makes himself comfortable at the other end of the couch, lifting Buck’s legs and putting them back down in his lap. His hand rests on Buck’s uninjured ankle, not caressing but sort of holding, touch achingly gentle.

“You should try audiobooks,” he says. “Or maybe podcasts. Chris has been downloading them on my phone, some of them are pretty interesting.”

“Sure,” Buck agrees sleepily. His leg doesn’t hurt so much anymore and he kind of wants to go for a run, hit his training goal for the day, but he’s warm and comfortable and it’s nice to just be here with Eddie. To just exist, without having to worry about what comes next.

In which Buck reads a lot and all roads lead to him figuring out he's in love with his best friend.

Not done, by red_to_black || 4579 words ||

Buck volunteered to get into the ambulance with him, knowing the risks. He's pinching the guy's skin and saying, "Take it out," and Eddie, for the first time since leaving the military, feels it - a connection. A kindred spirit. A purpose that tethers him to reality. A person relying on him to get the job done.

(or - a list of things Eddie Diaz couldn't give up on, including himself.)

lest he be consumed, by thisissirius (@thisissirius) || 5921 words ||

“Eddie,” Buck says, crouching down, hand to Eddie’s cheek. “There’s nothing you can do here, now, that will make me leave, you understand?”

set post-eddie begins.

a leaf falls on loneliness, by iimpossible_things (@iimpossible-things) || 11163 words ||

Buck doesn’t think that if he were to say, “I’m in a bad place”, that anyone would turn him away. Really, he doesn’t. The 118 has too many good, kind people for that.

But every time he wants to open his mouth, to say something, to reach out to Eddie or Bobby or Hen or Chim, he hears Eddie yelling, “you’re exhausting.”

—you’re exhausting, you’re exhausting, you’re exhausting—

So each day he does his job and he laughs and he jokes and he pretends he’s the care-free goofball he’s always been. And each day he packs away his bruises and his worries, takes them home to his empty loft with its quiet rooms, and licks his wounds in silence.

for all the perfect things i doubt, by extasiswings (@extasiswings) || 5199 words ||

Evan Buckley is really good in bed.

Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t.

standing on the edge (of great), by evcndiaz (@evcndiaz) || 5050 words ||

Ana cuts him off. “What were you thinking about?”

“I—What?”

“What were you thinking about? You know, when you moaned your best friend’s name right before you came inside me. What was even going through your head? I know it certainly couldn’t have been me.”"

or; eddie says buck's name during sex with ana. it goes about as well as you would expect. and then somehow, it gets a little better

a million little things, by thisissirius (@thisissirius) || 2835 words ||

“What happened after the woman, Eddie? Keep talking.”

“House came down,” Eddie says.

“That’s right.” Whatever happiness Eddie feels at getting it right fades beneath Buck’s strained voice. “Think it’s another earthquake.”

Eddie doesn’t like the idea of that. He thinks of water and doesn’t know why. Thinks of hanging out of a building, Buck screaming his name. “S’bad."

There’s the sound of scraping. “It is, but I’m coming, Eddie, you understand?”

some days I am too proud to ask for you, by wafflesofdoom (@capseycartwright) || 7071 words ||

eddie had heard some grim noises, in his life, but the scream he heard his best friend let out as they rescued him from the factory fire the was up there with one of the worst things eddie had ever heard. it was raw - and broken. and maybe it was the implications of that scream, that scared eddie more than the sound itself, but either way, there was something wrong with his best friend.

- or, a post 4x05 coda that explores eddie's concern for buck's mental wellbeing after the factory fire.

signs from the universe, and all that, by youbetsya (@maddiebuckettebuckley) || 8931 words ||

“Look, it’s like the universe wanted us to take it!”

Eddie rolls his eyes as he follows Buck into the elevator. Sure, he had suggested taking the stairs, but he doesn’t really care one way or another. And he’s certain the universe cares even less. “You really believe that crap? Signs from the universe and all that?”

“Sure.” Buck hits the button for the bottom floor of the parking garage, where they had parked, and the quiet whirring of the elevator starts up. “I think I have to believe everything happens for a reason. Predestined path or whatever. ”

Eddie scoffs. “You sound like a Catholic.”

OR The universe puts Eddie and Buck on time out until they get their act together.

In the Aftershock, by hideeho (@agentlemuse) || 8843 words ||

When Eddie is injured on the job, Buck is forced to face the fallout.

Who's Gonna Drive You Home?, by allisonRW96 (@homerforsure) || 9304 words ||

Eddie looks back at the house. Fucking arson. His team gets to risk their lives because some asshole likes to play with matches

OR

Eddie Diaz has a bad day that just keeps getting worse.

renegade (if I would've known), by writerforlife (@such-geekiness) || 9571 words ||

"Eddie has always felt safe, with Buck at his back. Yet that isn’t enough anymore, not when Christopher is waking up screaming. Not when Eddie hasn’t been okay for a long time. Buck is not enough to save him, and Eddie doesn’t know how to say that, especially when Buck looks up, meets his eye, and says, “Don’t go.”"

Or: in the aftermath of leaving the 118, Eddie confronts his trauma, drinks beer with Buck, and goes to therapy - not exactly in that order, though

know i want forever, by withoutthetiger (@rewritetheending) || 932 words ||

"There was no way he could’ve noticed it any sooner – he’s not even convinced Buck was aware the moment it happened, not with the adrenaline that fuels so many of their rescues – but Eddie feels guilty about it all the same. The scene was an awful one, chaotic and nearly hopeless from the time they arrived until now, when Buck’s legs give out before he and Eddie are anywhere near the trucks, leaving him slumped in the mud for Eddie to find when he turns at the sound of Buck’s whimper.

It’s still pouring rain and nearing midnight, the moonlight barely enough to highlight the darkness of the blood on Buck’s palm when he pulls his hand away from his side, and Eddie's heart catches in his throat as he yells ahead to the team for help before falling to his knees and reaching for Buck’s uniform."

-

Set shortly before Season 5, written for the prompt “Just…hold my hand.”

white lights in your arms tonight, by soyxunxperdedor || 2594 words ||

Buck crowds in next to him, wrapping his shirt around the debris and then pressing down to staunch the flow of blood Eddie now realizes is oozing out around it. He squints at the debris, trying to identify it.

“Guess Chim’s not going to be the only rebar boy anymore,” he jokes when he realizes that’s what it is.

keep going, keep going come what may, by iriswests (@evanbucxley) || 10715 words ||

Buck doesn’t remember the details. It’s all foggy, mostly – how he got here. He barely remembers the events leading up to this: almost like he’d gone to sleep one night and woken here, a cruel reality, a prison of his own making. He thinks it could be hell: Eddie had warned him of hell, once, but then there are times where he’ll feel a brief sting in his arm, or the wind run through his hair, and it feels less like he’s a wayward soul and more like an asshole who got the short end of the stick, all things considered.

--

or; buck is the last man on earth. he’s dealing with it.

I hope I never lose you, I hope it never ends, by writerforlife (@such-geekiness) || 7449 words ||

"Eddie should be in the waiting room.

Everyone else is. His phone keeps buzzing in his pocket—a problem that could be solved by turning off vibration, but he doesn’t. He can’t. He lets every notification remind him that sitting in his truck in darkness, in silence, in the middle of the night, in the hospital parking lot, is not where he needs to be."

Or: Buck gets injured. Eddie thinks it's his fault.

blue skies, by spaceprincessem (@spaceprincessem) || 36729 words ||

“Most babies are born as accidents,” She says suddenly, like she’s decided that Buck has passed, that she can trust him with this.

Buck doesn’t really have an answer because that question hits way to fucking close to home. A year or so ago he would have said, yes, I was an accident, so I know how that goes, but Buck knows better now. Knows that he would almost give anything for that answer to still be yes. Evie’s finger works under the seal to rip it open, a stack of important looking papers dumping out onto the table in front of her.

“Not me,” she says without looking up as she organizes them into a neat stack, “I was engineered.”

And.

And Buck’s pretty fucking sure a giant, cataclysmic hole has ripped right open, dragging him down to the earth’s core where he vaporizes into dust.

{or Buck meets another savior baby and everything comes crashing down}

listen to you breathing (is where I wanna be), by Yavilee (@theladyyavilee) || 41038 words ||

“Hey, Eddie, how about you go look where Buck—”

For a moment Eddie is sure he’s just imagining it, the same way he always does, even after moving from a mild earthquake zone to the not so mild earthquake zone that is LA. Still every time the first second or so he is always sure he just imagined the shifting of the ground.

He has just enough time to realize that no, it’s definitely an earthquake, because Bobby stopped talking as well and they are looking at each other wide eyed.

And then the quake really hits.

* Or the one where Buck is presumed dead after a building collapse and Eddie has to live through the reminder that tomorrow isn't promised to anyone

if you love me, wake me, by allyasavedtheday (@littlespoonevan) || 3847 words ||

“Thank you for talking to him,” Eddie says then, rousing Buck from his reverie. His gaze is heavy and so sincere Buck almost wants to look away. “It- you don’t know how much it means to know he can go to you. That- that you’re there if I’m not.”

It feels like Eddie is saying something else, something Buck can’t fully grasp when the seeds of abandonment are still clinging to the edge of his mind, but he appreciates it all the same.

“Hey man, of course,” he says, too casual for the love he feels for Christopher and Eddie. “I’d do anything for him, you know that.”

Eddie hums in agreement, head ducked in a way that should hide his smile but Buck sees it anyway. “I know you would.”

It sits between them for a moment, the truth of the statement, and Buck finds himself bounding up off the couch when it becomes too much.

*

Buck and Eddie having conversations on couches.

***

I will be adding my own fics that fit the category, in case you want to read those too:

you are my answer (without question), by Finduilas || 1065 words ||

Buck has a really bad day. Eddie is there for him.

Bruises, by Finduilas || 1411 words ||

Day 1: “You’ve never looked more beautiful.” + hurt/comfort

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Jameson's first time on the run would also be super interesting

CW: Escaped pet whumpee, internalized dehumanization, touch starvation, brief reference to dubcon at the end, hunger

"Oh, you're lookin' a mess." The woman drops into a crouch next to where the pet sits on the curb, her head tilted. Her voice tastes like the smell of freshly-mown grass. Long dark hair braided with brightly colored fake strands layers a mix of black and red, blue and purple, green and yellow against the side of her face. She seems like she has a thousand of them, the little braids, pulled back against the nape of her neck and falling to frame her face.

Bright streaks of color decorate her cheekbones, glitter along her eyelids, turn her lips to a pink that is inhuman.

He swallows, looking sidelong at her, almost afraid to look directly. She's dressed in a red tank top and matching skirt, fishnet stockings peeking out from underneath, heavy boots at the end.

She barely seems real.

Will she simply vanish, some colorful hallucination brought on by how hungry he is?

"I'm fine," He snaps, making his hoarse voice as furious as he can -a dog with hackles raised, a cat poofing all its fur out to look bigger than he is - but she only smiles a little wider with those neon pink lips against her pale skin.

"No, you're not," she points out. His eyes drop to the platforms of her shoes, adding a good four inches to her tiny frame. "You're a run-off pet, is what you are, and prob'ly you're half-starved like all the others. Huh? Am I right?"

His shoulders hunch, heart racing at fear chills his spine. "How do you-... how would you even know how to tell that?"

"Collar." She points, and he's not surprised to see her fingernails match her hair. "You're still wearin' it, kitty cat."

"Don't call me that." He looks away, but one hand raises to finger the soft leather, the clinking metal of his tag. It's the last thing he has of Nanda, the thing he doesn't want to lose. His stomach drops and his heart twists.

Nanda.

All his fault, all his fault, all his fault.

You fucking asshole, I miss you.

"Well, what should I call you, then? When I buy you some dinner?" She grins, wide and bright, and her teeth are a little bit crooked. She's beautiful.

His eyes go back to her, looking for the trick, the trap, but he can't see one. She's tiny, even with the boots she's smaller than he is. He could probably push her down and run if she tried something.

He could...

Oh, but he could be good for her. Maybe she'd let him sleep on her floor if he was. Out of the wet and the smell of trash in the alleyways where he's sleeping now.

"What do you-... what do you want me to do for it?" he asks, hesitantly. His other hand starts to worry at the seams of the jeans he stole and has been wearing for three days straight now. His stomach grumbles, disloyal as always, giving him away as more desperate than he wants to look.

