#mild lady whump

[spicywhumper]

August of Whump 2024 – Day 25. Barbed Wire

Masterlist // Series: Mack’s and The Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day(s) // Warnings: mentions of scars, mild blood, pre-torture 

Mack wasn’t sure what they gave her, but it made her head spin. Her stomach was unease and empty, her mouth dry as a desert. Her wrists ached, she wiggled them enough to feel the steel digging into her skin in a way she recognized as the teeth of a barbed wire. Why use handcuffs when you can use barbed wire? Just a few more scars to her already extensive collection wouldn’t be that bad, she guessed, especially some on her wrists. She rolled her eyes as the wiggling dug into her skin enough to make drops of blood run to her hands.

She threw her head back and sighed, already annoyed.

Kidnapped for information and she wasn’t even an official agent. They knew her schedule and weaknesses well enough to know how and when to catch her. She always went down with a fight, she was sure she caused, at least, life-changing injuries to two or three of the people who jumped on her. She probably could have easily killed a couple of them, but she has been trying to be less violent nowadays.

Stupid, dumb Mack trying to be a better person and getting in shady situations.

[actress4him]

June of Doom 2023

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Taglist: @painful-pooch

Day 9 - “I should have listened to you.” | Sprain | Defiance | Smoke 

Contains: lady whump with male whumper, captivity, restraints, beating, stress position, mild blood, implied starvation, head trauma, hair pulling, death mention, broken ribs, dislocation mention, brief dog and master imagery

.

.

There isn’t much to see in the basement. Lainey inspects every concrete block, every crack in the foundation, every plank on the steps, every lock on the door, and finds absolutely nothing useful. It still feels better than just sitting around, though. Not that she’s blaming Isa for sitting, she can’t even help it with that chain around her neck. That thing makes Lainey want to punch something every time she thinks of it. But she also has a feeling Isa wouldn’t be helping her look even if she could get up and move. 

It doesn’t take long for the man to return. She’s just come back down the stairs from checking out the door when the locks start to slide open, so she spins around and plants her feet, glaring up at their captor, trying to ignore the way her heart is suddenly threatening to break through her ribcage. 

He’s not much to look at, either. Just an unattractive, scraggly bearded man, like someone you might see loitering outside a gas station and walk quickly past on your way inside. For good reason, apparently. 

“Have you come to let me go?” she demands as he starts down the stairs. “To let us both go?”

He scowls back at her. “I see you haven’t yet learned your lesson about keeping your mouth shut.”

“You think I’m going to listen to you? Some low-life who gets his kicks from kidnapping and chaining up young women?” He’s getting closer, and part of her wants to back away, but her pride and anger won’t let her. “I bet you’ve never had a girlfriend before, have you? Probably never had any friends at all. Is this the only way you can get anyone to hang around you? Locking them in your basement?”

She sees the swinging fist coming, but can’t get out of its path. It smashes into her face with a force that sends her over backwards, head cracking against the wall as she hits the ground. Her vision cuts out, then comes back swirling and spinning. There’s something bitter and metallic pouring over her lips. It takes far too long for her to realize that it’s blood. 

As she sits there, stunned and in pain, the man advances. He grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her up off the floor, dragging her toward the center of the room. Her feet stumble clumsily after him. 

“I told you to shut up. You’ll figure out I mean what I say sooner or later.”

He throws her down, and she just barely keeps her head from smacking concrete again. Her arm isn’t so lucky, unable to move from its restrained position and getting crushed between her body and the floor. 

For an instant, she sees Isa, sitting directly in front of the assault. She has her head turned to the side, staring off at some unknown point, face blank. 

Then a boot is buried in her stomach. Lainey doubles over, coughing and gasping for air that seems to have vanished. The man doesn’t wait for her to catch her breath, though. He keeps kicking, pounding the toe of his boot into her ribs and back and legs over and over and over again. She curls up as best she can, trying instinctively to protect her organs, but all she can do otherwise is lie there and groan and sob.

It seems to last forever. Part of her thinks she actually might die right then and there. But then the kicks stop. He reaches down and grabs her by her bound wrist, pulling her backwards across the floor. She moans again as her shoulders bear the brunt of the pressure and as every sore part of her is jostled. 

