#ive done it i have finally edited it

[whumpitisthen]

Brazen Arrogance

Previous I Masterlist I Next

The warp tears into space in front of an audience.

Upon stepping out of the gaping void between realms, the very first thing Grim notices is the blissful lack of sulphur in the air. One gets used to the dark smoke covering Hell’s crimson skies like rain clouds, but when visiting human territory, he cannot help inhaling a deep lungful of the fresh, properly oxygenated air. The air here smells of vigorous life.

The rarity of such simple pleasures is one unfortunate side effect of the Dawn. That is the word his lord prefers to refer to Hell’s takeover with, — humans come up with all kinds of funny names for it instead. The Cataclysm, the Armageddon, Doomsday, the Collapse, the Calamity, Ruin, Torrent, the End — the day the sky tore open, the day the Sun bled, the day their beloved God abandoned them. Yes, it has certainly shaken things up, and made the Reaper's immortal undeath much more interesting, but he would be lying if he said he didn't miss the Old World sometimes. All the intricate ways and lives of humanity have been tainted by unholy power, and while they prevail as best they can, they will never be the same.

The second thing he notices is the absolute, resolute silence. As such, that is not uncommon in itself — silence has a habit of following him wherever he goes. However, he can feel dozens of souls nearby, hundreds of eyes staring at the portal snapping closed behind him and his old friend as they belatedly enter, breathless and intense. He straightens, mood already lifting. It's always such a delight to be in human territory. Unlike the slaves living in captivity, these mortals taste of hope and vibrate with the will to live. Their fear always smells the sweetest, their spirits are always the most lively. Splendid prey to chase away boredom with.

A familiar warmth finds its way behind his eyes. This is what the nostalgic grief of visiting a childhood home must be like, though gods don't really have any single house to call such. Their homes are their domains, and Death’s domain has been and will always be Earth, the home of humanity, the realm of mortals. And though he rarely ever leaves Earth, he resides in its hell-infested parts the most, so he rarely gets to see this side of the planet nowadays. His true home is the land of mortals, not the ruins of a civilisation now taken over by demonkind. Seeing free humans is like seeing cattle well taken care of — their lives end all the same, yet free-range always tastes better.

That is to say, gods have quite a twisted sense of what ‘home’ might mean.

He stands to the side to let His Majesty take the lead. Grim is meant to act as protection, following from behind like a second shadow. It's what he does best, after all. A tall, menacing figure with an intimidating weapon and an even more intimidating mask, cloaked in shadows and leering menacingly. A presence that commands caution. He stalks just a few strides behind, walking at a more languid pace than His Majesty; a beguiling demon wearing an innocent man’s face as he sews terror into the hearts of everyone present. If the eager expression on his face is anything to go by, he is clearly itching to get started.

Unfortunately, awful distaste settles on his lord’s tongue upon entering.

His eyes set on a large, see-through wall. Thick, certainly made of a material considered strong to humans. It divides the dusty warehouse into two halves; one half for the cowardly mortal leaders, the other for the two deities.

They are in the middle of nowhere, on no man's land, perhaps a field Hell's armies have scorched to ashes in the past. An impromptu, flimsy building was raised here from sheets of metal, cobbled together just enough to stay standing. There is no doubt in His Majesty's mind that behind every unstable metal wall is another wall of soldiers and weaponry, just waiting for a signal to swarm the two of them, flooding every breath’s worth of space with their crude bullets without hesitation. Why else would they have built something so temporary, if not to save time on something that will be destroyed in the end?

Past the glass wall, trembling politicians sit in a row at a long table, sweating bullets in their quiet anticipation. Another row of people stand right behind them; the interpreters most likely. Large industrial flood lights give vision; — they blare from above, illuminating every imperfection on every face and magnifying it tenfold. No escort, no welcoming expressions and pleasantries, no offerings or sacrifices. No decency. Just a big, empty room reeking of cowardice and disrespect.

Worst of all, all his subjects have provided him with were a single table and chair, sitting in the middle of the floor right under a hot ray of artificial light. There is not even as much as a glass of water on the surface of the scuffed up thing.

A shameful presentation if he has ever seen one. Only humans could invite their benevolent god and welcome him in a metal shed in the middle of nowhere, begging for help disdainfully from behind an ugly, flimsy shield. Truly shameless.

From the opposite side of the glass, a tall woman emerges, followed by a couple others not unlike her. They wear religious cloaks that cover their bodies almost completely. Walking up to the glass wall with their eyes to the floor, they kneel beside each other, bowing deep in worship, their hooded foreheads touching the ground.

They wear his colours, they wear his symbols, they act in accordance with what they think he may appreciate as worship. They are his followers, clearly, surely brought here to welcome him properly.  — “In the name of all government officials taking part in this diplomatic meeting today, I, as your humble High Priestess, welcome you, our most merciful Lord. We are forever thankful for your benevolence. May your kindness persist and your mercy reach us, so we may forever provide you with our tireless service and sinful flesh in return. We offer our bodies to use as you see fit. We are here to serve only you.”

Her words are clear and enunciated, void of nearly all emotion apart from the slightest vibrato of nerves impossible to hide in the face of such honour. She talks with the utmost respect, with the reverence of a zealot finally allowed to look upon her one true god. Despite all that, His Majesty’s expression remains emotionless and uncaring. Slightly disappointed.

Once her monologue ends, he simply ignores all eyes on him, remaining quiet as he walks up to the shoddy, pathetic chair meant for him and lays a hand on the back of it. Gripping it with any force snaps a piece of the material off — its metal legs creak, and the piece in his hand crumbles to sawdust. It isn't even made out of proper lumber, but of wood waste and chemicals. It wouldn't surprise him if they duct taped the thing together the same way they did with this building. His frown deepens. Grim giggles to himself behind him, wandering the length of the room back and forth lazily, just waiting to be allowed to pounce. His laughter chills the air, yet his Lord’s blood only warms.