"That's easy, pretty boy," She half-coos, and his lips twist in an answering snarl. "I want you to eat. Breaks my heart, to see you all come through this part of town. I just got paid, so I can afford to be a little nice tonight and still have enough for my good times later."

"How many of us are there? The... the runaways?"

"Never more'n a handful. The pigs pick you up pretty fast, you all give yourselves away real quick. Trust me." She puts a hand on his shoulder, and he bristles, but he doesn't pull away.

Good pets don't.

The pet licks at his lips. If they find him - the police - they'll know it's his fault Nanda died, and they'll send him back for refurbishment, clean-wipe resold, no more of the him in his brain left. Like dying. He can't do that.

He can't.

"What should I-... how should I stay hidden? Away? From the-... the ones who will know?"

"Oh, baby." She sighs, but it's a kind sound, and when she pushes herself back to standing and holds out a hand, he takes it and stands as well. The world briefly spins around him, hungry enough to feel dizzy, but it settles before he falls over again. "Everyone's gonna know. You're not exactly subtle. You can buy some time, though. First, you gotta lose the collar."

"I-... I can't." Panic stirs at even the thought. The only thing that keeps a pet safe at all is their collar. Without it... without it, anything can happen.

"Well, then it definitely won't take long. But you might as well have dinner before some asshole looks at you and sees prime rib. C'mon, baby, I'll buy you some food over at Pita House, my cousin's stepdad owns the place. We'll get a discount and he won't tell the cops. You like falafel?"

He blinks. "I don't-... I don't fucking know what that is."

"Seriously? What kind of no-culture owner-... well, you'll learn about it tonight." She squeezes his hand, and he finds himself tremulously, nervously answering her bright and shining smile. Maybe he can trust her grass-voice taste. Maybe she's safe. "Believe me, runaway, you're gonna love falafel."

He nods, and lets her lead him away.

Maybe there are nice people in the world after all.

When she leads him inside, he doesn't notice how she picks up her phone to text someone. He smells food and voices and his stomach is gnawing him from the inside out, and he's grateful for her kindness.

He doesn't see the message she sends.

Found a runaway. He's cute. Come fuck him up with me.

-

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Whump Idea:

Fast-healing whumpees. Maybe a bit cliche, common, but a loved trope by many. But, beware, I am not talking about immortal whumpees.

But the concept is probably going to be very similar if not identical soooo....

Also, has some possibly triggering whump like self-harm and the like. Be safe and I hope a tagged everything.

Fast-healing whumpees: Hero edition

The hero's team does not allow hero to go to the medic. After all, they will heal in a couple hours, so why waste medical supplies and beds?

The hero chooses not to go to the medic. They'll just lie on their bed, maybe guzzle down a few painkillers, and sleep off the injury. Piece of cake.

The hero ends up becoming desperate for care. They see their teammates gettibg cared for: the soft hands of touch, the obvious love and care... desperation because there is no need to have it.

On that thought, the hero begins to get jealous. Jealous that their teammate can be fed by hand, swarmed over, cuddled and held because who cares that Hero needs a kind touch? Who cares because they do their job and can move on to the next.

Or maybe, the team does care. They care about Hero's mental well-being, and maybe the hero does too! But that wouldn't be too much fun for us whump lovers, would it?

So, twisting that example above, the team cares, but hero doesn't. The team gives hugs, cuddles, care, but Hero despises it. They don't need it, so why get it?

The hero pushes themself because they can. They can push themself to the point of having limps torn off because even though it hurts and even though they can die, it is much less likely than their team.

S.A.C.R.F.I.C.E... imagine the dilemma. "Hand yourself over and I will not hurt your loved ones"... classic... But, the real question is: Does the Hero give themself up? In all honesty, they should. Unless the whumper put a knife down their trachea, they would survive the merciless torture.

Add betrayal into that sacrifice and you have a nice piece of whump (not that it won't be cool without it, but it is indeed a win-win). The question to this example? Hero can take it, might as well give them up instead of the more vulnerable heroes. Oooooo maybe we can have a villain caretaker... fluff fans, here is your ticket.

Now, my lovely villain whumpee friends (including me) here is the moment we've all been waiting for *devilishly rubs hands together* hehe:

Villain has no one to begin with. I mean, we all can guess why, but the poor guy/gal, they are hurt, alone, crying because in a couple hours they will have to do it all again.

The heroes capture Villain as their bodyguard? Weapon? Who cares the reason for capture, every reason that the heroes may give will of course be whumpy, but the effect of the reason is the jackpot. The heroes send pet or weaponized villain whumpee to fight their battles. They may come home half-dead, but tomorrow they will be fine so who cares.

A lot like our arrogant hero friend, Villain pushes themself. They push themself to their limits to get what they want. Do they care about their personal health? Probably not... they were gifted with this wonderul ability. But will they be thinking this upon laying on a bed, alone, and delirious in pain from a injury that should've killed them? Well we'll see...

A spin off to the one above. What if the Villain's goal is not theirs? A whole new can of sugary sweets, we have the merciless Supervillain, Hero, etc etc commanding the whole whump (other than you my wonderous Crowned King/Queen Whumper of Whump)... but of course, like almost every example given... They. Don't. Care. See a trend?

Villain pushes away all love and care. There is no need and they would rather live in a hole a misery than give into those oh so tempting arms of mercy and generosity. *breaks own legs so they can't get to those arms*... they'll be healed in a few hours, days at most, anyways.

Villain is a scientist who loves to study the human body. Maybe they have morals, but the reasoning for not experimenting on a humanoid lab rat does not really matter in essence (maybe, a good reason thought may just give me whumperflies), but they experiment on themself. Not taking painkillers so they can think straight as they cut their own body, they endure the pain to only pass out when it is done. They may be able to heal, but blood loss is not cool for anyone.

A whumper kidnaps Villain's partner. In exchange for their loved ones life, Villain has to take the punishment. Of course they agree. 1.) They don't have any reason to not, they aren't a lifesaving hero after all and 2.) They will be able to heal. Bonus point: It's a trick, the loved one is still tortured. Bonus bonus: They are constantly tortured so they are never given the chance to heal (imagine the physical shock because they never had to deal with long term injuries before) Bonus Bonus BONUS: the loved one tortures the villain for days, weeks, months... years. Ohhhh boy the metal torture on both! (Maybe said loved interest is Hero... shhhhhh *loud whispers that are practically screams of delight)

Villain does have people to care for them. Villain does have a special henchman, or that certain civilian caretaker, but some days, the caretaker is too busy to give the villain whumpee any comfort. So, in turn, they are left to deal with a should-be-mortal wound by themself... for once.

Villain is sick and tired of this. A so-called gift is a curse. Especially when their foe knows about it. This foe makes sure to really hurt villain because they eill be okay. It's not like they can die from twenty stab wounds... it is practically a scratch, the foe believes. Little does this sociopath foe know, it isn't. Twenty stab wounds still hurt like twenty stab wounds, healing factor or not.

Well this was fun to write.

No other comment.

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

Mice in the Walls

CW: stalking, implied parental abuse, implied victim cutting ties with abuser, captivity, “it” as a pronoun meant to demean, choking, hitting, implied delusions, angry whumper, controlling whumper. 

Please read the CWs on this one. I’ll be more than happy to give you a general summary if you need (will probably do so anyway) let me know if you want a specific tag, and I’ll tag everything with this topic “Bernard tw” as he’s the culprit. 

Stay Safe loves, and do what’s best for you. 

[First Part] 

The doorbell rang and Bernard took a breath. As he opened the door, he put on his smile. The friendly smile, the inviting smile. The one he used at work and for the cashier at the checkout lane.

The mask. 

“Steven! How the hell are you?” he asked cheerfully, reaching out for a firm handshake. 

“Doing well, life’s just a joy.” The body smiled back at him, cheap wine in its hand and absurdly  ignorant of how pedestrian and mediocre its life was. Bernards eye’s skimmed over the man’s obnoxious shirt pattern, its ill filling slacks and cheap shoe polish before opening the door wider and gesturing it in with a smile. 

“Well, I didn’t invite you over just to stand on my porch! Come on in, lunch’s almost ready.” He had prepared some simple things, mostly store bought. He had no intention of trying to impress this pawn. 

“So Bernie, what’s new in the Wright household?” Steven asked lightly, setting down the bottle of wine and peering at the others displayed. Perhaps it would spark some recognition of how abject of a gift that had been. 

Bernard doubted. 

“Nothing much, Steve. Just livin the good life,” he recited as he ventured into the kitchen. 

“How’s Adam doing?” 

Bernard kept his back to the man, dishing out the potato salad. 

“Oh good, getting ready to graduate.” 

He could feel Steven pause behind him. 

“Oh? I thought something got jostled when he moved schools?” 

He bristled. Adam had moved, again. Always moving, blocking his numbers, spreading lies about him. How did he not realize that he just wanted the best for him? That he could help, that he could be a resource? The world wasn’t what Adam though it was, it was dangerous and hateful and-

The plastic container cracked. 

“What was that?” Steven asked, popping its head over Bernard’s shoulder. 

“Damn cheap plastic. Good thing I already got some out, eh?” His voice was pitched light and jovial, softly concealing his rage.  He put the now broken container to the side and picked up the bowl to set on the table between them. 

Bernard ate almost in silence, the body across from him droning on and on about the most inconsequential, mundane things. Its wife, its car, the remodeling of its house. It was pitiful. Nearly fifty-years of existence with only the most boring of conversations to show for it. Surface level, meaningless accolades that only made it seem more pathetic for how much it cared. 

The only time he found himself truly paying attention was when the conversation turned to the man’s daughters. They were also highly inconsequential, but they were the link that he had been searching for. 

They knew Adam. 

“Kesly is doing great, just about to finish high school. Man, can you believe it? Feels like just yesterday she was playing princess and pirate and now my baby’s going to college. Maddie’s just made varsity at her school.” 

Steven took another sip of its drink and winked conspiratorially at Bernard. “If Adam still plays then maybe they’ll face off some time, eh? She used to to whip his butt when they played in middle school.” 

Bernard squinted slightly with a toothy smile. “Only because he let her. And he’s gotten far better over the years.” He hadn’t seen Adam play since then, but he could only assume that his skill had improved over time.  

He took another bite of his lunch and made a mental note to find Maddie’s school and locate what colleges were in the district for lacrosse. 

Irritatedly, the conversation shifted to something pointless again and Bernard was left to wait until it could be useful. As the time dragged on, there was a dull thud from somewhere higher in the house. 

“What was that?” Steven asked, turning around its chair to look behind and above him. 

The fork bent under Bernard’s hand. 

“I didn’t hear anything.” 

Steven shook its head, wiping its mouth with its napkin. “No, no there was definitely a noise.” 

“Oh, that,” he replied casually, taking an even breath. “There’s mice in the attic.” 

A huff. “Sounds like pretty big mice to me. I can call a buddy out if you ever need anyone to do something about it. He’ll do it real cheap, too.”

Bernard waved him away, keeping the utensil under the table and bending back to its correct shape. “No, no need. I’m handling it myself.” 

They continued to chat uselessly, meaninglessly, until Steven finally decided it had wasted enough air here and would go be pointless somewhere else. Bernard watched him leave, said the expected this was great, we need to do it again soon, see you later before locking the door, finally free of such a useless creature. 

Teddy was hiding. Or at least, closest that he got to hiding with the chain giving his location away. He was between the bed and the wall, in the small space where the roof met the floor. 

He had been reading, laying on the bed trying to get lost in the book he had already read a million times. Maybe it had worked, considering that he had fallen asleep. The book fell. 

Now he was shivering in his only hiding place, desperately hoping that no-one had been home. He wished he knew what day it was, he wished he knew the man’s schedule, he could tell went it was safe. But no, there was no safety here, no regular pattern for him to latch onto. It was hell. 

The locked clatter and the ladder slunk down, filling him with fear. He was here, he had heard it. Teddy curled a hand around the bedpost. 

“Come out.” 

He didn’t, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to go back in the coal shed, didn’t want to be punished. It was an accident, and even then he was afraid that the nearly-memorized books would be taken away. 

“Now,” the man growled. Teddy shook his head and held on harder. 