He drops her again, and a chain rattles behind her. A moment later her wrists are being pulled upward once more, but this time the chain sounds accompany it, and this time it doesn’t stop. They keep being dragged up toward the ceiling until she’s forced to move, scrambling with leaden limbs to get her feet underneath her and stand. The chain seems to be hooked to the ziptie around her wrists. She can’t straighten her back or lift her head, shoulders wrenched as far backwards as they’ll go and wrists stuck up high. 

And that’s how he leaves her. He doesn’t say another word, just walks off, footsteps echoing through the nearly empty room. She cranes her head to the side to see him pick something up off the stairs before disappearing up them.

She’s never been in this much pain in her life. Before now, the worst pain she could remember was a broken arm from her highschool softball days, but between her throbbing head, her burning shoulders, and the fiery pain that shoots through her ribs every time she breathes, this is way worse. 

“That was my food.”

She tries to look over at Isa but can’t get her head to lift that high. “Wh-...what?”

Isa’s voice grows a little louder, a bit higher pitched. “He was coming down to bring me food and water, and probably unchain me, and you screwed it all up disrespecting him like I warned you not to.”

Lainey scoffs, hardly believing her ears. “Do you…do you realize…you sound like a dog right now? Waiting for your…master to feed and water and unchain you?” She winces at the increased pain in her ribs that talking creates, trying to shift her position. “And…I’m the one who just got…beaten up so…pardon me if I’m not overly concerned about your food.”

“And whose fault is that?” It comes out practically a growl, the most emotion she’s heard out of her so far. “I told you not to make him mad. I told you it would get you hurt. I’ve been here for five years, remember? I’ve tried it all before. I’ve figured out how to survive. But if you don’t want to listen to me, fine. Refuse to save yourself any pain. Learn everything the hard way, like I did. Just…can you at least leave me out of it?” Her voice wavers at the end, going quiet again. “I haven’t eaten in days, because he was gone to get you. And the two bottles of water he left me ran out hours ago.”

Isa sounds like she’s about to cry, and Lainey finds her own throat tightening in sympathy. She hadn’t meant to rob Isa of her first food in days. She wants to help her, not cause her more trouble. But she’s being an idiot, isn’t she? The woman’s right, she’s managed to survive for five years, and it’s stupid for Lainey not to listen to her advice, no matter how much it makes her skin crawl to think of sucking up to that man. 

“I’m sorry.” She tries again to look at her, and manages to catch at least a glimpse of her face. “I should have…I should have listened to you. You’re right, it’s…my own fault that I got hurt. And I didn’t think about…you suffering from it.” She pauses, breathing through the pain and thinking about her response. “I can’t…promise that I’ll do exactly what you want. I’m not good…at holding my tongue. But, uh…I’ll try.”

There’s silence for a long time. It’s a struggle for Lainey not to find some way to fill it, despite her painful position. 

“I don’t want you to have to go through everything I have,” Isa murmurs finally. “And I’m…honestly terrified that you’re gonna make things even worse. Keeping on his good side is so tentative. I just want to keep things as…easy as possible. For both of us.”

“Yeah,” Lainey breathes. “I, um…I get it.” She considers her next words carefully before deciding to take the leap and say them. “Hey, do you…still have the water bottles?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you roll one over to me?”

“They’re empty.”

“I know, just…just do it if you can.” She can hear movement and the slight crackle of thin plastic. A few seconds later an empty bottle rolls to a stop several inches from her foot. “Hey, nice shot. Lemme just…” Very carefully, grimacing with each movement, she steps on the heel of first one sneaker, then the other, removing them and kicking them behind her. Then she strategically uses her toes to pull off one sock, too. Isa mutters warnings about dislocating her shoulders here and there, but Lainey is determined to make this work.

Stretching out the bare foot, she drags the water bottle closer. “It’s still got drops of water left in it, so if I focus, I can…” She lays her foot across the bottle and closes her eyes. This is much easier to do with her hands, but the foot will have to do in a pinch like this. It takes almost a full minute of concentration, but eventually the droplets start to grow, dripping down into the bottle. The process gets faster as it goes, until there’s water swirling all through the bottle, filling it.

“There we go.” Satisfied with her work, Lainey takes careful aim and shoves the bottle back in Isa’s direction. “I can’t make you food, but…I can at least do that.”

“Water magic.” The plastic crinkles in Isa’s hand again.

“Yep. I’m…not very skilled at it, but…expanding water that’s already there…isn’t so hard.”