No emotion paints his face, but the intensity with which the demon aims his expectant glance at his kneeling servants just behind the glass is powerful enough to send a violent shiver of displeasure down each of their backs.

“Angela,” — he calls with a smile to the one in the middle, who jumps at hearing her true name flow from the mouth of her god with such nonchalance; unexpected, unprovoked, — “tell me. Do you think this is acceptable?”

In the following pause, the carefully kept professional admiration flickers in her eyes. She hesitates to answer, a breath caught in her throat at being named and called upon so directly. — “I-I do not understand, my Lord. Forgive me.”

“Rise.”

Without hesitance, but a great deal of terror, she clambers to her feet, nailing her gaze to the toes of her shoes. The row of mortals behind her shuffle uncomfortably, looking to each other in confusion. He can taste their unease on the tip of his pointed tongue. He finds some joy in derailing their little plans, whatever they may be. Humans always have a plan, always go by rules and instructions and orders. They were truly only ever meant to be servants.

“I-If I have displeased you, My Lord, I only ask —”

He lifts one finger and her mouth snaps shut like a snare around one’s throat.

“I am aware you must not be in charge of operations that do not pertain to you, child. So I am merely curious.” — He walks behind the broken chair, laying both hands on its rigid edges. — “You expect me to sit on this rotted, uncomfortable thing...”

The chair crumbles from an unexpected wave of force, splintering apart and falling to the floor noisily at once. Angela's hands become shaking fists. The audience, with the exception of Grim, gasps in unison. A hushed chatter bubbles up in the crowd. Grim leans back against a wall to watch the show from behind, sufficiently scaring the human guard he is closest to, who now cannot concentrate on anything but the Reaper lounging around right next to them like it's normal.

“Lay my divine body against this fragile, dusty, old bench…”

His fist explodes the unbalanced table next, splitting it apart in the middle with a loud bang to better enunciate the cold, unfeeling, yet incredulous almost-anger in his voice. The bang is muffled through the glass, but loud as a gunshot.

“...and worst of all, Angela;”

He approaches the ugly imitation of a crystal wall, regarding every human on the other side with less respect than worms under his feet. His coat flows after him elegantly, the swaying of its deep blue fabric audible in the pause between his words.

“You offer your mind, body and soul to me, your one true God, who is present in the flesh, answering your prayers personally — from the other side of a barrier aimed against him. Kneeling before the pitiful insects in paper crowns lining up behind you. You plead belonging to me while bowing behind false protection; instead of kissing my feet and letting your blood in true, beautiful reverence.”

He can tell his words are knives burrowing into her soul. Her shaking worsens as she listens, the air around her alight in guilt. Her shoulders tense to hide her slender neck. Being reprimanded by the one she spent her whole life working to please and worship is an almost soul shattering experience.

“Do you understand, Angela?” — he concludes, letting his words envelop every thought in her head, weaving her mind a cocoon of persuasion deeper than reverence alone could ever sink her, — “you offer yourself, but words are just words. There is no greater gift than becoming mine; a willing lamb to delight me — but how am I meant to grant my High Priestess this honour when she cannot even face me properly?”

A tear escapes through her composure, pure as Heaven's waters. She does not dare open her mouth however — she does not know what she could even say in her defence. A glint of something akin to joy shines in His Majesty's eyes. A gullible, yet powerful woman, a leader of his subjects who wants nothing but his favour. He could mould her into something extraordinary.

He lifts a hand, fingertips touching the cool surface of the offending material. The glass burns to the touch. So it is blessed. Interesting. Useless, however. Slowly but surely, these mortals have been learning more and more spells, blessings and curses alike, yet they still have a long way to go before they can conjure up something he could find truly bothersome. Humans are ingenious, crafty creatures, forced to learn and teach faster than immortals because they do not have the time to fully understand any concept in one lifetime. He wonders how long until they fully switch their guns out for blessed blades. He cannot wait to see what it will be like to truly be at war with humanity. Their rebellions and acts of desperation will only become more entertaining once they finally figure out how to stand their ground against his creations.

His claws grow to scratch a screeching line down the length of the glass. He carves it like rivers carve the earth. The sound is horrid; it doesn't seem to end. With every second it lasts, each mortal heart beats a little faster. He tilts his head, lifting his chin, no longer aiming his rumbling accusations at his beloved followers, but the wide-eyed suits behind them.

“You must see how I find all this… insulting.”

The entire wall shatters at once, thunder following its lightning, raining sparkling blades from the sky. Cries echo in unison, panic rises; their terror is almost delicious enough to make up for the sour taste of brazen mortal arrogance left in his mouth. The demon lord licks his lips, taking a moment to enjoy this treat, feeding on the horror of a hundred mortals coalescing at once. Oh, how he loves reminding them of their helplessness. They tend to forget their subordinacy with time in situations like this.

Every parley he attends comes with new faces. Leaders change, humans die, people forget. Humanity is on the brink of extinction, kept right at the precipice of all lack of order and guidance by their one ruler, their one Lord. One would think human arrogance would die down with their numbers, and yet they surprise him each time. They are a spoiled kind. They weren't made to live under true order and consequences. They were made to be free, but weak. Weak enough to be harmless to their maker. Pathetic creatures.