Bernard groaned and wrapped the chain around his hand once, then twice, then pulled. The boy was still holding on so Bernard pulled again, harder this time. There was a small cry and a dragging noise as Teddy was pulled from behind the bed. 

Bernard looked down at him and only one thought screamed back in his head. 

Adam moved. 

Adam had moved again. 

He had moved, and blocked his number, his profiles, ever way that Bernard could contact his son were shut down, forbidden from him. He cut him out, disrespected him, shamed him left him to suffer through hours of meaningless conversation just for the smallest bits of information. 

Looking down, Bernard couldn’t contain his anger any longer. 

“You switched schools? Again? Without consulting with me? You ungrateful bastard,” he sneered, kicking the boy in his ribs. He yelped, eyes wide with fear. Good. He should be afraid, he should be ashamed of his pathetic behavior. He had been taught better than to disrespect him like this.

Teddy coughed and froze, tears starting to pour from his eyes. No, no no not this again. “Please,” he coughed, rolling onto his side. “Please I’m not Adam.” Every cough hurt, sending little bolts of pain through his chest and side. Still, he looked up to the man, staring into the steel cold eyes. 

“M-My name is Theodore Ramirez,” he rambled quickly, not for the first time. “My parents are Diana and Jonathan, they live in-” 

“NO!” The man shouted, pinning it down and wrapping his hands around its neck. No! No, no no no this! Stop! He squeezed, putting more and more weight on it’s thin throat. He would make it stop. 

Teddy wheezed, shoulders pinned down by the man’s knees. He was on top of him, he was choking him, he was killing him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Struggling was useless, the man being so much larger than him. His clipped nails left practically no marks, drew no blood. 

“Don’t. You. Ever say that again,” growled, lifting its neck to slam it back into the wood. “Never. You are Adam, and you’re going to stay this time.” He loosened his grip the slightest bit. 

“Understand?” His question only had one correct answer. Teddy knew it, didn’t have enough air left to deny it. His head still spun from the blows, a loud ringing obstructing some of the words. 

“Y-Yes,” he managed, only the ghost of a noise. “Yes, I’m Adam. I’m sorry - I’m Adam.” The pressure let up more and more as he complied. By the end, the man was only resting his hands over the boy’s throat. 

Bernard signed and raised a hand to brush it across Adam’s cheek gently. “There. See, things are so much better when you stop lying. Let me take care of you, keep you safe.” 

The boy coughed and cried underneath him, never leaving him again.

~~

taggy boissss @whump-me-all-night-long @starnight-whump @highwaywhump @panic-and-chaos @as-a-matter-of-whump @cowboy-anon @just-a-raccoon-in-a-party-hat @milk-carton-whump

[authorofemotion]

Claire!

Because I know you are huge(at least in my eyes) especially with your whump blog and I know you post original content...

What advice would you give for new blogs/authors for writing original content? I'm thinking about writing some but I think I want to grow my blog before I do. You don't have to answer but I'm always looking for advice to better myself and my writing.

Love you!

hi athena!! I don’t know if i’m going to be the best person to give advice (this blog has ~150 followers and my fandom sideblog has about 30. but my whump blog is doing pretty well!) but I can absolutely try!! Since it got pretty long, I’m putting it under the cut :)

(also this is entirely unrelated but for some reason I’m able to type stuff inside your ask which is whacky. i didn’t do it though lol)

Growth takes time!! I started my blog almost three years ago and I’ve built most of my following in the last year and a half. Hitting your stride takes time and trial and error no matter what, so be aware that even when it doesn’t seem like it, you ARE making progress!!

MAKE FRIENDS!! Seriously, finding your people can help you so much (and you’ve already been doing a great job with that! again, I only made my friends within the last year and a half).

Another great thing to do would be to make an introduction post and tag your favorite content creators! Intro posts go around a lot and that will get people familiar with you and give you a face in the community.

Also, to become familiar to various people, reblog writing you like and RANT IN THE TAGS I SWEAR IT HELPS SO MUCH!! Artists (writers included) don’t get nearly as much interaction as they should simply bc people have stopped reblogging stuff. So a reblog is amazing—but if you put a sentence or two (or a whole paragraph if inclined) in the tags about what you loved, I promise the author will LOVE YOU and almost definitely check out your blog. Sending asks is also really good!

Try to post (at least semi-) regularly. I’m a bad example because my online presence ranges from posting multiple things a day to not writing for three months. BUT! I always see a boost in followers every time I post something new, and, again, if people see your url often enough, they’ll check out your blog and may drop a follow!

TAG TAG TAG TAG TAG!!!! Use AS MANY relevant tags as possible when you post, because people follow tags of things they like to see, and posts that use those tags then show up on their dash, and your content is exposed to new people!

Participate in community events! Yet again, I’m a terrible example of this because I. haven’t yet. However! Events like Whumptober, Whumpmas in July, Summer of Whump (There are non-whump ones Im just painfully oblivious to them) will get you exposed to more people too! You don’t have to do every prompt, lots of people will see your work because they follow the event tags, and the hosting blog will reblog it for their followers too!

Write what you want to! My self-indulgent posts that I think most people won’t like because it appeals to me specifically do really really well a lot of the time! You aren’t alone in really liking the tropes you like, so there 100% will be an audience for what you want to write, you just have to find it.

If you want to write with OCs, write a few things with well-known characters (fanfic) or generic characters (hero/villain, etc) first or alongside it. Being introduced to someone’s blog solely with OCs can be intimidating bc instead of focusing on the writing you’re like “who are you people???” but if you write other things alongside it, people will be introduced to your writing, then may decide to check out your OCs (also if you have them make an intro post for your ocs. it’s really fun)

If a prompt inspires you, fill it in with a reblog!

Also remember (I know from experience) more people will like your posts than reblog. more people will read your posts than will like. not everyone who goes through your blog and reads everything you have will like the posts, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have that audience!

uhhh that’s about all I have. it’s all pretty generic advice but I hope it helps!! LOVE YOU <333

[secretwhumplair]

The Sink - Intro/Reference/Timeline

So. Since I stumbled back into this universe, I figured I’d finally write up a quick intro post because otherwise it’ll be horribly confusing and/or I’ll have to explain the context every time I post something out of chronological order, which we all here know will be often. Especially for the whole Xerxes/Nor/Rega mess lol.

This setting features: Xerxes & Nor/Pet (& Rega), Leigh & the shapeshifter, and I might also throw the angel in. More characters pending :D

Content warnings: Pet whump, dehumanisation, the works.

Worldbuilding

Government is corrupt capitalism is running amok not much thought was put into this line because why

Poor and especially homeless are at risk of being snatched up by pet traders. Is this legal? No one cares. If you don’t have friends/family who are either very determined or rich, say goodbye to your chances of rescue. Most pet snatchers know better than to snatch someone from the latter categories (Leigh was a mistake, we’ll get there)

Most importantly! The Sink (TM) was an event that occurred two or three generations back, with two main consequences:

Mythological-esque creatures appearing, some humanoid in appaearance and/or intelligence, some not

Children (rarely) being born with superpowers, such as shapeshifting and healing factors

Needless to say these are considered extra valuable in the pet trade

To be clear, a filthy rich upper class exists and is the main market for pets

(Not really a worldbuilding aspect but this ‘verse is also trans character central, Nor is the only cis main character so far lol. Me experimenting with gender via my characters? Nooo what are you talking about)

Leigh & the shapeshifter

Leigh grows up on his uncle’s horse farm, otherwise known as the House by the Hill

At 18yo, he runs away for mostly just bratty reasons with a friend

Gets snatched up by pet traders, who think he’s just your average runaway teen with a broken family who won’t come looking

(They’re wrong, and Leigh’s family desperately looks for him for years, but they still get away with it)

Leigh is broken and bought by a sadistic master, the works

Said master later captures a shapeshifter

The two don’t have much opportunity to interact at first but during a trip to a nice little place in the countryside their master takes them to, that changes

Both of them are pretty messed up at this point. Leigh has been captive for six years.

When an opportunity arises, Leigh urges the shapeshifter to escape - he can’t because he’s got a GPS chip or whatever - but the shapeshifter insists he come along, claws the chip out, and they escape together

Somehow or other, they make it back to the House by the Hill half-dead

Cue everyone - the pair of them as well as Leigh’s family - dealing with their recovery

The shapeshifter and Leigh fall in love, you know how it is

Xerxes & Nor

Features a redemption arc of uncertain quality, including a whumper/whumpee reconciliation. I’ll tag the pieces this concerns “ex-whumper x whumpee” (unless someone has a better, similarly concise idea. It’s mostly if not fully non-romantic so the x doesn’t really do it justice lol.)

Xerxes grew up poor, therefore at high risk from pet snatchers, therefore decided early on if it was eat or be eaten, they would do the eating thank you very much

They start training pets in their late teens, quickly refining their crude methods and building a loyal string of clients, a reputation, and a fortune

They capture Nor - a small-time criminal just getting by, without family or friends to speak of - to train and keep as their personal pet

At some point they buy the House on the Hill as their home and training facility. Yes it’s the same hill. They’re now next door neighbours to Leigh’s family (next door here still means like. Half a hill apart.) This occurs before Leigh’s disappearance

Over time, they find themself growing genuine affection towards Nor, and satrt questioning their entire life. Eventually, they set Nor free to have an existential crisis by themself

Nor, with nowhere else to go, asks for a job at the House by the Hill, and they take him in (this is after Leigh’s escape and return)

(Xerxes does offer to host him as long as he needs but obviously Nor wants to leave as soon as he wraps his mind around his freedom)

(Which doesn’t take as long as it could, Xerxes never broke him fully because they enjoyed watching him struggle with his conflicting feelings about them)

Meanwhile Xerxes takes a trip to figure out what to do with their life. Comes across one of the pets they trained, a harpy-type bird creature, now utterly ruined, and buys them back more or less on a whim to help them recover

They make up their mind that this is what they’ll do moving forward, to try and make up for some of the damage they’ve done. They ask for help at the House by the Hill. The shapeshifter goes to help so Nor, who feels he should, doesn’t have to

Xerxes’ ex-clients are not thrilled with the development. One of them winds up kidnapping Xerxes to whump the living shit out of them

They’ve always had a difficult relationship with their clients due to their background, à la “we’ll tolerate you as long as you’re useful”

Oh did we mention they have a healing factor? Because they sure didn’t, knowing full well what it will mean to their clients. But of course, their captor figures it out

Xerxes thinks no one will care to save them. But of course Nor does and manages to strike a deal with their captor

Cue Nor caretaking an utterly shattered Xerxes because he knows they need someone they can trust around them which includes exactly one (1) person (barely) especially after what just happened to them

As Xerxes recovers, they carefully negotiate what their relationship will now be. Nor moves up the hill to help with the recued pets

Rega

Rega is trapped in a heavily abusive relationship, as good as a pet, but of course he doesn’t admit that to himself, manages, despite his own doubts, to ask Xerxes for help, and moves into the House on the Hill, where he ends up falling in love with Nor.

[flowerfan2]

Part of You Indefinitely

Yes, I’ve found my way into the Schitt’s Creek fandom - it’s a lovely, hopeful place to be.  And of course, having met these wonderful people, I need to throw some angst and h/c their way.  Please enjoy this, the first chapter of my whump!Patrick fic.  

Thanks as always to my beta @perryavenue for coming along with me to yet another fandom :)

David/Patrick, M, A03 (tags/warnings this chapter:  injury, hospitalization, loss of consciousness, blood (minor))

Chapter 1 

David is arranging a new shipment of lavender sage lip balms by the cash register – he’s not sure they will sell as well as the honey vanilla but they are definitely more interesting – when he hears the crash.  

He grumbles again at Patrick’s insistence on spending their Sunday morning at the store when they could have just as easily slept in another few hours, and ambles to the backroom to see what happened.  It’s the last calm thought he processes.

There are wires hanging from a ceiling light fixture, a step ladder tilted at an angle against the shelves, and Patrick, lying on the floor, oddly twitching.  David crashes to his knees, hands flying to Patrick’s head, as words flow out of his mouth in a panicked stream.  “Patrick – Patrick- are you okay?  Patrick-”

Patrick is still breathing, David can feel his breath on his cheek when he presses his face close, but he’s not responding.  David’s hands are fluttering up and down Patrick’s body, but he doesn’t know what’s wrong.  He tries to hold Patrick’s head steady as his husband’s muscles continue to spasm.  “Patrick, wake up.  Please, come on, please, Patrick.”