There’s no answer for a moment, but it sounds like Isa is taking a drink. “Thank you,” she says softly when she’s done.

“Yeah,” Lainey replies, equally as soft. “No problem.”

[thethistlegirlwrites]

Unconventional Medicine

“I hate cows.” Sierra looks down at her hands with a grimace.

“That’s what the gloves were for,” Shay says, holding them up. 

“It was a two month old calf!” Sierra says. “She was cute!” She sighs. “Until she dragged me ten feet through the pasture and tore my hands up.”

“You really don’t know when to let go.” Shay puts a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, let’s go back to the house and get those cleaned up and treated.”

“It’s not that bad. There’s not even blood,” Sierra objects. 

“You were complaining it hurt two minutes ago.”

“Well it’s going to hurt even more if you use that antiseptic from Abuela’s medicine cabinet on them.” She shrugs. “I’ll just wash them well and it’ll heal.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to mess around with these things. If they heal wrong it’ll curl your fingers right in on themselves.” Shay shakes his head. “Happened to guys on the docks sometimes. They’d hold onto a line too long or let a crate come down on the tackle too fast and the rope would cut through even a glove. Messed a couple guys up for life.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks for the scare tactics,” Sierra mutters, grimacing. “Can I at least take a shower first?” She gestures vaguely to the mud and other grime she doesn’t want to think about on her clothes.

“Probably a good idea. Gonna be hard to do with your hands wrapped,” Shay says. “Just try not to get that mess in the cuts.” 

“Ugh. Yeah.” Sierra frowns. This is going to be harder than she thought. She has no idea how Wren does anything. That woman is in a cast, brace, or has multiple bandages at pretty much any given time. 

Maybe fae have some sort of special injury management skill set, because Tio’s partner Robin is usually in the same situation. 

Whatever it is, Sierra certainly doesn’t have it. It’s hard enough getting the buttons on her shirt (that’s going straight into the trash, the elbows and back of the shoulders are shredded and besides, she’s pretty sure the dirt is ground in and would never come out) undone, let alone the thought of handling soap and trying to work her hands through her hair to get out the dirt and straw and debris that got tangled up in it.

This is just not happening.

She knocks on the door, knowing Shay is waiting outside for her to be done and ready for her hands to be cleaned and bandaged.

He opens the door and frowns, probably at the mud still streaked on her face and caked in her braid.

“I could use a little help,” She mutters.

Between asking for help stinging her pride and Abuela’s homemade soap stinging her hands, she’ll take the former. 

“You sure?” Shay asks, head tilted like a confused puppy.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.” She raises an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’d be asking you to open the door when I’m standing here in my underwear if I didn’t think this was the best option?”

“Point taken.” He steps in and closes the door behind them, then turns on the water. “Is it the hair you need help with?” he asks, shrugging out of his own t-shirt and folding it up on the top of the laundry hamper.

“Mostly.” She shrugs. “If you can get some of the soap lathered on a washcloth I can do my face without too much trouble, but whatever Abuela puts in that stuff burns any cuts.” 

“Okay. That I can do.” He grabs a washcloth from the teetering stack on the small wall shelf, and the bar of soap hanging in a little string bag. Sierra steps into the shower, tilts her head back, and lets the water run down her face, until she feels the cloth touch her fingertips as Shay hands over the soapy material. Holding the washcloth with her fingers pressed together so it doesn’t touch her palms is awkward, but she can at least manage to scrub the dirt off her face and neck more or less effectively. She’ll worry about her arms when they worry about her hands. 

“Okay. Now the hair.”

She turns around so the water is hitting the back of her head, and feels Shay work the elastic out of the end of her braid and then start combing his fingers through the braid to loosen it. His hand hits a knotty spot, and she takes half a step back at the tug, shoulders bumping into his chest. His skin is cool, and she can’t quite help the little shudder at the odd sensation. It’s easy to forget vampires have no body heat of their own, until touching them reminds you of that fact.

“You okay?” He asks. 

She nods and blinks a few times, opening her eyes and hoping she did a good enough job rinsing the soap off her face. If she can see, she’ll have better balance. “Yeah. Just a snarl.”

She hears a brush clatter off the edge of the sink, and then feels it moving through her hair. He’s gentler than she is, and another shiver runs down her back, but this time at the sensation of a hand other than her own on her scalp. She can’t help it. Ever since she was a kid, every time her mom combed her wet hair, she’d have a weird little shudder in response. 