Ah, but that is why they are so special. Their free will allows them to do incredible things — and he of all should know best how free will is as much a curse as it is a blessing. He has been witness to the best and the worst it offers. This one simple thing separates humans from animals, yet it's only sweeter to treat them as nothing but when they have the comprehension to understand their helpless, miserable place just as well as any non-human of the greater world would. Their agony is so extraordinary because they were made to suffer. Because they understand well that the source of their pain will never cease, no matter what. They cannot escape it, this fate. The only one capable of saving them abandoned them the same way it had abandoned him. Now he is their god, and he was never one to abandon his subjects.

His momentary musing elation dissipates much too quickly as the noise of the crowd fades in, overwhelming the flavour of their fear. He has no trouble understanding what they all babble about. One man yells in surprise, another curses in shock, yet another prays to a god that will never answer. Most of them scramble to get out of their chairs and look to hide somewhere, childishly expecting him to attack, and foolishly believing a chair could even serve as an obstacle if he decided to do so. Some of them call for help from the humans in armour surely hiding just out of sight.

Surprisingly enough, no one comes running in to aid. In fact, the few guards out in the open that line up by each wall do not even move. An interesting occurrence. He knows they heard the cry for help loud and clear; they saw the wall exploding across the floor. Yet, not a single footstep, not a single gunshot. Maybe they aren't here to protect, opting to remain hidden or as distraction and bank on catching him off-guard. Maybe inviting Grim to come along threw more than just a wrench into their expectations of only being faced with one god as opposed to two, and now they aren't sure what to do. Maybe they have finally learned that nothing will protect them from their ruler. Or, maybe there isn't anything to protect at all. Mortal leaders tend to send impostors in their own place, after all. Perhaps these humans are dispensable meat and nothing more.

“Your humble servant begs for your forgiveness, My Lord. Your humble servant begs for your forgiveness, My Lord. Your humble servant begs for your forgiveness — “ — Angela repeats, now praying reverently in Latin having fallen to her knees again in terror and devotion as the wall had exploded onto her. Her black gown is blanketed with shards of glass, torn to shreds. Her sanguine blood paints her four-fingered hands, the only skin visible, which had taken the brunt of the sharp fragments flying her direction. He can hear one of her fellow novices weeping as they remain bowed low to the ground, choking on terrified sobs. To their credit, none of them even try to flee, staying perfectly still, only begging for his forgiveness. He expects no less from his resolute followers.

Letting his hand fall, he intertwines it with his other hand at the small of his back. He joins the mortals on their side of the building, passing by his frightened, yet awestruck disciples, paying no mind to the chaos he has caused. Looking at the row of humans now congregated into a messy horde, he could laugh. The scene reminds him of a flock of pigeons. Just one mildly threatening gesture and woosh, they all fly off in a storm of feathers, only to return shortly after like they own the place.

All exits are locked, it appears, judging from their frantic jerking of the door handles.

“If you come any closer, you'll regret it, you damned son of a bitch!” — a withered human yells at him, his french cracking with age. His languid walk towards the podium doesn't slow down for his demands.

“What in Hell is going on? What are we supposed to do?” — a woman asks her interpreter, who just shakes their head at her with the same fear and confusion, soon getting shoved aside by another translator clambering back farther away from the demon lord's advancement.

He slows to a stop a few metres in front of them. Their yelling only grows louder with each step, not even giving him a chance to speak. While a terribly entertaining show, this isn't very productive. If he wanted to watch humans scramble and scream in horror, he would have accepted Grim’s invitation to that Flesh Harvest instead. He turns around then, eyes landing on the Grim Reaper crouching over Angela and her novices, chatting away with them like nothing is wrong, whispering about him to his followers. Somehow that is the least annoying part of all this.

This is giving him a headache.

“If we could return to civility for just a moment…” — he asks half-heartedly, barely heard over the ruckus of panicking mortals. Seriously, a broken window is all it takes for these esteemed humans to lose their minds? How do any of them lead a country?

“I don't know what to do!”

“He just tore it down like it was nothing, Rajiv!”

“Just calm the fuck down!”

“I never should have agreed to come.”

“Open the damn door!”

“I don't want to die, I don't want to die…”

He takes a deep breath. Pinches his nose below his furrowed brows. Closes his eyes for a moment. The cavalcade of languages tire him.

Enough of this circus.

He lifts one hand. The snap of his  fingers echoes off every wall. It all becomes silent at once.

“And they say I'm dramatic…” — sighs Grim, surveying his abnormal surroundings with mild amusement. His long white locks seem to float easier than before.

His Lord hums a displeased note, — “you are.”

“Mm, well,” — the Reaper muses, — “plucking us out of the flow of time seems a bit more than just theatrics, I suppose.”

Time seems to have stopped all around the two of them. The endless silence is deafening. The blaring lights are less piercing, the colours less saturated. The dust settles in place like stars in the night sky. The air moves like honey. Every body stands stiller than dead. Their shouts do not even echo before they are snuffed out.

His Majesty observes the mortals frozen in place, thinking of a solution to this absolute lack of order and professionalism. There are a million ideas running through his head, a million possible ways he could make the unruly lot behave. Unfortunately, every thought that leads to severing the morons’ heads from their bodies cannot be brought to fruition, lest this contract they wished to entertain him with never comes to be. It's the whole reason he is here, after all, and it would be such a waste to give it up now. He could always just threaten to leave, he supposes. He doubts they'd let him go so easily.

“So,” — Grim’s haunting voice prods as he wanders up to his Lord, his canine mask appearing in his peripheral vision, then leaning into focus, — “what next? What nefarious plan is knocking about in that wise old head of yours, Your Majesty? I am just dying to know.”

“Stop whining. I am thinking.”

“Oh, it's a conundrum is it?” — Grim teases.

His Majesty does not care for it at all. — “Hush.”