David can feel something warm and wet in Patrick’s hair, and he faintly realizes that Patrick is bleeding.  “Oh my god, Patrick, open your eyes, please.”  He fumbles his phone out of his pocket and calls emergency services, one hand resting on Patrick’s head, trembling so hard he can only hope the operator can understand what he’s saying.

Something in his brain finally connects the wires still swinging above him with Patrick unconscious on the floor and his breath leaves him in a horrified gasp.  “Send help now, right now.  I think my husband has been electrocuted.”

*****

It’s David’s first time riding in an ambulance while he is sober enough to remember it, and it’s terrifying.  He can’t wish for anything to dull his senses right now, though, because he needs to be here for Patrick.  He needs to get a grip, to stay strong, to not fall apart like he absolutely thinks he’s about to do, because Patrick needs him to keep it together.

The EMTs don’t offer much information, and the ride to the hospital in Elmdale is a nightmare of spiraling anxiety.  David feels like his chest is going to implode, the only thing keeping him from losing it completely is his hand on Patrick’s ankle, his arm stretched out to touch him in the only place he can reach.  

He wants to say something, to do something, but his voice seems to have abandoned him.  Finally, the questions in his head break through.  “Is he going to be okay?”

He barely hears the noncommittal answer.  Patrick has to be okay.  Their story can’t end here.  They haven’t even been married a year.  David has plans for their one-year wedding anniversary, only a few months away.  He’s going to take Patrick on a hike.  He’s going to do it right, make up for how David almost ruined Patrick’s proposal with his grumpy mood.  He’s not going to complain, and Patrick’s not going to get stabbed in the foot with a branch.  David is going to pack a picnic, with Patrick’s favorite foods this time, and serenade him at sunset - or maybe not quite sunset, because hiking back down in the dark seems like a bad idea, but he still has time to figure that out.  They still have time, they are supposed to have time.  Lots of time.

David’s come far enough to believe that he’s pretty good at making Patrick happy, and at letting himself be happy, but there’s so much more he wants to do.  

So many more smiles he needs to see on Patrick’s face.

There’s a rush of activity as they arrive at the hospital, and David has to let go of Patrick’s ankle, even the loss of that small connection paining him.  “I’ll be right here,” he says, although Patrick can’t hear him, and no one is listening.  “I’ll be here.”

*****

David is pacing in the waiting room.  He has already filled out the necessary forms, his handwriting barely legible since he’s still shaking all over, and now there is nothing to do but wait.  He knows he should probably call someone and let them know what’s going on, but Patrick’s parents are on an Alaskan cruise, and his own parents are in Fiji.  Stevie’s in New York for a conference, and Alexis is in L.A.  He’s got to handle this on his own.  

David used to be good at handling crises.  He prided himself on it.  Even when he was at the height of his drug happy party boy phase, he was always able to make a call to the right consulate and get Alexis sprung from whatever ridiculous situation she had wound up in.  He could act the part of a confident, competent savior, equipped with enough money and pull to get things done.  But things are different now.  Patrick has changed him, has cut right through all the walls he built to protect himself.  His defenses are gone.  And now this panicking, flailing, frightened man is all Patrick has left.

It seems like forever but finally a doctor comes out to talk with him.  Patrick is stable, but still unconscious.  Apparently he is more impaired than would be expected from a minor electric shock, because he hit his head when he fell.  Tests are being run.

David takes a step towards the doctor as his vision narrows, and someone is there next to him, a hand on his arm.  “Would you like to sit down?”  He doesn’t seem to have any choice, as he’s pushed into a chair, and a moment later handed a cup of water.

David takes a sip, then shakes his head, squeezing his eyes together and forcing himself to take a deep breath.  “When can I see him?  Can I see him, please?”

Not yet, they tell him.  Soon.  They’ll let him know.

*****

<i>Four hours earlier</i>

David wakes to the feel of his husband’s lips on his own, and he hums and wraps a hand around Patrick’s head and holds him close.  But instead of finding a sleep-warm, enticingly aroused and naked Patrick shuffling closer to him under the sheets, he opens his eyes to see Patrick sitting on the edge of the bed, already showered, a towel around his waist.

“Mmm, no, come back to bed.”

“Can’t do that.  We’re going to the store early, remember?”

David groans and flops over, pulling the duvet over his head.  “I don’t want to.”

“But we said we’d do it, and if we don’t, our lovely shelves will be empty on one of our best selling days of the week.”

David doesn’t really care to remember this fact, although it’s true.  Thursday afternoon he and Patrick had gotten into a disagreement about whether to keep sourcing peppermint foot cream from a particular vendor, and by the time David shut his mouth long enough to figure out why Patrick had developed a sudden aversion to Mr. Braden (he was unforgivably rude to their intern), some rather less than pleasant things had been said by David, too.  David suggested he make it up to Patrick by trading their regular Thursday evening at the store doing inventory and stocking shelves for an impromptu date night, and Patrick had agreed, on the condition that they come in early on Sunday instead.

“I’d like to suggest an amendment to our agreement,” David says, sitting up and slinging both arms around Patrick’s neck, loving the smile it brings to his husband’s face.  “Come back to bed for just a little while, and I’ll put all the labels on the body milk bottles myself.”  Patrick doesn’t like sticking labels on the bottles, he says the adhesive makes his fingertips itch.

“We’ll be late,” Patrick objects, but he’s already relaxing into David’s arms.  

David knows Patrick’s protest is mostly for show.  He runs his tongue up the side of Patrick’s neck, inhaling the smell of his warm, damp skin.  “I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”

Patrick caves, attacking David’s mouth in a hungry kiss, as they both fall back onto the bed.  “You always do.”

*****

It seems like forever, but finally someone comes and tells him that he can see Patrick.  They lead David down hallways and around corners and finally into a room.  He goes past an empty bed and a partly pushed back curtain and then he’s there, staring helplessly at his husband, laid out unnaturally where he absolutely does not belong.

All the tropes are true, David thinks to himself.  Patrick looks small, diminished by the machines and the wires and the strangeness of the setting.  He’s lying flat on his back, which is just wrong – Patrick sleeps on his side, his knees always bent, body twisted around a pillow or the sheets or, when at all possible, David.  He says it’s because he doesn’t breathe well lying on his back, but David knows he likes the comfort of it, of being surrounded and held.  David likes it too.

They’re a good pair, right for each other in all the most important ways.  David swallows hard and moves closer to this fragile version of his beloved husband.  <i>Patrick has to be okay.</i>

“Here, sit down,” the nurse at his side says, sliding a chair closer to the bed.  “You can touch him.”

David sits down, stiffly, and hovers his hand near Patrick’s.

“You won’t hurt him.”  The nurse is looking at Patrick’s chart, and then back to David.  “He hit his head pretty hard, but there’s no sign of any other injuries.”

“Is he… is he in pain?”  David thought Patrick was still unconscious.  

“No, he shouldn’t be,” she says.  “But we’ll ask him when he wakes up, and go from there.”

David bites his lip, and forces the words out.  “He’s going to wake up, isn’t he?”

The nurse puts her hand on his arm, and David forces himself not to flinch.  “There’s nothing to be gained by not staying positive,” she says patronizingly, patting him twice and then, mercifully, leaving the room.  

David indulges in a moment of fury, imagining himself storming out of the room and demanding to speak to a doctor, throwing a Moira Rose-style tantrum until someone gives him better customer service, but then he sees Patrick’s hand twitch and all thoughts of histrionics disappear.

“Patrick?”  David takes his husband’s hand and squeezes it.  “Patrick, are you awake?”  He reaches over and runs a finger along Patrick’s cheek.  “I’m right here.  Open your eyes, baby, look at me.”  

Shaking, he leans close and presses a kiss to Patrick’s dry lips, and then another.  But there’s no response, no Sleeping Beauty moment of grateful awareness.  David takes in a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm, and sits back up.  

“It’s okay,” he says, scooting the chair closer so that he can rest his elbows on the bed and hold Patrick’s free hand in both of his own.  “You don’t have to wake up yet.  You can sleep some more if you need to.  Rest all you want.  Heal that beautiful head.  I’ll be here when you wake up, Patrick.  I’ll be right here.”

*****

A doctor comes by a little while later, and tells David what he’s pretty much figured out on his own – they can’t say when Patrick will wake up.  So far, they don’t have any reason to believe he won’t, which is good, as far as it goes.  It’s not very precise, but Patrick suffered a head injury along with some level of electric shock, so they have to wait and see.  They’ll run some more tests tomorrow if there’s no change, but they are “cautiously optimistic,” whatever that means.

After the doctor leaves David makes the mistake of googling “traumatic head injury.”  He reads for a few minutes and then practically throws his phone across the room, watching as it slides across the linoleum floor and comes to a stop by the IV stand.  He’s historically not very good at looking on the bright side, but he refuses to entertain the possibility that Patrick is going to be permanently disabled from his attempt to make the backroom overhead light stop flickering.  

He leans down against the bed, resting his forehead against Patrick’s shoulder, his hand still wrapped in his own.  He can feel the panic rising in his chest again, and he fights it, not wanting to be any more useless to Patrick than he already is.

“Hey, I know I said you could rest, but maybe just wake up for a minute?” he says softly into Patrick’s ear.  “Just squeeze my hand, or blink your eyes.  Can you do that for me?”  He waits, not really expecting a reaction, but it doesn’t seem fair to ask for something and then not wait for an answer.  “No matter what happens, I’ll be here, okay?  Even if you’re hurt, even if…” David can’t really put into words what it might be like if Patrick doesn’t recover.  “No matter what happens, we’ll get through it together.  Just come back to me, okay?  I can’t… I won’t make it if you don’t.  I need you.”

“David.”

David looks up to see Alexis standing by the foot of Patrick’s bed, looking almost as pale as Patrick.  Then she moves closer and folds David into a tight hug, squeezing him until he can hardly breathe.  It’s the safest he’s felt since he heard the crash in the back room.

After a few minutes of Alexis’s pointy chin digging into his shoulder, David eases himself back.  “Maybe give arm day a rest,” he says softly, as she loosens her boa-constrictor hold around his waist.

“Everyone always says I’m stronger than I look,” Alexis says, tilting her head as she gazes at him.  “And you are too, David.”

He shrugs and glances away, his gaze inevitably going to Patrick, still just as quiet and unresponsive as he was a moment ago, and then back to his sister.  “How are you here?”  he asks, not wanting to dwell on the topic of his questionable ability to handle this particular situation.  “I thought you were in L.A.”

“That was last week.”  Alexis drops her bag to the floor, then drags a chair around from the other side of the curtain and positions it next to David’s.  “I was in Toronto, working with a new client, when Jocelyn called me.”

David blinks.  “Jocelyn?”

“Yes, David, Jocelyn called me, when you didn’t answer your phone – and so did Twyla, Roland, Ronnie, and everyone else.”  She waves her hand, apparently to indicate the universe of people blowing up her phone.

“But… why?”

“David, did you really think that an ambulance could show up in the middle of town and whisk you and Patrick away without anyone noticing?”  Alexis boops his nose and looks from Patrick back to David.  “They’re worried about you.  Half of the town is in the waiting room right now.”

“Wait, what?”

Alexis lets a smile tug at the side of her mouth.  “Kidding, no they’re not.  But they’ll come, if we need them.  Twyla did drop off some food, it’s in my bag.  Muffins, or something, she said you didn’t even come get one this morning.  And sandwiches.”  Alexis reaches down and pulls out a bag.

“I’m not hungry,” David says.

“Yeah, because you and skipping meals is a good idea.”

“I’ve had other things to worry about,” David says, his voice cracking.

“I know, David,” Alexis says softly.  “But you have to take care of yourself too.  And then we can take care of Patrick.”

It’s what breaks him, finally, that “we,” and David loses it, sobbing in Alexis’s arms at the side of his husband’s hospital bed.

[whumpthisway]

so now all the whumpees have been whumped to hell and back, what if they were just...ignored for a little bit? What if the whumper got *bored*? Or if they just didn’t care anymore? What if, by the time the caretaker finds them, they just look like a pile of dirty rags in the corner?~

welcome to...

Neglected Whumpees Prompts!