“Sorry my hands are cold,” Shay apologizes, clearly misinterpreting the source of the shiver. “I can hold them under the water for a bit if that helps.”

“No, we’re good.” Sierra says. She closes her eyes again as she hears the cap of the shampoo bottle click, and leans her head back so as much of the lather as possible avoids her face. Shay rubs the soap in deep, then runs fingers through her hair as he rinses it out again.

“You do anything else to it?”

“We share a shower in the apartment. Have you ever seen anything in it other than the bar soap and generic shampoo?”

“Just figured I’d ask.” He squeezes gently down the length of her hair and puts a hand on her shoulder to turn her around. “Okay, let’s do your arms.”

She grimaces. She wasn’t kidding about how much that soap stings.

Shay lathers another handful of soap from the string bag and rubs it along her forearms, cleaning away what’s left of the dirt and manure stains. When he turns her hands over, and the warm water hits the raw spots, Sierra hisses and jerks back slightly on instinct.

“Sorry.” 

“I’ll manage. Just give me a second to adjust to it.”

“I could lick it, that might help.”

“You know how weird it sounds when you say that, right?” Sierra asks.

“That’s why I do it.” He shrugs.

“You know, it’s kind of weird that ‘kiss it better’ is actually a real thing if it’s a vampire kissing you.”

“It won’t make it better, the saliva doesn’t heal you faster. It just numbs you.”

“You’ve been hanging around Pete too long if you’re that hung up on the details,” Sierra chuckles. “Ah what the hell, why not.” 

It feels really, really weird for the approximately ten seconds before the numbing agent kicks in. But it does make the ensuing cleaning, disinfecting, and then drying and bandaging of her palms a whole lot more bearable.

She’s shivering a little when he’s done, between the wet hair hanging down her back and her now soggy and clammy underwear. Shay wraps a towel around her shoulders and another around her hair, rubbing gently but briskly and very clearly trying to avoid touching her as much as possible. She appreciates it, but he’s got to be even more chilled than she is. His body just doesn’t show it the way a living one does. 

When he moves around to dry the front of her hair, she lets go of the towel she’s been clutching around her shoulders with her fingertips and wraps her arms around him instead. 

He is cold, and the weird lifelessness of his skin makes her shiver all over again, but she leans into him anyway.

“Okay, good enough. Now, both of us need to go get some dry clothes on.” She looks up at him. “And I’m pretty sure Abeula will make us her hot chocolate even if it is seventy degrees in the shade today. She just might never let us live it down.”

Shay smiles, water still dripping off the ends of his short faux-hawk and landing on her face. “That sounds like a good plan to me.”

(You can read this story and others from this universe on my WorldAnvil here!)

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies  @writeouswriter

[tightjeansjavi]

Slow Hands | Chapter 8

“If I ever were to lose you, I’d surely lose myself”

A/N: This chapter has taken me weeks to write, but I am so happy with the final results. This is another doozy, so tread carefully. Thank you for your endless support and love. 🤍

~word count: 7.0k~

Pairing | Joel Miller x f! reader

Summary: Joel tells you what happened to him and Ellie before they returned to Jackson.

Warnings: angst, anxiety, trauma, mentions of death, child loss, grief, fluff, flirting, another almost kissing situation, lots of flashbacks, mentions of a miscarriage, mild alcohol consumption, Joel gets a little shy, hurt, comfort, protective! Joel, Joel whump, mentions of alcohol consumption, self deprecating thoughts/actions, anger, frustration, alluding to past traumas, no age gap, reader has no physical descriptions, reader's nickname is beanie (coffee beans) +18, minors dni! heed the warnings please this is a very very heavy chapter.

main masterlist masterlist

Angie was a real sweetheart. A country classic that you’d want to play over and over again. Toffee butter sweet with pure southern charm. She was one of the kitchen staff ladies working in the mess hall. She loved to cook. She prepared food straight from her soul that warmed the hearts, and kept all the bellies full in Jackson. Her bubbly spirit was a decoy to mask her ceaseless grief that weighed heavy on her mangled heartstrings that were poorly sewn back together with a dull needle and thread. She recently went through a misscarriage. The brutal endless cycle of life in all its beauty and cruelty swinging like a pendulum. Angie was forever grateful when you and Joel appeared on her doorstep with Honey the fawn tucked protectively in your arms.