The Reaper hums in laughter, but says nothing more. Quickly growing bored of the silence, he busies himself with the frozen humans at the end of the room. They are in all kinds of humorous poses, it's difficult not to laugh. He carefully slides one finger along the underside of a forearm, fascinated by the warm flesh that lacks a pulse. He wonders how it would feel to feed upon someone frozen in time. He will have to inquire his lord about it one day.

His Majesty watches him passively, fingers lifting and landing on his cane rhythmically. Other than the bothersome behaviour of mortals and the lack of focus, another issue interests him. One that he cannot take his mind off of.

“Isn't it strange how few of them there are?” — he asks the other suddenly.

Grim’s sharp-toothed grin widens before he turns to him, singing, — “it is, isn't it?”

So Grim has noticed it too. Every human ruler sitting down with the Lord of Hell for a diplomatic meeting? Such an important event would be crawling with soldiers, an entire army and defences; and yet they haven't seen a single bit of real protection yet. — “You sound like you know something I don't.”

“Know something you don't?” — Grim repeats incredulously. His eyes fail to meet his lord’s, too focused on a woman’s red hair floating through the air as he combs through it with his silver claws. — “How preposterous. I'm merely an observer. Politics are your expertise.”

His Lord remains quiet, watching the Reaper mess around with the helpless mortals with dark eyes. He waits, expecting Grim to give in and slyly share what important information he is withholding from him, but he only continues to hum to himself as he hops around the room undisturbed.

The proud demon lord can guess what Grim wants to hear.

“…Please?”  — he asks, flat and stoic. His pride is too great to be hurt from something like this. He only sees it as another transaction. He isn't giving in or being affected by Grim at all. He only wants to move forward. Nothing more.

Grim purrs, pausing, — “close. Try again.”

His Majesty's eye twitches.

“As it happens,” — he says, suddenly having made up his mind about their predicament, lifting his cane in preparation of performing a powerful spell, — “I no longer care.”

Then, the world itself turns upside down. It morphs and stretches out into infinity, disappears entirely into oblivion. No sound, no air, no existence. The nauseating spectacle only lasts a moment, but feels like an eternity. Then, from darkness a single flicker of light appears, glowing brighter and brighter until it lights up enough to bring matter into existence once more.

He creates a floor of cold, pristine tiles. The walls are next, tall and far, lit by torches burning blue. The ceiling is made of shadow, the pillars holding it reaching into nonexistence and disappearing into nothing. A long, hand-carved dinner table stands on a deep midnight carpet running from one end of the space to the other. Guarding the table are countless chairs, tall-backed and padded with the softest spider silk. A massive chandelier floats above, unattached, made of bones dripping blood from candles burning away onto the spotless satin table cover under them. Large colourful windows stretch from ground to ceiling, framed with glistening, soft azure curtains, looking out into further darkness. Water droplets can be heard pattering on the glass, though the scope of this current reality isn't wide enough to allow for rain clouds.

Each human wakes in a comfortable seat. They are speechless, disoriented, and above all, lost. They are frightened in the way a new pet is frightened of every corner and every sound of its new home, not knowing anything about where they are and what dangers await them. It almost feels dreamlike, this new landscape, a heavy and inescapable nightmare. The air feels akin to the inside of an ancient church; cold and sharp and soundless, a divine, all-encompassing sense of power larger than they can comprehend that puts the urge to worship into even nonbelievers’ hearts taking hold of their souls. They look at each other in hopes for answers, yet none of them have any to spare. They remember being with the Lord and Death just a second ago, surrounded by metal, some form of safety. They remember when they were in a world that worked by rules they knew and understood. Then an explosion, panic, a blink — and now they are Nowhere.

“Now. This is much better.”

His voice comes from no singular direction. It echoes between their ears no matter how wildly they look for its source. Slowly, they realise something bone-chilling — that they cannot do as they please. They cannot stand, they cannot speak. Their god does not allow it.

“Allow me.”

The table spawns plates and glasses, fills them up with all matter of feasts, — but something is off. It smells delicious, it feels real. The wine is thick, the meat is rare, and the roast is missing a pinky on each hand. Those who consider taking a bite do not get far enough to succeed.

“Feel free to sample any dish you may hunger for as we talk. We are in no hurry.”

“Of course…” — he pauses forebodingly, letting the mortals stew in their anticipation for just a moment longer.

Then, out of the shadows steps Death, the white bone of his mask glimmering blue with the fire of the candles lighting up the gruesome feast, his blade swinging behind him threateningly. His vermilion eyes become two red pinpricks in the darkness, glimmering with menace as they survey each and every person staring at him in primal fear. In a millisecond, the Reaper is gone. The eyes on him are led by his blood-freezing laughter, landing on the chandelier, upon which he perches with a glass of blood in hand, looking down on everyone from up high akin to a vulture circling in the air above an injured calf, waiting for it to fall over dead so it may begin its feast.

“We are here to do business. So I must ask you to please; behave. This is your only warning. I am certain you understand.”

“Now, with all that being said.” — The earth cracks at the closest end of the table, birthing a row of steps leading up to a podium. On the elevated ground a throne appears, large and intimidating, made of gold and stone and flesh and bones. His Majesty's throne. He walks into the light from behind it, rounding it casually. Once comfortable, he crosses his legs, smiling politely, in control, at his subjects.

His teeth have grown sharp, his eyes pitch black and oozing. His horns appear, multiple pairs of black knives circling his head in a crown-like fashion. His limbs have lengthened, bending in strange, inhuman ways, but thin and graceful all the same. A long tail swishes lazily, so long it reaches the floor and then some. His claws have come out fully, holding his chin as he leans back in his rightful seat calmly. Hearing that pleasant, human voice from such a monstrous, demonic being is almost disorienting.