Tw: food/diet related whump, sickness/illness related whump, neglect, infection, whumpee being deprived of physical aids (further warnings for below the cut: teeth whump, the dentist, parasites)

- dirty -> the whumpee *begging* the whumper for a way to wash, anything at all - bonus if the whumpee was very particular about their appearance before their capture and their team doesn’t even recognise them (does the whumpee go back to taking care of their appearance afterwards or do they not care anymore, worrying their team even more?)

-> the aesthetic of that first bath or shower; of physically washing the whumper and everything bad that had happened off them and watching it go down the drain. The feeling of putting fragrant conditioner on their hair and feeling it’s softness afterwards

- starvation and thirst -> these are obviously classics for a reason. The whumper leaving the whumpee to stew for a while means they’ll be nicely softened up, and extra grateful, when the whumper does return

-> And the caretaker of a starved/dehydrated whumpee will have to be very careful to gradually reintroduce the whumpee to liquids and food, so they don’t get sick (because we definitely wouldn’t want that)

- vitamin deficiency! -> I can’t *believe* there isn’t more of this in whump fic!! When a whumpee has been starved/fed poorly, they’re just bound to have some kind of deficiency, ranging from anaemia (causing fainting, weakness, pale skin) to vitamin C (especially if they were rarely fed fresh food, even if they were given enough calories). Generally, being vitamin deficient seems to lead to a poor immune system, tiredness, and then other problems specific to the vitamin.

-> a poor diet can cause other problems, ie. a whumpee who’s fed/drinks too much caffeine and/or energy drinks (so they can work harder for the whumper, or to avoid nightmares) could get a stomach ulcer, which would be very painful

-> also consider a whumpee with diabetes or celeriac disease and how awful that would be, when those conditions aren’t managed (a sympathetic guard could be the key to helping the whumpee get what they need, if a whumper doesn’t care?)

- tangled hair -> a long-haired whumpee’s hair completely knotted up, which would be very painful if whumper decided to try to drag a brush through it and make them “presentable”. Or the upset of a whumpee who’s hair has to be almost entirely cut off because it’s too knotted to save, and how exposed and vulnerable they feel afterwards bonus if cutting their hair reveals more scars and bruises on their scalp

- or a whumpee that hated having long hair, and the complete relief they feel when it’s all cut off, when they can clearly see again and don’t have all that weight and dirt on their head

- forgotten how to talk/communicate -> a caretaker trying to coax a whumpee into communicating with them, but no-one has spoken to the whumpee in months. The whumpee jumps every time their name is called, frequently spaces out, or doesn’t respond, because they were never the one being talked to. An outspoken whumpee who now has to be coaxed into answering every time.

-> A whumpee who uses sign language struggling to shape the words with their weak muscles, hands shaking, being frustrated with the slowness of their movements when they used to be the most fluid signer of anyone they knew

- overgrown nails -> whumpee accidentally scratching the caretaker when they were first rescued, and the scratch getting infected due to all the dirt under whumpee’s nails. The caretaker gently and carefully cutting the whumpee’s nails, except the whumpee is very nervous of the nail scissors, thinking caretaker might cut them.

- no glasses/other physical aids -> a whumpee whose whumper doesn’t care if they can’t see, so they have to squint every time a guard comes in, trying to tell if its a nice one, or one that will kick them. Headaches from straining to see. A whumpee with an injury or disability needing crutches, a stick, or a wheelchair and being denied, not through the whumper’s deliberately cruelty but sheer indifference

- infection -> old wounds (inflicted by the whumper, or accidents) getting infected and just...getting steadily worse, until the whumpee is feverish, delirious, and at risk of blood poisoning - bonus if it was from a tiny wound and could have so easily been sorted with a little soap

-> a cough that develops, or that whumpee had when they were caught, that just gets progressively worse. Damp, cold conditions plus poor nutrition, stress and/or fatigue are really not conductive to a strong immune system. Long-term or severe pneumonia can leave permanent damage on the lungs, too, which would make the caretaker feel so so guilty for not finding whumpee sooner, especially if whumpee used to be very active

***Warnings for below the cut***

Whump related to teeth and the dentist (including needles) and somewhat gross stuff relating to parasites (but which is totally realistic whump!)

- bad teeth! -> I feel this is so overlooked in whump fic (and I get it,,,its not the nicest whump), but when rehabilitating a neglected whumpee, think of the caretaker gently brushing the whumpee’s teeth for them when they’re too weak to do it themself, or the tooth ache the whumpee complains of, when they’re lucid enough to talk

-> Having to coax the whumpee to the dentist and the whumpee freaking out at the sight of an anaesthetic needle, or the dentist’s plastic gloves, or the dentist’s clinical touches

- parasites -> look, it’s a bit gross, but please consider nits, fleas, scabies, or worms, left untreated: a caretaker baffled as to why the whumpee isn’t putting on weight. Or a whumpee avoided by even the caretaker, who doesn’t want to catch anything, leaving the whumpee feeling dirty and alone. Or consider a whumper who has the whumpee’s lovely hair all cut off, “just in case” they had nits.

-> note: scabies and nits actually have nothing to do with hygiene and much more to do with being kept in cramped conditions alongside others. Worms tend to come from ingesting worm eggs, often found in dirt or infected food.

~

okay i’m done! Feel free to add anything else that comes to mind for neglected whumpees! (Let me know if I should have warned for/tagged smth that I haven’t~)

[5-falsehoods-phonated]

March Ado About Nothing

Series Summary - A series of one-shots and  drabbles written based off of prompts posted in the TSS Fanworks Collective server. The goal is to take traditional whump prompts and fill them in the least-angsty way possible every day through March.

A note that though some of these fills are written bait and switch style (written in a way you think is going in one direction but reveals it to be the opposite towards the end) they are all written in a fluffy or silly style with very little, if any at all, actual angst.

Day 7: To Make the Broken New

Summary: After much begging from Roman and Virgil, Logan and Patton decide to make fixing up the old treehouse they find one day into a summer project.

Prompts: Burned, *Broken Down*, Blackmail            

Ships: Dad Patton to kid Virgil. Dad Logan to kid Roman. Platonic Logan & Patton. Platonic Roman & Virgil.

Warnings: none. Let me know if there are more!

General taglist (ask to be added or removed): @/janus-is-an-adorable-snek-boi  @/im-an-anxious-wreck  (in an effort to not flood your inboxes I’m only tagging in the first part ^-^)

WC: 881

“You sure you got that kiddo?”

“Mhm.” Virgil stuck out his tongue in concentration as he hugged the paint can tighter to his chest and carefully walked around bumps in the lawn and fallen sticks that might trip him up. They could just hear hammering the distance and Patton readjusted the two cans he was carrying so the metal handles didn’t dig too much into his skin. They still had a little ways to go before they made it to the long forgotten treehouse that sat broken down and lonely about a quarter mile into the woods behind him and his neighbors backyard. They were quite friendly with each other and loved talking their kids out to play and explore, using wildlife as mini lessons that all of them could enjoy. One of these outings had them stumbling on the wreck as they had been following a shallow creek to see where it ended up- or in Virgil and Roman’s case to see how many frogs they could catch before they got back home. After much pleading from the boys and a quick visit to the people in the area to see if anyone actually owned the thing, he and Logan finally relented and began saving up little by little to fix up the old house to make it a safe new spot to play in.

Logan and Roman should be just about done fixing the new ladder boards to the tree by the time Patton and Virgil would get there with the paint- a striking red and purple the boys had picked out themselves to color and waterproof the outside. Logan wasn’t sure how well the colors would actually work together and the house would surely stick out like a sore thumb amidst the blooming green wildlife around it but as long as it made the boys happy they both agreed it was probably fine. He smiled down at Virgil as the stubborn six year old stomped confidently with the paint can still held firm in his arms. He was glad moving here had turned out so well for Virgil. He didn’t struggle to make friends at his old home he was just never interested in it- something that Patton had struggled to let go of his worry for since he seemed perfectly content and happy on his own. But once they had moved here and he had met Roman he had come out of his shell completely as they hit it off right away, and Roman’s father Logan being fine company himself made moving to a completely different state that much easier for both of them.

“Be careful!” Virgil had started walking a bit faster as the house came into view. Roman was searching diligently for any stray nails at the base of the tree while Logan was putting his tools away and grabbing out the painting supplies from the box he had carried up earlier that morning. Patton truly didn’t know how to thank the other man enough for everything he did with and for them- from helping them move in and accepting Patton’s admittedly awkward attempts to pay him back with dinner and breakfasts to offering to let Patton and Virgil join him and Roman when they went on their adventures as the latter dubbed them.

“Roman! Dad got paint!” Virgil stumble ran the rest of the way, stopping just before the tree and crouching down to carefully set the paint can down next to the twisted roots. Clapping his hands excitedly Roman grabbed up a couple of paint brushes and bradished them like duel swords, casting a glance at Logan to make sure it was okay before striking a princely stance in front of his friend.

“We’re gonna have the best house on the block and everybodies gonna be so jealous we’ll have to find a dragon to guard us from burgers!”

“Patton snorted as Logan turned around and handed Roman a paint tin before reaching to open the can. “Burglars, Roman. You eat burgers.”

“I don’t eat people!” Roan squealed in distaste, making Logan shut his eyes for a moment before shaking his head as his son quickly jumped to a different topic, energetically talking Virgil’s ear off to the delight of the quieter child.

Patton crouched next to Logan and started separating the pans to pour the paint into, smiling at his tired but amused expression. “Thank you again for doing this, you know they’ll have a blast every time we come up here. We could even try and plant some flowers; I think Roman especially would enjoy that.”

Logan nodded. “It’s been nice for both of us to have the company. I appreciate just as much.”

Patton amiled wider and nudged his shoulder gently against Logan’s, earning an eye roll and a small nudge back as the paint was poured and a warning to be careful given to the boys before they got paint all over themselves within the first five minutes. Neither of them had expected anything less, exchanging signature parent looks with each other and simply shaking their heads. They were smiling and laughing and scaring away any animal within a ten mile radius, and neither of them could ask for anything better at the height of their first summer together.

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[ashintheairlikesnow]

Found

CW: Creepy whumper, noncon touch (nonsexual), ableist language, some violence at the end

TIMELINE: The summer before Chris begins attending college, shortly before Oliver Branch goes to trial for essentially accepting bribes for a Senate seat.

Tagging Chris’s crew:  @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions

“You look familiar.”

The voice hasn’t changed at all in the past few years, maybe just gone a little deeper. The soft, slight southern drawl is still there, genteel rounded consonants, drawn out vowels. 

He still dreams about that voice. It still sends shivers down his spine, not all of them from fear.

“Is that who I think that is?”

Chris feels his heart start to pound under the fabric of his t-shirt, and he dips his head low, as though he hasn't heard, as though he won't be seen. 

It's been four years of therapy and building himself a whole new identity and learning to be a person again since the night he was rescued, but even still some traitorous impulse deep inside of Chris thrills at the sound of his Sir. 

He’d been scrolling through his phone, waiting for Jake to finish up inside the store. He’s just been out here reading about campus life, researching dorm room checklists, taking a deep breaths as they took step after step after step towards Chris being an independent adult and not a dependent rescue. 

He’d come out to soak up a little bit of the warm sunlight, feeling its heat soaking into his hair - strawberry blond at the roots, faded blue around the crown of his head, long enough to graze his shoulders with the deepest ocean teal only at the ends. He has it pulled back, caught just at the nape of his neck with a little clip to keep it out of his eyes.

He wishes, as he listens to the familiar sound of the same fine leather shoes stepping crisply along the pavement, that he’d left his hair loose so he could hide behind it now.

Don’t look at him. Don’t look up. Don’t don’t don’t don’t-

“Look at me, darlin’.”

Chris’s chin raises, his head turns. He’s not sure who makes the choice to do that - it doesn’t feel like he’s the one who controlled the movement. 

“There you are.” Sir’s face is just the same, he doesn’t even seem to have gained a new wrinkle, although four years and his slowly imploded political career might have put a bit more gray in the sandy hair. “It is you, isn’t it?” 

Chris texts something - he doesn’t even know what, he doesn’t dare look, only glances down long enough to make sure he’s sending his text to the right person before he slides the phone into his pocket. One hand moves to a bracelet he is always wearing on the other wrist, the cool metal hex nuts braided into thick black nylon, spinning them with his fingers in a nervous motion. 