“She miscarried last fall. Right before the leaves started turnin.’” He whispered softly to you as he reached up and thrummed his knuckles against the chipped paint on the wooden doorframe.

Angie struggled to let go of her loss. She held onto the hand-me down infant clothes. The baby booties, swaddling cloths and the bottles. Grief causes even the strongest people to break as the world as they know it shatters around them. They try to claw and grasp what little remains of that person, whether they existed in the world yet did not matter. Angie took one look at that innocence bundled in your arms and she immediately darted off to the kitchen. She returned moments later with a swaddling cloth and baby bottle that showed the faint remnants of little hearts and flowers. The decals were peeling upwards like a bandaid, but it was a small token of kindness that this poor woman had to offer for the cost of nothing.

Joel thanked her with a gentle squeeze to her shoulder. Tender hands that could bruise, tender hands that could heal.

Angie only could nod as she quickly wiped away her dewy tears that rolled down her cheeks and dripped down the curve of her chin. Her eyes were glassy, her lower lip trembled under the soft blooming glow of the porchlight overhead. She reached one quivering hand out to gently stroke the soft fur on Honey’s head.

A moment of silence followed by the swishing sound of the front door slamming shut.

Oh, Angie. You deserved so much better than the cards you were dealt.

The walk back to Joel’s home was one in deafening silence. He kicked a stray rock along the ground with the toe of his boot as his arms hung at his slides. He appeared to be deep in thought as you tried to meet his gaze. He was as hard as a stone with furrowed brows. Grief was so prominent, even in a town that was built around ‘peace.’ Grief was there in every corner. Every crack and crevice down to a grain of rice. Even in a garden of Eden, grief sprouted from the stems.

“She likes you.” He murmured gently as he pushed open his front door with a soft huff through his chapped lips. “Honey.” He added.

“I hope she survives the night.” Was the first thought that popped up into your mind as you met his thoughtful gaze.

“She will. She’s n’good hands with you’n me.” He reassured you as his hand came to gently rest along your lower back as he nudged you tenderly inside as the front door softly swung shut behind you.

Honey had curiously peeked her head up from the safety of your flannel to observe her new surroundings as you slowly walked towards the well loved couch in the living area. Your knees cracked noticeably as you sank down onto the cushion.

“Y’want anythin’ to eat or drink while I warm some milk up for our little one?” Joel asked you as he padded towards the kitchen. Seconds later you heard the soft squeak of the refrigerator door opening as you sunk further into the plush cushions.

“Oh, that’s alright. Thank you for asking.”

“Not a problem, darlin.’” He hummed soothingly under his breath as he turned the burner on the stove. Once the milk was adequately warm, but not too hot, he poured it into the baby bottle. It was hard for a wave of nostalgia to not pass through him as he slowly blinked.

“S’matter baby girl? Y’want your baba? S’okay, daddy’s gonna get it for ya.” a considerably younger Joel spoke to baby Sarah in her crib. On the nights she couldn’t sleep, he’d fix her a warm bottle of milk and rock her to sleep on the old rocking chair that he and Tommy built with their bare hands. He’d sing lullabies in her ear and kiss her little head of soft curls.

Fuck.

He stared down at the baby bottle that was nearly engulfed by the sheer mass of his hand as his thumb slowly brushed across one of the peeling faded floral decals.

Fuck.

Keep it together, Joel.

Be still, my foolish heart. Be still.

Please.

God, please.

I’m good.

I’m fine.

Really, I’m okay.

God, she was so tiny.

Used to nearly fit in the palm of my hand.

Remember when she would cry and cry and cry?

Only person that could calm her down was you.

“Joel?” Your voice sounded so far from his reach as if he was across the ocean desperately trying to hone in the almost sweet music of your voice. Not here, not now. Please. He couldn’t shake the feeling of crisp trepidation as he slowly sunk down to his knees in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Breathe.

Breathe.

In and out.

Through your nose, out through your mouth.

Y’can do it.

She was so tiny. So pure. She was my babygirl.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to wail and throw his fists up towards the heavens but instead he sat in stoic silence as his ears rang like a mocking symphony that had him cowering from the harsh reality that he was presently facing.

“Joel?..” There you were again, but closer. Much closer as you went to investigate. The sight that laid before you took your breath away in a morbid fashion. Joel Miller on his knees looking like a man that had the weight of the world constantly pushing down on his aching shoulders. He was vulnerable in this state. He looked ten times smaller with his chin tightly tucked into his collarbone as if he was trying to appear as small as physically possible.