The pressure lifts from the humans’ bodies, slowly allowing their sleeping muscles to wake. His hold on them evaporates. Now, a real conversation may begin.

“Let us begin then, shall we?”

~

Mastelist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpifi

[moonverc3x]

@kirbyoctournament

⭐J will be open for asks for the duration of the tournament!! And Galacta is there too, I guess

⭐J seems relatively approachable, but is quick to butt heads with anyone who disapproves of her!

⭐J is an adult in her early 30s, and thus is potentially romanceable, if you're brave (or stupid) enough!

⭐ She's been around a while, and knows alot! Feel free to ask her about anything. Who knows if shell give you a straightforward answer though!

[marblerose-rue]

click for better quality!

must be fall

[hitokiri-izou]

traveling like a dream one night

[slavhew]

FINALLY DONE WITH THE FIC I REFERENCED HERE

Just shy of 14k of platonic oc and Dirk hurt/comfort. We get down to brass tacks of why this guy is the way he is (One of the reasons at least)

Read it HERE:

[sleepboysummer]

guys MY theatre is doing ride the cyclone. and i am not auditioning. on PURPOSE. promise me you'll love me anyways

[whumble-beeee]

The Name of The Game

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 8

Content: mentioned past attempted noncon, hysterical whumpee/nervous breakdown (seriously yall, it gets bad), disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, tied up/handcuffs, noncon unshirtening, past captivity references

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[While following this guide, as well as generally while playing the wonderful game that is villainy, you will find that the advice can rarely be fitted to every specific scenario. But one piece of advice is universal: If you value your freedom, your loved ones, and your life, you must never reveal your secret identity to your captured hero. As soon as you do, there is no more facade. Villainy is no longer a game. It is your life. And heroes will not hesitate to destroy your life if it means they can win the game. 

If a hero (or ANY untrusted party) ever happens upon your secret identity, it is your responsibility, as a villain and as a human being, to accept the end of your life as you know it…

Or to ensure that the hero can never tell another living soul.]

* * * * * * * *

“See you soon?” Deeby repeated Sweater-vest’s last words incredulously. “See you soon?! Christ, and you know he knows– god, he just needs to stop being such un pendejo and shut the hell up, stop making everything about his goddamn god complex and shoving it en las caras de todos–”

The sudden anger from the usually cool and smug Deeby did not help the apparent panic attack seeping ever so quickly into Stan’s consciousness, especially with said seething bounty hunter circling around the room like an angry shark as he muttered to himself and gesticulated wildly. 

Stan cowered to hide his shirtlessness from said angry shark. His chest and limbs started to buzz from all the excess oxygen entering his system as he took in heavy breaths, his head spinning, dizzy, hurting, every muscle clenching.

“--y quién se cree ese cabrón para venir a joderme MI TRABAJO?” 

He was so angry. So loud, talking so fast, and what the hell was he even saying?! It was too much, too much.

 “Y la puta Lana no puede ni aparecer para decirme que me está jodiendo la vida OTRA VEZ porque es lo único que le encanta hacer, joderme TODO lo que–”

Stop it stop it stay calm stay calm please not now please please please not now you can’t show weakness like this in front of your kidnapper you can’t stop it STOP IT–

He took in an involuntary loud heaving breath. Then fell into a stuttering slew of smaller breaths as he tried to keep quiet, and Deeby finally took notice of the state of his captive. 

Stan squeaked and pulled the jacket around himself tighter. He was small, he was silent, he was invisible. 

Then he gasped in another desperate heaving breath with an involuntary cry of panic when he suddenly ran out of air. He’d stopped breathing entirely with all his efforts.

“Stan? Qué es–... Ah, you good?”

Stan nodded quickly, shaking. “F-fine, fine.”

Deeby raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t lie to me. What is this, you having a panic attack?”

He couldn’t get his eyes to focus, but he shook his head fervently. Then reeled as it made the dizziness and headache so much worse.

“Stan, talk to me, chiquito. If he actually did something to you, tell me. I need a good reason to kill him, you’d be helping me out a lot.”

He didn't actually even hurt me, did he? 

“No–! I-I u-uh-uh yes-s-s, but– but–” 

I don't WANT to ‘help you out’! I don't want to talk about it! ESPECIALLY not with you. 

He let out a whine and failed to swallow the giant knot forming in his throat.

“Alright, is this about the shirt then? Or the uh, the chest thing? Is that why you went from colonizer white to ghost white when you thought I was gonna make you strip earlier?” He walked over to the tattered shirt and scooped it up. “Because if that's what got you, I can assure you I don’t give a single crap what you’ve–... got in your...”

Deeby trailed off as he held up the grey strips of fabric that used to be Stan's button-down. 

And just stared.

Stan gawked at the unrecognizable shredded fabric hanging in the bounty hunter's hands. His breath caught in his throat. He hadn't realized how utterly destroyed his beloved shirt was. What was he supposed to wear now?

“That… Motherfucker…” Deeby muttered, almost as as aghast as Stan. “Christ, I knew he'd pull some grade-A bullshit, but this–”

“Y-you KNEW?!” Stan gasped out, surprising himself with the volume of his outburst. “You– You knew he was gonna– gonna try to...”

Deeby didn't look up from the tatters in his hands. “Yeah. He's predictable, if nothing else.”

Stan's entire body felt like it was full of angry bees. “You–... You left me-e alone with ‘im. On pu-urpose.”