He’s just fidgeting. It’s just fidgeting. Normal people fidget when they’re nervous, normal people do this, it’s normal to be nervous-

Nothing that happened to you is normal.

“Ah,” Sir says, in his thick oily voice, and reaches up to graze the backs of his knuckles down Chris’s cheek. Chris only stares at him, wide-eyed, feeling impossibly, horribly small. “Where is that voice I loved so much, darlin’? Did you finally learn how to keep your mouth shut?”

Chris jerks back and away from the touch, eyes narrowing. He wants to bite back, to say something, anything, in a strong voice but the words are stuck in his throat, his defiance is locked away.

It must be visible in his eyes, still, because something in Sir’s expression goes cold and his hand slides around to the back of Chris’s neck, a heavy warmth that presses there, like every time he’s ever used that same grip in the same place to push Chris down to his knees. “Careful,” Sir says, in a voice that exudes gentleness. “Careful what you think, beautiful boy.”

Chris’s stomach twists, lurches, flips with disgust. “Don’t-... don’t, don’t don’t-don’t call me that,” He says, and his voice is smaller than he wants it to be, as weak as he is and not as strong as he wants to be. 

“They haven’t fixed you at all,” Sir says, tsking, clicking tongue against the backs of his perfect white teeth. His thumb is rubbing up just where Chris’s hairline starts just behind his ear and he can’t stop shivering, can’t stop shaking at how awful it feels and how good. 

“I, I-I didn’t need… need fixed,” Chris manages, airy and trembling under Sir’s touch. His phone vibrates in his back pocket, but he doesn’t dare pick it up to check.

I’m going back I’m going back he’s going to take me back he’s going to take me way I’ll never see Jake again I’ll never see anyone ever again-

Chris’s eyes fill with tears and he has to sniff them back, only to hear Sir’s low, deep chuckle. He’s too close, he’s way too close, and Chris cringes back against the brick wall, letting Sir move into his space and Chris can’t remember any longer how to get him out of it.

“Of course you had to be fixed. Look at you, you’re an awful mess without me. Who let you get your ears pierced? Your new keeper?" Sir's touch moves to his earlobe, rubbing at the sensitive skin and the small black stud there with the rough pad of his thumb, and Chris knows he could - should - run, or fight, but all he can do is go still and stare straight ahead, sunlight glinting off the cars in the parking lot.

It’s a gorgeous day, and a terrible one.

Everything is wrong.

Two teenage girls shriek laughter as one chases the other towards a small brightly-colored green car. They have long legs, tanned skin and short denim shorts, tank tops that cling to narrow waists.

They’re beautiful and probably don’t know they’re beautiful. They’re living easy lives they don’t know are easy. They’ve probably never had to hide underneath someone’s desk listening to other people live lives they never get to touch, they haven’t had to be so silent and so still, perfect carved statue people.

What they want is not irrelevant.

What they want matters.

He wants to be running with them, wants to collapse into the seat of a car giggling and easy, wants to go back to feeling the sun warm his hair but instead - in this moment - all he feels is frozen.

"I did," Chris whispers, jealous of those girls and all the life they get to live that isn't silent, frozen fear of Sir. "I, I, I don't have a, a keeper now-"

"That's such an awful lie, darlin'." Sir steps closer. “You know how I feel about you lyin’ to me.” Chris wants to vomit all over his shoes, right here right now. The smell of Sir’s cologne is so thick it gets stuck in Chris's throat and steals his air.

Jake’s cologne is light and soft and barely-there, something he only smells when he’s up close or holding one of his shirts. Sir’s wafts through the air around him, steals it, poisons it. 

"It isn't." His lips barely move. “It… isn’t a lie… Sir.”

The words drip from his mouth. He thinks of a documentary he watched with Jake that talked about acid rain. Imagines the words that come slow and steady from his mouth wearing bark off of trees, leaving only the pale flesh like human skin underneath.

He imagines himself as a white birch tree, with Sir slowly stripping him bare, discarding the parts of himself he has built with sun and air and Jake and time. 

His bracelet isn’t helping. His fingers are frozen touching the metal bits, not spinning them, just stuck. His necklace, the lightweight silicone feather that he uses so often when he is happy, lays heavy and hateful somewhere near his sternum. He can’t think - every track is stalling, the trains have all derailed, the thoughts inside are lost in the fog and the debris. He can’t step away. There’s nowhere to run to.

He can’t move his hands. He can’t move his hands. He can’t move his hands. 

He can’t move.

Not until the game is over.

Not until he loses again.

"Oh, it is. We both know it’s a lie, darlin’. You’re simply too old to be of much use to me, now, but...” Sir breathes out through his nose and Chris flinches as the grip on his earlobe suddenly tightens and Sir pulls, like he’ll tear the stud out entirely, and Chris whines low in his throat at the flash, the spike of pain.

Sir stops immediately, but his oil-slick smile finds its way back to his face. 

A child is pushed out of the store behind them sitting in a shopping cart, crying, the little boy’s mother shushing him and telling him they’ll get chicken nuggets on the way home and Chris wonders if the shadowy half-formed mom who lives in his most painfully closed-off memories ever offered to get him a Happy Meal-

“-what you're made for. The question I'm asking is who are you made for now?"

“No one,” Chris whispers, lips barely moving. “I’m… not made… for anyone anymore.”

He hates having to speak like this again. He hates it. They tell him his words aren’t bad, at home, that’s fine to be who he is, to speak how he speaks, they tell him he’s fine and it’s okay, and he’s fine he’s fine he’s fine.

“Mmmn, not true.” Sir reaches up, undoes the clip at the nape of Chris’s neck, his hair falling free in a shining, soft curtain that can’t hide him, not here, not now. “Look at how long your hair is. How awful.”

Chris closes his eyes as Sir’s fingers graze his cheekbone, tuck a bit of the blue behind his ear, trail the shell of his ear and back down the side of his neck. Every touch is a lit match against his skin, every second burns inside and out.

“I like it like this,” Chris says, fucking pathetic attempt at defiance, at standing up for himself, but it’s all he can manage. 

“Oh, beautiful boy,” Sir says, affection thick and condescending clogging Chris’s ears and his thoughts, oil that buries him and burns in his lungs. “Who has ever cared one whit what you like?”

“I do,” Jake says from behind Sir, his voice strong and loud and everything Chris’s voice can’t be in the moment. Chris watches Sir’s eyes widen in surprise and feels his own heart leap. “I care a lot, actually, and you’re going to need to step the fuck away from him before I show you exactly how much I care.”

Sir’s hand drops, and Chris takes in a deep breath, gulps in air as quickly as he can, falling back against the store’s exterior behind him with one hand reaching up to grab onto the feather pendant, rubbing quickly at the ridges carved into the deep blue plastic, while his other hand reaches back to feel the rough texture of the brick wall, rubbing the pads of his fingers there, focusing on the sensation.

Breathe in. Tap. Breathe out. Tap. Rub feather. Breathe in. Tap. Breathe Out. Tap.

Breathe. Breathe. Move.

“The keeper, I presume,” Sir says, holding out his hand to shake with a sunny, smooth Made-for-TV smile. 

Jake’s eyes rake down to Sir’s hand and back up again, chips of cold blue narrowing as he slowly sets the shopping bags in his hands down. He seems taller than ever, now, in his simple sage-green t-shirt and jeans next to Sir’s fussy pastel polo shirt and slack. They’re two separate lives that Chris has lived under two different names, represented by two men staring each other down in perfect silence.

After a moment’s pause, Sir drops his hand.

“I’m not his keeper,” Jake says, keeping his voice even. “It doesn’t work that way, Governor.”

“Mmmn, not my title any longer,” Sir says, a touch regretfully. 

“Yeah, and good goddamn riddance. I hope the charges stick,” Jake says flatly. Chris has no idea what he’s talking about, but something in Sir’s face goes colder, thoughtful. Considering Jake, the way he used to consider Chris, like they are just boys under a microscope, seen on a cellular level by men like Sir, designed for nothing else. 

“For his sake, you had best hope they don’t,” Sir says, still smooth as silk, but the coldness lingers, trails around the edges. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” 

Sir only smiles. Chris isn’t sure what the game was, exactly, but he knows that Jake has just lost it. “Nothing, keeper. How much does my boy cost to feed these days, anyway? I see you’ve got quite the haul, there.” He gestures, a languid motion, towards the pile of plastic bags Jake set on the pavement in front of the store. 

“He’s not your boy,” Jake says, evenly. His eyes skip to Chris - there’s a question there but Chris can’t remember quite how to answer it. Or how to speak at all. He rubs his fingers over the feather, back and forth, pressing into the lines carved in there as hard as he can. The brick wall is rough, soothing as his fingers dance along it. 

Finger-twist-tap-tap-tap. Finger-twist-tap-tap-tap. Finger-twist-tap-

“Don’t tell me you’ve picked that up again,” Sir says. He sounds disgusted. Chris can’t stop himself from glancing up to see the look of derision worn openly on his face. “You were so well trained, too.”

“Trained?” Jake’s voice is a ghost of sound, but something crackles in the whisper.

Chris’s face flushes bright red. He pulls his hand away from the wall and drops the feather, crossing his arms in front of himself, shoulders hunched nearly to his chin. He looks up, finding Jake watching him with a twist of pain showing on his own face. 

Chris has disappointed Jake, he thinks, by not being able to be stronger than this.

He closes his eyes against a rush of tears, tries to push them back. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-

“You okay?” Jake asks, and there’s a hesitation, a word left unsaid. It occurs to Chris that Jake is trying not to say his name, while badly wanting to.

Chris just shakes his head, lips pressed together. If he tries to speak, he knows he’ll trip on all his words, and Sir will mock him for that, too. Instead he stays quiet, and still, and stares straight ahead. Just like he was trained to. Just like he used to.

Just like he did when Jake first met him. 

He’s not okay. He’s not, he’s not okay at all.

Help me.

His lips move to form the words but no sound comes out. Chris opens his eyes again to meet Jake’s, pleading with him. There aren’t any words, he can’t remember how to say them. There’s only the begging he can do without sound.

There’s only the way he can move his lips, all the fear catches the screaming and holds it inside the stillness.

Just like before.

Save me.

“That’s better,” Sir says, softy. “Now, beautiful boy, you just stay there being pretty while-”

“Oh, you can just go fuck yourself on like six rusty knives, you absolute son of a bitch-”

Jake throws the punch before either Chris or Sir can so much as react to the movement, and Chris flinches back with a cry when he sees Jake’s fist connect with Sir’s face, the look of open loathing he wears there as the man crumbles to the sidewalk.

Jake looks up, taking a deep breath. “Chris. Call Nat and tell her to bring the car. We need a fast ride home.”

Chris still can’t remember how to make the words happen out loud. There’s a static inside his head, too much it’s all too much, and he clutches onto the feather necklace at his chest, mouthing, why?

Jake knows the question he’s asking.

Jake gives him a half-cocked smile, closing his hand in a fist.

“Because I’m about to punch this asshole again.”

[redstainedsocks]

First Night

Another prompt for @amonthofwhump‘s escape!week, “first night”. Set immediately after First Mile to Freedom from two days ago. About to make you all real sad with some sock related content, which is only right given my nickname 😎

Warnings: box boy universe, past abuse, early stages of post-trauma, conditioning and unhealthy thought processes, pet whump, dehumanizing thoughts, disassociation, exhaustion, kneeling, scared and confused whumpee, brief mention of a head injury.

Word count: 1.4k

The house they pulled up in wasn’t anything special, not really. One level, set back from the road by a rough lawn, lit windows covered with heavy curtains.

Kit stumbled from the car, one hand clutching the back of Libby’s coat, the other holding his blanket around him like it could offer some kind of protection from what was to come. He had no idea what awaited inside, or what he’d be expected to do once he was in there.

He tugged on her clothes until she stopped, a few feet from the door. “Is this your house, you… you live here?”

“Umm, no, not usually. I live closer to campus, for, well for school, but I am going to stay here with you for a bit. If you want me to, I mean?” She turned a tentative smile to him and his nerves quietened a little.

He nodded. Having her around while he transitioned to whatever kind of ownership awaited him next sounded good, as long as it didn’t put her in harm's way. “I don’t know anyone else.”