Your heart split in two to see him in this state as you slowly sank down to your knees in front of him. Grief was indescribable. It gnawed at a person with jagged teeth and sharp claws. A constant reminder that what you once held in your grasp, was no longer attainable. It was ripped from the roots, dry and brittle as precious life is stolen so swiftly.

His lips moved as he struggled to speak. To say anything, but nothing. No words could be formed as he stared down at the bottle in his hand. The slightest flinch from your unsuspecting touch upon his cheekbones as the palms of your hands gently caressed his face. “You okay?..” You asked in a hushed tone, keeping the octave of your voice level and gentle.

“No.” He murmured in defeat as his freehand slowly traveled up the length of your arm before resting along your cheek with the utmost delicate care.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You wanted to give him that choice. The open space to speak his feelings only if he chose to.

“Dunno. I jus’ needed to sit down.” He confirmed with a soft wheeze as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

“That’s okay, Joel. Sitting is good. It’s alright to rest. I’m right here.” You were, and you weren’t going anywhere.

“She was jus’ so tiny. Tiniest lil bean. With the cutest toes. A button nose. Used to have to give her a bottle at night when she couldn’t sleep. Would sit with her in the rockin’ chair for hours, singin’ her lullabies.” He croaked out as his chin slowly lifted as his dull faded eyes met yours.

You knew he was speaking of Sarah, and you also recognized his silent desperation for comfort. The baby bottle clutched in his trembling hand was the root cause for his current episode. Loss was so difficult to rationally explain sometimes. It was something that couldn’t be journalized as being the same for every person, because every single human being reacted in a different way. Loss was universal, and inevitable, but dealing with the grief that followed was structurally diverse in its nature.

“She was one lucky baby, getting to have you as her father. She loves you so much, Joel. She’s right here.” You slowly dropped one of your hands down from his face and gently rested it against the left side of his chest, right where his heart lay. “She’s always going to be right here.”

“Jus’ miss her so much. S’been creepin’ up on me lately. Feel like I’m seein’ her everywhere.” He felt discouraged as he slowly shook his head with a heavy sigh. “Thank you for being here with me. You don’t understand how much that means to me. To have..someone jus’ understand me.”

“I know how much you miss her, Joel. It’s better to let yourself feel everything instead of bottling it all up. I know how much it means to you. I’ll always be here to listen, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Hope to have you till the end of my days.

“Should–should probably give this to Honey before it gets too cold..” He trailed off as his thumb gently brushed across your cheekbone.

“Do you want to give it to her?..I bet she’d love it if you did. After all, you are the one who saved her.” You offered purely to encourage him only if he desired to.

“I’d love that. Help me up? Knees are feelin’ a little stiff.”

“Mine too.” You murmured as you slowly stood up and offered him your hand.

A ghost of a smile crossed over his features as he grasped your hand in his and pulled himself up from the floor.

He followed you into the living room where Honey was curled up in a fluffy little ball on the end of the couch. Her head perked up when she could smell the milk in the bottle as she struggled to stand on wobbly legs. Joel was right there to aid her as he gently scooped her up under his arm. Her fluffy little white tail wagged excitedly as she let out soft little bleating noises that sounded more like squeaks if anything.

“S’alright, baby. Got your bottle right here f’ya. Daddy’s got it for ya.” He softly cooed to the tiny creature.

You swore you saw a silent tear trail down his weathered cheek when Honey began to nurse from the baby bottle all the while he was gently petting down her tawny colored ears, and humming under his breath soothingly.

When Honey had consumed every last drop from the bottle she curled up right against Joel’s chest. She felt safe in the presence of you and Joel, which was quite obvious from the way she made herself right at home. Joel was careful to not disturb the sleeping creature as he reached his arm over and set the now empty bottle onto the nearby coffee table. The two of you fell into a comfortable relaxed silence, until the rumbling of Joel’s stomach interrupted it. The last meal he had was around breakfast time, and there wasn’t much substance to it. A cup of coffee, slightly rubbery scrambled eggs, and toast with butter. His appetite had been long forgotten since he and Tommy had stumbled upon the gruesome scene of the deceased doe while on patrol. Time seemingly had gone by in a whirlwind, and judging by the late evening light, it was far past dinnertime.