“And everything turned out fine, you're fine. Look runt, we need to have a little talk about what–”

“NO!” Stan cried, ignoring the drop in his stomach when Deeby's eyes took on a slight challenging glint at the interruption. “No, don’t change the subject! You left me alone with him! You knew he was gonna try to– to rape me and you left me alone with him! Handcuffed, chained to the floor, powerless, immobile, beat up to hell and– a-and unable to defend myself and you-you left me alone with him!”

The floodgates were opening. The stifling sense of justice suffocating Stan from the inside out wouldn’t let the injustices go unsaid any longer, crashing through his body and just about ready to make him burst. Ironic, given the everything.

Deeby’s jaw set. “Stan. I wouldn’t have left that shit-for-brains alone with anyone if I didn’t have to.”

“Oh, but you– you had to?” Stan taunted, hoping the sarcasm came through in his voice even with the stuttering and heaving breaths. “What, Dee-deeby the great bounty hunter actually answers to someone? Enough to put the uh, the bounty in danger? Or are you just scared of him, wanted to get away?!” 

Deeby snorted.

“Hell yeah, I'll do whatever if the buyer asks it,” he proclaimed. "And I'm not scared of that human cringe-fail. The day I'm scared of him is the day I'm dragged away screaming and turned into… well, you, basically. But I mean, that's when he's actually dangerous…" 

He seemed to think on it for a moment. Then crouched down in front of Stan, smug grin replaced with something like the look a friend gives when they think you're about to ruin your life with a single dumb decision.

“Honesty, bud… I wouldn't be so tough around a guy like that if I were a guy like you. Best to just fuel his ego.”

Stan physically recoiled. “Don't tell me what–! Who-wh–…”

That insult sounded way too genuine. Since when was the mercenary genuine?

“Wait, wait, you'd…” Stan shook his head, trying to untangle his thoughts from the spaghetti of his mind. This concussion was killing him. He could barely think. “If you were… Who even was th-that?”

Another chuckle. “What, Tweedy? That was Vaughn. He said that earlier, though I applaud your ability to block him out. Wish I could do that.”

Then again, the hunter was most likely just trying to psych him out. Get him to behave again. Stan wouldn't fall for something like that.

“No, idiot, I mean–... I meant who is he? Why is he going to-to see me soon?… And– and for that matter, are you working together? Because it seems like you hate each other.”

Deeby let out a huff of air. “Look, bud, we need to talk about that phone call I had to take, the boss–”

“You're avoiding the question.”

“Well frankly, there's more important things to talk about,” Deeby dismissed quickly. “So I was talking with the boss-lady on the phone while you were–”

“I don’t care about what that Lana person has to say!” Stan said, slamming his hands on the floor for effect, a breath-stealing pang running through his ribs at the jostling. “Jus– Just tell me who you guys are, tell me why I’m here, tell me why I should be scared of ‘a guy like that’! Who ARE you?!”

Deeby narrowed his eyes slightly. “We need to talk about what's going to happen to you next. And you're gonna listen to that. Not yell demands at me like some asshole 6-year-old, because you already know I don't deal with all that ‘who am I, secret identity’ crap, so you're not getting those answers.”

Well actually, judging by the horrible sticky weight that slammed Stan in the gut when Deeby said that, he didn't want to know what horrors awaited him next. So next best thing? Keep being an asshole 6-year-old.

“Why?”

“Anonymity is the most valuable tool you can have in this game.” Deeby recited it like a script, exaggerating a monotone boredom. “Also I'm not an idiot, it's protocol that's saved me before, it helps me do my job without getting invested… take your pick.”

“You're not even wearing your mask any more!” Stan cried. “So much for secret identity!”

“I think what you're meaning to say is ‘thank you for rushing to save my damsel-in-distress ass from some twink with scissors when you heard me screaming for help even though you were dealing with a really important phone call from the worst person ever’. And you're very welcome. Now we need to talk about what I found out in that dumbass phone call and what it means for you.”

He always had an answer for everything, huh? Always another quip.

Stan's blood started to boil, and he may have actually, genuinely growled a little. 

“S-so-so so what, you are scared of her, then? You're scared of her and that's why you left me with that monster?!” He tried, spitting back as much smug asshole-ness as Deeby had been throwing at him. “Is that why you hate them, you’re just their damn lackey doing whatever they tell you to do?! Just a puppet for them to guide around, running around capturing supers and serving them up on a silver platter like a good little servant?!”

Deeby stared at him, genuinely stunned by the sudden venom in the captive's words. His fists clenched by his side.

 Hm. Stan may have gone too far.

“Look, McKellen,” Deeby spat as he took an authoritative step forward, voice slow, low and dark. “There are things at play here that you can’t know about–”

“Why not?!” Stan felt like he was losing it, voice creaky and high and hoarse. “Obviously I’m gonna be trapped here with you assholes for the rest of my short life until you kill me with some new form of torture experiment bullshit! Why not tell me everything?! Why not do whatever you want with me?! Just tell me! Please!!”

Stan glared desperately at the bounty hunter. He knew he wasn’t even just crossing the line at this point; he was sprinting over the line and stomping on it repeatedly in a panic-fueled frenzy, kicking at it and letting out his full fury as if the line itself had done this to him, as if absolutely decimating the line would somehow fix everything.

Way deep down, almost too far down to admit to himself, he almost hoped the mercenary would see through the insults and the fighting to see the pleading, hurt, scared man underneath. And then take pity. Just let him have this one thing, before he broke entirely.

But the bounty hunter glared right back at him.

“No.” He stated venomously. “Right now, you're going to shut up. And listen.”

As if Stan would ever listen to the orders of his kidnapper. Of a villain.

A small laugh, just a little chuckle, took root his chest. A disbelieving smile cracked across his face.