It sounded like a secret, like some kind of hidden thing, but it was true. In all the world he really only knew three people; one he hadn’t seen in weeks since an argument, another was led away in handcuffs earlier that day, and she was the last.

“Well that’s about to change, there’s a few people here who are eager to meet you.”

His pulse skyrocketed again and he gulped. Lots of people to please sounded difficult, with too many needs to anticipate he was sure to mess up sooner rather than later. He breathed, in through his nose out through his mouth, short sharp breaths that didn’t help. He gulped and straightened his shoulders, panicking wouldn’t make this any easier. “I’ll do my best to serve them.”

“No, no, don’t think like that. Hey, Kit, easy it’s alright. I know you’re really tired and I’m sorry it’s all happening like this. But listen and please believe me, no-one here will treat you like those people in the store, none of them think pet ownership is good or should even be allowed.”

“Then… then they won’t like me?” He took a halting step backward, eyes darting between the windows of the house.

“They’re gonna love you, they’re just not going to treat you like a pet. They’ll treat you like everyone else.”

She tugged his hand and he followed, but he wasn’t in his body anymore he was floating outside it, numb and cut off from his emotions. It was safer not to feel.

When she ushered him inside it was to a busy house with more people than he knew how to handle. She walked him through a short hallway, and he saw three, then a forth, then a fifth—the driver, John, sitting at a kitchen table nursing a coffee—in mere moments. He stood in the doorway to a small lounge and every pair of eyes in the room turned on him. Two hands waved, three voices said hello, Libby caught his eyes and nodded encouragingly.

He dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor.

  ~   ~   ~

It was a blur of faces, of people not touching but urging him to sit up; of being handed water and a little food, and then later left in a bathroom with a washcloth—he gave the shower a wide berth—and soap. He didn’t look in the mirror, not needing a reminder of how awful he looked with the gash on his face and the memories that surfaced every time he dwelled on it.

The socks he’d been handed to wear with his clean clothes gave him pause. He didn’t think he’d ever owned a pair. It felt like luxury, soft and warm and utterly alien. He worried about slipping on the smooth floors and shuffled ungainly down the hallway toward the voices, not taking his eyes off his feet or his hand off the wall.

He was so tired he couldn’t think or see straight but he was ready and willing to serve, if they needed him to. He caught Libby’s voice, more attuned to it than the ones he didn't know.

“Not yet, let’s just… let’s not give him any more to handle tonight? I’ll tell him, it should be me.”

“He’s going to take a while to settle in, but I think we can all manage a few days of sticking with the name he knows.”

There were murmurs of assent and he stopped in his tracks. They wanted to change his name? He supposed that was just one more thing he’d have to get used to.

“Here he is,” said the same quiet, low voice he’d heard respond to Libby. There was a lilt to the accent that he liked, it didn’t sound like anything he’d experienced before.

“I’m ready sir.”

“Just Mateo, calling me Mateo is fine.”

“Oh-okay? Thank you. Umm for the socks, thank you.”

“Oh that was Alf’s idea, he thought you’d probably be without.”

He lifted his eyes and looked around for whoever this ‘Alf” was. Someone was looking at him with a bright smile and he zeroed in on it. “Thank… you? I can do, make up for it, uhh I mean, whatever you want in return I can…”

Libby came up and put her arm around him. “They don’t do that here.”

“Then how do I…?”

“You said thank you, that’s enough, that’s plenty.”

“Libby, do you want to show him where he’s sleeping?” Mateo asked. “We set up a bed in the guys room, it’s a bit cramped but it should be comfortable.”

“Sure thing, I got the couch right?”

“If you don’t mind.” Mateo nodded, and leaned against the doorframe, smiling softly.

“Not at all, probably more comfortable than my dorm room anyway.”

She turned to lead him away and he pulled back, his thoughts moved as slow as molasses but he knew he needed to understand the rules. “Wait, umm please I don’t know w-when I should be up in the morning?”

She shushed him and kept walking. “Whenever you get up is fine, you can sleep as long as you need.”

The room she led him to was large, but filled with three beds all squashed up against the walls it made it seem like a smaller space. She sat him down on a neatly made one that was pressed up against a glass door leading outside; the view through the glass was utterly black and she hastily pulled a blind down, blocking out the nightmarish rectangle of dark space.

“You can sleep here.”

He touched the soft sheets and springy mattress. “On the bed?” He felt suddenly alert, but the moment passed as exhaustion swamped any excitement or thrill of nerves.

“Yes, on the bed. I’ll be down the hall if you need me.”

“Libby I…” he paused, fumbling over his words, his fingers plucking at the sheet.

“You can say anything here, there’s no wrong words.” She settled into a crouch before him and put her hands on his knees.

“I don’t know who’s in charge. Who do I listen to?”

She smiled, a little sad around the edges where it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well… it’s Mateo’s house, but no-one is really in charge, they just all live here. Respect everyone's space and privacy and you’ll fit right in.”

“But who gives me orders? Tells me what to do?”

“For tonight, your only requirement is to sleep and rest. I don’t want to put too much on you at once, but… you, you make the rules now Kit, for yourself. We’ll help you work out what that means, we’ll help you make decisions, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

He sat, numbed, the floaty feeling starting again, dragging him away and out where it was safe and his body could function without him. She brushed falling tears from his cheeks and he leaned into her touch, it grounded him, pushing away the sensation that wanted to carry him out of his body.

She laid him down, and let him sob. He whimpered with little breathy cries that he didn’t know why he was making. He was making a bad first impression he knew, but couldn’t stop. He was so tired, so, so tired and his head hurt, and he’d do better tomorrow he promised he would.

He must have mumbled something because she shushed him.

“Sleep, sleep is the only thing you need to do right now. Let go of everything else.”

Without knowing what else he could do, he let himself slip and deep restful sleep took hold before he could question it.

Tag list: 

@haro-whumps, @theycomeinthrees, @whumpthisway, @samanddeaninpanties, @teachunks, @draganies, @pepperonyscience, @whump-it, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @untilthepainstarts, @galaxywhump, @kiretto-laorentze, @lonesome--hunter @slaintetowhump @just-a-raccoon-with-wifi​

[rosesareviolentlyread]

WIJ Day 3: Love

WOO the first actual prompt is here. This is a modern magic world heavily inspired by @0idril0 and @whumpywhumper‘s Nico & Markus/Lucien series respectively. I HIGHLY recommend you check them out. So this is meant to be an introduction to Pastor John/The Reverend, who is my first attempt at an intimate whumper. Thanks to @ashintheairlikesnow for inspiring the Reverend with Bram, def check out all her stuff if you haven’t

CW: religious whump, creepy whumper, whumper who doesn’t think they’re a whumper, kinda abusive relationship vibes, drugging, taking advantage of someone’s emotional state

John sits, listening to the record player in the corner crackle with the sounds of a congregation’s singing. His students tease him for being a ‘hipster’, but there’s something satisfying about their amateur voices, captured imperfectly, naturally, using a technology that reminds him of pottery, or weaving. Sound pressed into something physical, ethereality brought to his fingertips, his ears, across time. 

It’s a pleasant evening all around. John savors every detail as he takes a sip of scotch - a gift from a colleague in Edinburgh - settling into the thick leather chair by the fireplace, just musing in his mind while he waits for the brownies to be done. Perhaps he should grade, or write a lecture, or work on his sermon. But these moments in time, of being in his body, of feeling fire in his throat as sparks flick out as his toes, these are God’s moments, moments of perfect creation and harmony. 

But still, he isn’t bothered by the knock on his door, despite the late hour. The students know his door is always open. He’s become used to them coming to his couch after a late temptation, or perhaps a lapse in their faith. Perhaps just a personal dilemma. The community too, though they typically take the ‘door unlocked’ policy as is. 

No, the timidness of the youngest in his flock always brings a smile. It seems no matter how many departmental or congregational dinners he hosts, how many times they come knocking, they always knock. It is part of their youth, not cemented in their beliefs, in knowing that God will provide. So he provides, until they can become sure, can understand how a trinity of a different kind, God, his Son, and their Pastor, will be there for them. They are lambs, learning to stand on their own legs, which is why this is his favorite place to shepherd. 

“Coming!” He calls out, setting the glass carefully on a coaster before opening the thick door to the cottage. It takes a few blinks to clear his eyes from the rush of cold air that assaults them. The weather always seems to surprise him, just one of many things in this beautiful world. 

But what doesn’t necessarily surprise him is to see, red-rimmed eyes, a flushed tear-tracked face delicately wrought in its complexion, set upon a lithe frame that hides immense strength, an immense spirit that positively glows normally with ash-blonde hair and bright gray-blue eyes. Faith. A sense of calm comes over him, a release of tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for days. 

“Oh, my girl, I was hoping you’d come by” Before she can get a word out, John wraps strong arms around her, enveloping her in a warm hug. Immediately he feels the telltale shake of her shoulders, small hands gripping the back of his sweater tightly, a damp spot right near his heart growing. 

Yes, John expected this. For how long, he isn’t entirely sure. Perhaps, always. Perhaps, because somewhere in him, he knew God had bigger plans for them both.

Faith had been a special student to him, from her first year intro course in the Theology department. A bright girl, a good girl, who believed with her heart and soul in Jesus’ saving grace for even the most dastardly of sinners. He hadn’t recognized it well at the time, but even he had fallen prey to the negativity within the church, the ones who said Supernaturals were truly the devil incarnate, incapable of being saved. 

But Faith, she took it upon herself to prove them all wrong. She’d been hesitant to propose her thesis to him, as her advisor. A piece to study the beliefs and communities of Supernaturals locally, from a theological and sociological perspective, in order to understand how those beliefs might be reconciled with modern Christianity. A piece that would allow for the Evangelical church she came from to see the same possibility of salvation she did. To choose love. 

“It’s alright, shhh. Why don’t you come in? The brownies for tomorrow’s potluck are almost done. I’ll put on some tea, dandelion right?” Gently, he pried her away from him, thumbing tears as she sniffled away the last of her outburst. 

“Thank you, Reverend. I just...I didn’t know where else to go. Yet.” The downcast of her eyes nearly breaks his heart at the cruelty of this world. For his fellow Christians had chosen to hate, to cast her out of their flock, after she bared her thesis, her work, no matter how unfinished. All because of what she was. 

Peter 1 4:8 comes to his mind: Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers a multitude of sins.

So what if she was truly born Fae, a natural sinner of the largest proportions. Does her desire to be saved, to save others, to feel Jesus’ healing light not garner love in them? 

Her desire, her faith, does in John’s chest, a warm feeling better than the finest scotch as he gently leads her to couch, leaving her with some tissues to compose herself. 

The moment feels so right the longer he’s in it. The brownie timer goes off right as he enters the kitchen, and he pulls them out. Perfect. He leaves them to cool as he flicks on the kettle, fingers moving through his vast collection for just the right blend. Dandelion, reminiscent of shortbread cookies, Faith’s favorite. They’ve shared so many cups over late night thesis meetings, church group meetings, dinner meetings that the box has only one left. Pulling out the last packet, he tucks away in his mind to buy more boxes. 

They’ll go through a lot he imagines, in the next few months. It’s easy to prepare, like a moment meant to be, as he lets the tea steep, adds two spoonfuls of sugar, and drops in the pills, stirring until they dissolve evenly. 

He brings it all out, tea, brownies, to the couch, where she’s already claimed a throw. It’s good, he thinks, that she already feels at home here. It’ll be easier that way. 

“Thank you,” her hands grip the warm mug, breathing in the steam, and he watches attentively as she takes a sip. “It’s been...I was scared. That you’d turn me away too” 

“My dear, you have never had anything but love for Jesus and God in your heart. Why would I believe something like this would change that?”

Of course he had been worried, in the beginning of her thesis, that she would be swayed. That they would convince her with their wicked tongues, guile her with magic and false miracles, false idols. Yes, now that he looks back, perhaps he did see it all coming. No, she hadn’t been swayed. 

But she’d swayed him. To believe in the possibility of truly saving those damned souls. So much that he’d begun his own research, his own plans, prepared for the possibility. And now, it appeared God’s plan was working perfectly, dropping her right on his doorstep on the eve of her transformation between worlds, an apostle for a new era

“Everyone else seems to think that, that this is wrong. How though? How can being who I am, the person God made me, be wrong?” Her voice is quiet in the night, barely above the crackling fire in its hoarseness, tinged still with tears. 