He shifted uncomfortably when his stomach rumbled again. This time it caught your attention from where you were sitting on the opposite end of the couch. You were currently reading one of Joel’s many coffee table books. Exploring Space, Dinosaur facts, The American Mustang, Woodworking for Dummies. You had chosen The American Mustang, and as soon as you heard his stomach grumble for the 5th time, you gently closed the book with your finger holding the page down before you looked over at him.

“Did you eat today, Joel?”

“Jus’ a bite of breakfast this mornin.’ Coffee, toast, and slightly rubbery eggs. Had the pan on a bit too high.” He softly responded as he lifted his chin slightly in your direction.

“I didn’t have much to eat today either. I could make us something?”

“Darlin,’ you ain’t gotta do that. You’re my guest after all. It wouldn’t be right if I just let ya cook f’me.” He was already attempting to gently lift Honey from her curled up position on his chest when you reached your hand out and gently grasped his forearm.

“Joel, it’s okay. I really don’t mind at all. We both should eat something.” You gave his forearm a reassuring squeeze before you pushed yourself up from the couch.

His eyes slowly followed your movements into the kitchen as he let out a deep sigh. “Y’know, it’s times like these where I wish that takeout still existed. What I wouldn’t do for a pizza right now.” He mumbled as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Dominos, or Papa Johns? You better answer wisely, Miller.” You peeked your head around the corner with a playful smile playing on your lips.

“S’that even a question? Papa Johns. I’d order extra of those goddamn garlic sauces because the amount they gave you was truly never enough. I wish they would have started selling it in tubs or somethin.’” He stifled a chuckle. “Dominos was a last minute resort that I regretted every goddamn time.”

“That garlic dipping sauce was to die for. There was also that really good family owned pizza place on Main Street. Napoli Per Tutti I think is what it was called? They had the best Neapolitan pizza that I ever had the pleasure of trying.” You chatted casually as you opened his fridge.

“Darlin,’ you’re killin’ me over here with all this pizza talk. I actually never tried that place before. Sarah mentioned it a few times, but we Millers like to stick to our roots.” He chimed in as he managed to very carefully, and very gently, move Honey off of his chest and onto the couch where he then proceeded to cocoon her in a blanket that was draped across the armrest of the couch.

“I don’t know the first thing about making a Neapolitan pizza, but I can certainly try? That’s assuming that you have all the basic ingredients of course.” You could hear the wooden floorboards creak under the weight of his feet as you slowly turned around with your arms across your chest. “Just couldn’t stay away, huh?”

He sheepishly grinned and rubbed the back of his neck with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Can’t stay away when there’s pizza involved, darlin.’”

“Fair enough. All we’ll need for the dough is flour, yeast, water, salt, and I think olive oil?”

“Well, we definitely have flour..water and salt. Olive oil maybe, but does it expire? I haven’t done much cookin’ around here lately so I really don’t know what I've got in the cupboards.” He stepped around you with his arm just barely grazing yours as he opened up one of the many cupboards in the kitchen. “I’ll be damned. Guess we do have yeast and olive oil jus’ layin’ around here.” He reached for the packet of yeast and the bottle of olive oil before setting them down on the counter.

There was something oddly comforting for the two of you to be putzing around the kitchen like an old married couple. You fit right into Joel’s domestic budding life without even grasping the idea of it just yet. You worked together at making the dough, but once it came down to the kneading part, you let Joel take over. Maybe it was your cheeky plan all along to see his hands at work, or perhaps it was totally innocent. Regardless, it was hard to not let your wandering eyes drift across his exposed skin where he had rolled up the sleeves of his flannel revealing strong, veiny forearms. Some areas of his skin were littered in scars, and indentations from years of survival, but his hands were the main part of the show. Strong, weathered, yet gentle as he didn’t want to knead the dough too much. The tendons in his fingers flexed as his eyes drifted upwards towards you.

Gotcha.

“Like what ya see?” He rasped with a teasing grin.

Fuck, were you really staring that long?

You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks as a nervous laugh bubbled up your throat. You struggled to find your words. “Joel, i’m so sorry I shouldn’t–”

“Hey, Beanie? S’alright. You can stare for as long, and as much as you’d like.” He reassured you with a slight nod of his head.

So, this is where you flirt back.

OH!

Right.

“You just..have really attractive hands.” You murmured softly.