The absence of the signature unbothered grin, the absence of the mask, the deathly seriousness? Not to mention the gun, the knives, the chains, the handcuffs, the power suppressing collar, no cane or crutch or any viable mobility aid in sight, and beaten so hard multiple times that he probably couldn't run properly anyway even if he did have a knee that actually worked…

This really was hopeless, wasn't it? 

He could rage against the dying of the light all he wanted. Scream and shout and cry and fight and say witty things to hide the excruciating, never-ending pain. 

But the light would still die all the same.

He clutched Deeby's very own stupid cowboy-ass jacket around his shoulders. He couldn't even defend himself from getting his shirt ripped to shreds right off his body!

And this bitch–

“You– you don't think…” he had to pause to let out a barrage of inappropriate giggles, then shoved up shakily to his feet, back braced against the wall. “You don't still think I'm gonna– that, that I'm gonna escape, do you?!”

Deeby gave pause, eyeing Stan up and down. Really thinking about it. He took a deep breath. A low grumble emanated from the base of his throat.

“No. I don't.”

Stan laughed out again, full force this time. Desperate. Tearful.

“Then just–... just TELL ME!! IT DOESN'T MATTER!! IT DOESN'T!! IT'LL DIE WITH ME!!”

The mercenary's mouth pressed into a thin line. Was that confusion etched into his features? Or worry? Maybe anger…

“It does matter,” He growled through gritted teeth. “It's probably the most important thing you could know, who I am. Who we are.”

Stan let out a loud cry of anguish, screeching out every single frustration at the unfairness of the world, at this situation, at Deeby and Vaughn and whoever Lana was, at the collar and the chains and the cut and bruises and broken bones and his broken, useless knee into a single, guttural sound. 

“WHY WON'T YOU TELL ME ANYTIN-GAH-AH!!”

Very, very suddenly, the lapels of Deeby's loosely draped jacket tightened around his body and slammed him back into the wall, the fleece-lined collar of the jacket twisting and pulling on the power-suppressing strap clamped around his neck, contracting it, choking him just as the slam forced all the breath out of his lungs. 

Stan clawed back against the force, only managing to grasp at Deeby’s forearms uselessly as they twisted the jacket ever tighter around him. Pinning his arms. Trapping him. He had to heave in and out gasping breaths just to get enough air to breath through his half obstructed airways.

“Look at me, chiquito,” the bounty hunter snarled. “Look me in the eye!”

Stan's panicked eyes paused their sporadic dance around the room. They locked dead onto the mercenary's fiery gaze.

“Did you break your damn brain in the 3 minutes I was gone?” Deeby hissed into his ear. Stan almost screeched in terror. “I don't know what sort of fuckery your mind has been conjuring up that you can't get this very simple concept without going insane,” he jolted Stan and dragged out an involuntary whimper from his throat. 

“But whatever it is, shut it down. Now. I'm gonna tell you the bare minimum of what you need to know, and you're gonna sit there and listen or else I won't tell you jack shit and knock you unconscious so I don't have to deal with your bullshit. Agreed?!” 

“I– Ah, a-ah, I– No, I- I, no-no no No-o–”

He couldn't get his thoughts to line up properly. They swarmed around his head like locusts in a dust bowl, bouncing into each other, frenzied, an indecipherable cloud of fear and frustration that his horrible attempt at defiance, futile as it may have been, always just made everything worse.

He could never stop himself.

Angry tears rimmed at Stan's eyes. His body hurt. His brain pounded in his skull. His ribs cried out in protest as they pressed into the wall. The various bruises and their dull, throbbing aches, the cuts and bleeding wounds and their sharp, searing screeches, the sticky and caked on dried blood, so familiar now it was almost a second skin, Deeby's weight pinning him to the wall, so similar and yet so different to the way Vaughn had done the same.

No. No, no, no, no.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tears finally falling in hot, fat drops down his cheeks. The bounty hunter was so close, too close. Stan tried to pull away, and he just leaned on him harder, their faces barely inches apart.

“Agreed, chiquito?” The voice rumbled through his entire body, sending shivers up and down his spine.

No no no no no no no he needed to get away, get away now, please please that's all he needed he couldn't get away he couldn't even move his arms he could barely breathe–

“WHY DON'T YOU JUST RAPE ME ALREADY?!” Stan screamed into the endless cacophonous void.

And silence.

And the entire world went still.

Deeby’s mouth fell literally agape.

His grip on Stan loosened considerably. Not out of pity or any other considerate emotion. Just shock.

At least Stan could finally breathe again. Not that he took a single breath in the silence.

“I–...” Deeby finally choked out. “I-I beg you finest fucking what?!”

“Just fucking do it,” Stan hissed, gasping. “We both know you could. I couldn't even stop Vaughn, you think I could stop you?!”

The words spewed out of his mouth faster than he could stop them, like a volcano that had finally exploded its top off in a fiery glory. And the way Deeby looked at him, as if his features were having an all out war over shock, horror, or honestly very justified anger? Oh, that did nothing but fan the flames of Stan's sorrow-filed hysteria.

“Tall ass muscle-bound freak with an actual gun that captured me and beat me up again and again then left me to die?! I don't even know who you are! You can do whatever you want and I can't do jack shit to stop you! Just do it, hurt me, rape me, it doesn't matter! Vaughn knew that, you can too!” Stan attempted to shove the bounty hunter off, but he still didn't move. 

“Please, please, I'm begging you, is that what you want?! I'll get on my knees!”

Stan collapsed against Deeby's hold, and to his surprise, Deeby finally let him. Well, not ‘let him,’ more like ‘recoiled and jumped back when he felt Stan collapsing in his grasp'. 