“He does nothing wrong. He made you this way for a reason, so that you may show others. Think of it, your work, is this not His plan?” John tries to keep the excitement out of his voice, to remain calm, collected. Gentle. Yes, he must be gentle, to do this in love for the Lord. 

She pauses, sipping more. ���I...I don’t know. I just, I need some time, I think. I was walking to the bus stop when I passed your house and thought...I don’t know. I guess I hoped there’d be something I could come back to, when I was ready” Her eyes stare into the surface of the tea, growing distant. Tired. It’s working fast, he knows, likely due to her exhaustion from the past few days. 

“It’s alright to not know. The Bible does not have all the answers, but it leads us to where we need to find them. Perhaps that’s why you came here. Why don’t you get some rest, stay here tonight. Tomorrow is a new day, a new chance for you to find your way.” 

“Thank you, Reverend. That..that sounds nice. You’re right, I need to-o-o-o” the sentence is interrupted by a yawn and he chuckles. 

“It sounds like the only thing you need right now is a good night’s rest. Come on, I promise this couch may be old, but she’ll service you well. She’s saved me from several late night grading sessions” Taking the tea, he lets her settle down, and grabs a quilt from the closet - a gift from an older parishioner - and tucks it around her. 

“Goodnight, Faith. Sleep well, tomorrow will be a busy day” she mumbles something slurred, incomprehensible under the effect of the drug. Still, he sits and waits, gently petting the silky hair until her breathing fully evens out, deepens into a rhythm that could be a lullaby to itself in his ears. 

So beautiful, so wonderful, so perfect. Truly, this is his and her purpose: to show that the souls of the supernatural can be saved through Jesus’ light. 

It is with that thought that he picks up the limp bundle of girl, and carries her down into the basement.

Tags: @sableflynn @bleedingandfeverish @starry-whump @whumpmasinjuly(let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the tag list for this series)

[gideongrace]

Talking amongst ourselves - fanfic writer interviews: @ihni

(Originally, these interviews were done more conversationally, but this interview is a LONG one! So I edited it down for tumblr. You can read the whole unedited, uncut interview over on a03! There are pictures involved. :)

Please say your first name, your age, your pronouns, the fandoms you write for and provide a link to your a03. You can also mention your sexual orientation or other details, if you'd like.

 Ihni:

My real name is Moa, but I go by Ihni online. On AO3, I have an account under Ihni (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ihni) but that's for rhymes (and doodles). I only wrote rhymes/poetry for a long time, and when I started writing fic, I wanted to put that under another pen name. I was NOT comfortable writing stories for YEARS. Now, though, I don't care. So, I write fics under the pen name Thei (https://archiveofourown.org/users/thei/).

It's all Stranger Things, these days. Harringrove (because I love the fandom and I like the two of them interacting) and Billy-centric (because I love his character, SO MUCH).

I am ace and aro, so my fics tend to not contain any sex (I have ALLUDED to it a couple of times, but that's basically as far as I go). I am also just as happy to write fics without any romantic or sexual relationships at all. Billy and Steve can be buddies only, as far as I'm concerned.

How do you feel about being aroace when so much of fanfic is all about romance and sex?

Ihni:

I live by the tried and tested rule of "don't like, don't read". 

There is a lot of romance in our fandom, for sure. But it's not like it's lovey-dovey IN OUR FACE romance, you know? 97% of Harringrove fics are two dumb boys who are bad at communication and who can't deal with Feelings. And I fucking live for that! Also, even the lovey-dovey fluffy romance stuff is cute, when it's them. I may not want a relationship for myself, but I don't mind at all if the boys are in one! (If they want it, they deserve it <3)

And as for sex ... well. I can read about sex, if it's well written or if it furthers the plot. If it's too graphic, I tend to scroll past it though, or just skim through it. It doesn't... give me a lot? I guess. Like, it's not like I read "smut" in the tags and go "oooh I have to read this!" - rather the opposite, in fact. I can read it, but it's not something I actively look for, and when I stumble upon it, I don't always read all of it. If I know the writer, I'll probably read through it to honor their work, though.

I just won't ever leave a "omg that was so hot!" comment! XD If someone expects that from me, they'll be disappointed (and I'm constantly terrified of disappointing or offending people for NOT commenting on their smut).

Basically, I am the master of my own fandom experience, and if something makes me uncomfortable I will keep away from it. Simple as that.

More people should live by that rule.

What's your writing process like?

 Ihni:

Uuuuuuuugh.

That's an interpretation of my writing process.

No, but.

I usually get SUPER INSPIRED to write a specific scene, or concept... and THAT part goes well, but then I have to build a STORY around it, and that takes SUCH A LONG TIME and SO MUCH EFFORT!

And also, usually, it gets out of hand.

I usually have to force myself to get the words in, honestly. And also, I get real tired of what I'm writing, real fast. So I have to force myself to finish (I have a few WIPs that are more than a year in the making...) before moving on to other things. (And I usually write the other things inbetween, anyway.)

I get easily distracted, when I write. Like, actually sitting down and writing takes an hour and a half. Then I MIGHT write for like twenty minutes, lol.

Cold Turkey Writer was a godsend XD.

If I have internet on while I'm writing, not a lot will be written, let's just ... let's just say that.

How do you edit?

Ihni:

HAHAHAHAHAHAA

Erm.

Well.

Sometimes, I read through it once, and change a few things, and let that be it.

In a couple of cases, for the longer ones, I have actually made an effort to read through it more than once. (The problem being that by then, I'm so sick of it that I will skim through it just to get it over with.)

A couple of times, a friend has read through it for me, and given me pointers. Which is VERY HELPFUL! But they've offered to do it for me, I would never ask it of someone.

And about the editing process ... I check for spelling mistakes, or when something sounds wrong, or looks wrong ... and then I fix it, so it looks and sounds better in my head. I don't know. That's editing, right?

What fanfic authors do you admire?

Ihni:

In the Harringrove fandom, I have to mention LEMONLOVELY, because I'm in love with the way she writes Billy, and the way she's shaping her fics as she goes, and the way her attention to detail brings a whole mood (I am OBSESSED with her "Words Left Unsaid" fic, and am probably that fic's biggest fan).

LYMRICKS, because fucking hell, they sure can write a fic that draws you in. There's something about long sentences in combination with short sentences that really makes them easy to read, and the language is like a punch to the gut, at times.

CALLIEB, because I love their stories and I'm currently following "Second Thoughts" and I love how they write everyone like ... like they're holding their breath, waiting for something.

And I'm not even gonna mention any others by name because I'm terrible with names and I'm bound to forget someone and I'm just, I don't want to do that. Our fandom is full of talented writers, and I just. If I've commented on your fic, I read through all of it and I liked it. If I haven't - well, I HAVE been writing more lately = less time to read, and I have like 100 fic tabs open on all of my devices ... I hope to get there, some time!

In other fandoms, let me mention PeaceHeather (for how they write Loki and that world), aloneintherain (such good whump!), isaDanCurtisproduction (the absolute best Spideypool!) and gaelicspirit (who writes lovely angsty whumpy Musketeers fics). Like. Just to mention 0.01%, or something.

I don't think any of them, particularly, have impacted my style - because I don't HAVE a style - but I soak up every word of every fanfic I ever read, and if one sentence is a particularly pretty string of words, I will copy & paste it into a word document that is now 170 pages long, or screenshot it to keep it forever. ❤️

Words. <3

What's your favorite story of yours?

What's your least favorite story of yours?

What's your favorite line you've ever written?

Ihni:

Like, in what SENSE? Even though I know my writing isn't up to par, they're still my babies. Still my creations. I love them in different ways! Like. I love "Coming Back" because it was the longest I had written back then, and it's probably the one I am most pleased about, writing-wise, and it's also the one I went through and edited the most. So it feels like the one I worked the most on.

I love "Toy Soldiers" because it was a totally self-indulgent piece of writing that I wrote for the joy of it, and because I wanted to read it and no one else was about to write it for me.

I love "About Apologies" because something about it pleases me, it was an experiment that didn't fail, and I like it more and more with time.

I love "Less of a mistake, more of a miscalculation" because I had fun while writing it, and it turned out kind of like I wanted it to, plot-wise.

I love "Actions and reactions", because I had no idea what I was doing back then, but I still did it, and somehow it got long and I still don't know how that happened.

And I realise that this makes me sound a little self-centered, but I worked hard on them. I love them, even if they're my ugly and imperfect babies. And even if I cringe if I re-read certain parts XD

I guess my least favorite story of mine (and I'm guessing we're talking Stranger Things things here?) is "Not unusual" because a) I never re-read it and b) it was the start of something that I have to actually FINISH at some point and ugh, that was not the original plan. If we're talking least favorite stories in all fandoms, then definitely "In which there are mistakes made", which was a Teen Wolf fic, and the reason why I don't do WIPs anymore. The last chapter was written simply to fucking END it, and ugh, I hate it.

The favorite line I've ever written ...? I don't know. Are we talking in fic? Because I write my best stuff in comments, honestly. :p I don't think I have an answer for that one, actually. Sorry :S

What part of writing is easiest for you?

What part of writing is hardest for you?

 Ihni:

Easiest? Dialogue. I like dialogue. Like, as a non-English speaker I can at least imagine a plausible exchange of words, and banter, and make it sound somewhat realistic, I imagine.

Hardest? The rest. Like, some people are just fucking WIZARDS with words, can write these long descriptive sentences that perfectly sets the mood for when a character gracefully moves across the room ... whereas I am just, "He stood up and walked over. End of fucking story."

What do you do when you're struggling for inspiration?

Ihni:

Give up?

Or do something else.

Or go and read. (That's basically the same as giving up.)

Or, if I'm still writing, I go to another part of the story and write THAT, and hope that I'll feel like connecting the two pieces, later.

Inspiration is a bitch.

Who introduced you to fandom and when?

Ihni:

Oh god. I am old. I don't remember. 

I started writing stories when I was real young, and I was always reading something. I started writing stories with my friends when I was a teenager. Then we discovered the internet (yes, this was around the time when we got internet access in school and at home, told you I was old!) and when doing that, I guess we found more like-minded people.

Fanfics ... weren't an organized thing, back then. But I've been reading them, and been in fandoms, ever since I discovered that there were people online who liked the same things that I liked.

I would say, actively, from maybe around 19-20 years old? Like, that was ACTIVE fandom-ing.

What is your advice to fellow writers?

How often do you jump between fandoms?

How long have you been writing?

Ihni:

As a WRITER, I am not the best person to give advice to writers, I think. I'd rather TAKE advice than give it, at this point.

As a READER, my advice is to WRITE, WRITE, WRITE, because you are doing a good thing and you are creating a version of a world that is yours, versions of characters that you can shape into anything, and SOMEONE out there will love you for it (probably me).

I jump between fandoms ... hmm, as a WRITER? Seldom. Billy's my jam and I'm not moving.

As a READER? All the time. I mean, I'm pretty deep into Harringrove and Billy and Stranger Things, but sometimes I need something light-hearted, and then I go back to some of my basic fandoms, and read something else. I will never run out of things to read. 

❤️

And how long have I been writing? FOREVER. I wrote when I was young, and thought I was going to be an author (wrote in Swedish, back then). Then I wrote when I was a teen, for fun. Then I stopped writing. Then I started writing rhymes, in English, because it was a craft I could do and train in, and it was short pieces. And only in recent years (very recent), have I started writing fics. And now, I write long-ass fics in English, so I guess I have at least come a long way!

Why do you write?

Ihni:

...

I just sat and stared at the screen for a good ten seconds.

I'd say that it differs.

Sometimes, I write because I want to READ something and no one has written it (or is going to).

Sometimes, I write because I want a very specific thing or feeling, and it doesn't exist yet.

Sometimes, I write because I am inspired.

Sometimes, I write because I want to.

Sometimes, I write because of a deadline.

Sometimes, I write because there's something in my head that Won't Leave Me The Fuck Alone until I get it out.

Sometimes, I write for fun.

Sometimes, I write because I want to hurt.

Sometimes, I write because I need to.

Sometimes, I write because I want to become better at it; learn; reach towards the writers whose work I love.

And sometimes, I just sit and stare at a document, don't write a single fucking word, and go watch a movie instead.