All the same.

“Chiquito,” Deeby rasped. “I'm– not exactly sure what or why you're demanding, but I'm not going to–”

“Why not?! It doesn't matter!” Stan assured, holding his arms out to fully present himself now, shedding the jacket onto the floor behind him and taking a daring scoot forward. “I bet you just kicked Vaughn out because you wanted me all to yourself! I bet you just love seeing me scared and helpless and half naked in your stupid fucking yee-yee jacket–”

“Alright, Stan, enough!”

“AT LEAST VAUGHN had the decency to not pretend like he was a decent fucking person like you!” Stan yelled. “We both know you're not above it, fucking professional kidnapper and torturer! So just do it! Like Vaughn wanted to, like he tried to! Finish what he started, you have me all to yourself now! DO IT! DO IT I DARE–”

“The name's Declan.”

The statement was a whisper in the storm. Stan almost missed it. But the resolute certainty of the southern twang stopped him dead in his tracks.

“What–… What did you just–?”

It was astounding how quickly his voice had turned meek from the cacophony of chaos mere seconds before. Dark freckles stood out against an even starker white face than usual.

“It's Declan,” the mercenary stated once more. “My name. My name’s Declan. You wanted t’know who we are, who I am? Fine then, I'm Declan. Want the last name too?”

“I– wait–!”

“It's Cansano. Declan Cansano.”

Stan was shaking, a million thoughts crashing down upon him like a tidal wave. If he weren't already on his knees, surely he would have collapsed. 

He hadn't actually… meant any of that. No. Had he? No. He couldn't have. He didn't want to know who the mercenary was. No, he didn't. He didn't, not really! He would never want that! Never!

“That’s not… Wh-why would you…?”

The bounty hunter shrugged. “You wanted to know who I am. You asked, you screamed, you insulted me and you went fuckin’ nuts over it.” His thunder-filled eyes betrayed his completely relaxed demeanor. “Declan Cansano. Don't forget‘t.”

“I just– That's not what– Wait, Deeby, you– Where are you going?!”

Deeby was already halfway to the door when he swiftly spun around, fists clenched and any trace of the easy demeanor vanished in those bright blood-stained eyes. 

“I can't fuckin’ deal with you right now!”

Stan nearly launched himself back in fear, right back onto Deeby's stupid, soft jacket. He grasped it up as a barrier between him and the mercenary without even thinking. The mercenary's demeanor relaxed from absolutely terrifying to merely extremely angry at the sorry sight.

“I'm leaving for a bit.” He whipped around and grasped for the lapels of his jacket to yank it on, only for his grasp to come up empty. He whipped around a third time. “And I'll be expectin’ my coat back when I get back! You better've calmed the hell down by then, if you know what’s good for you.”

Wait, wait, he was leaving? No!

Stan tried to scramble after Deeby, but immediately fell to the agony of his knee and the length of his leash. 

“Don't go, please!” he pleaded.

Deeby didn’t stop. “Why?”

What if you come back with more torture tools? 

What if you don't come back at all? 

I still have more questions for you. 

You can't just leave me here, I'm hurt! 

I shouldn't be alone right now. I can't. I'm scared of what will happen, I'm going insane.

Even you are better than no one at all.

“What– what if Vaughn comes back?!”

Deeby scoffed. “I'm not going that far, damn. Eat some protein bars while I'm gone so you don't die, should help with the insanity. Back soon.”

And the door to the room closed shut behind him, the click echoing off the walls in the sudden unbearable silence. 

Stan collapsed to the floor, defeated.

He clutched the jacket closer. 

Pulled it tight around his shoulders, fingernails leaving small crescent-shaped indents on the well-worn hide. The cotton lining was so surprisingly soft against his skin. Hell, he could smell the dirt and musk that permeated the jacket from years of use, the smal signs that this jacket had seen the capture of dozens of supers.

Declan.

Declan Cansano.

Professional Superhero-Hunter.

Stan screamed into the endless abyss around him.

And this time, Declan didn’t come back to save him.

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid | @painsandconfusion | @books-are-everything | @paperprinxe | @lovethiswriting

[crystalkitty1220]

Man I wonder where the leader of the fear realm could've gone, it's alMOST LIKE NEVIN HAS AN

[stinkrascal]

i finished writing the vlad/brie backstory reprisal less than 2 weeks ago and i have already finished editing the first 100 pages. im telling you guys im trying so hard to finish this quickly 🤒

[altruistic-meme]

never underestimate the power combo of procrastinating and failure anxiety. I've written ~7k words in like 4 days. im going crazy im going stupid.

[cerubean]

listened to thoroughfare at full volume with the windows down on the highway the way god intended

[flurry-of-stars]

"You had been waiting for this moment for two years. You had always respected Sigma’s want to wait until marriage to go the whole way but now that it was almost time… You felt…nervous." ⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽♡☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆ New fic soon ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

[kitnapz]

i dont think any other show has had an impact on me as huge as awae. that show consumed my entire life for months and months when i was 15 and nothing has changed its so so dear to me

[corvidaedream]

so, now that i know who johnny probably was, im tragically able to find his mourning jewelry for his dead wife and infant son, who both died in 1763

i wonder if the gown he was wearing in june of 1771 was the same one his late wife mary wore in the portrait copley painted of her.

her brother is the man with the head trauma who showed up to the trial without being asked and defended him with an incoherent tangent about the ancient greeks wearing dresses.

(all of these people have more mainstream involvement in american history, but thats not what im concerned with right now).

[tamaharu]

punches the air i finished my piece ive been agonizing about for months lets gooooooo

[carcarrot]

i become a director and leave it until the day before the theatrical release to make my movie