Joel cocked a brow at your answer as he looked over at you. “My..hands? What about ‘em are attractive?” He held the same genuine curiosity like the time you had complimented his eyes.

“Well they’re just..strong looking? Maybe that’s not the right verbiage that I'm going for here.” You trailed off.

“S’you don’t mind that they’re a lil rough lookin'?’ Take this hand for example, I’m pretty sure it never really properly healed after I beat the livin’ daylights outta a FEDRA soldier shortly after Tess and I agreed to take Ellie to the fireflies. Sometimes I’ll get like these ghost pains n’my knuckles is what I like to call ‘em.” He shrugged as he grabbed a towel to wipe the flour off from his hands.

“No, I don’t mind at all. I’d honestly be surprised if your hands weren’t at least a little bit damaged. Y’know? I get what you mean with the ghost pains. I get them too, but usually in my wrists and ankles. It’s almost like a tingling sensation.”

Joel felt his heart slowly sink to the pit of his stomach like the sun gradually dipping behind the horizon. It was easy for him to draw the conclusion as to why you’d feel these sensations in your wrists and ankles. There were visible scar indentations along the inside of your wrists. Based on the scarred tissue, it was probably due to them being bound together by zip ties, rope, or possibly even chains. He felt a shiver roll down his spine when he remembered the charred women in the forest having their wrists and ankles bound together by chains.

“Well, I think your hands are beautiful too, Beanie.” He murmured.

I think you're more beautiful than the stars, sun, and moon combined.

You smiled at him. That same soft smile that sent his heart beat skipping every time he was graced by the simple beauty of it. It was as if there was a magnetic force between the two of you that was working on overdrive to bring the two of you closer in proximity.

“Thank you, Joel. I’ve got a real nasty nail biting habit that spurs up every so often. I guess..after you brought me home from the bar, I absolutely tore my nails to shreds, but I had no recollection of it happening..”

“If it makes ya feel any better, I also have a nasty habit of picking at the skin around my nails till it bleeds. Ellie’s yelled at me for it numerous times, but no matter what I do, I can’t stop.”

“Maybe we can help each other break these habits? Or, at least show encouragement when we’re struggling?” You suggested.

“Yeah, I'd like that a lot actually. It’ll be a good way to hold ourselves accountable. Lord knows I need to sometimes.” He agreed. “Well, this dough is gonna have to sit for a bit before we can roll it out..whad’ya wanna do in the meantime?” He had his hands resting along the edge of the countertop that was lightly dusted in flour as he awaited your response.

“That’s a good question. Do you happen to have any records? Maybe we could listen to one? I have a good feeling in my bones that you have impeccable music taste.” You mused with a small grin spreading across your lips.

“Y’know, I actually do have a box of records in the living room. They ain’t mine, unfortunately. They were here when I moved in. There’s a lot of classics in the collection though. I’m sure we can find somethin’ that we both enjoy.” He tilted his head towards the direction of the living room.

You let Joel lead the way as he showed you the box containing the records. There was everything from the Beatles, Prince, Queen, Zeppelin, Frank Sinatra, and so on. “Well,” You started, “whoever lived here, clearly loved their music.”

“Ain’t that right.” his tone was slightly rasped as you made yourself comfortable on the floor with your legs crossed.

“You want a pillow?” He asked softly. “Might be a lil’ more comfy.”

You gave him a small nod in response as you began to carefully flip through the record albums.

He grabbed two pillows from the nearby couch without disturbing Honey before he joined you on the floor.

“Who’s your favorite? I know it’s a tough choice t’make. I don’t even think I could narrow mine down to five.” He chuckled warmly as he rested his weight back on his hands.

“Oh, gosh. I also don’t know if I could narrow it down..Stevie is definitely at the top of my list.”

“Ah, yeah. She was incredible. I was a big fan of Linda Ronstadt back in the day. Although, growin’ up, there wasn’t a song or artist that I didn’t enjoy.”

You slowly looked over at him as your fingers gently played with a torn edge on one of the records. “Was music a big part of your life?..Before, y’know.” You chose your words carefully as you watched him take a deep inhale.

“Yeah, it was. Used to be a big dreamer, believe it or not. Always wanted t’be a singer. Taught myself how to play the guitar, wrote a few songs here and there. None of them were very good, but I got a lotta joy out of it. Then when Sarah was born, I knew I had’to hold down a real job, and push that dream to the backburner. Spent a lot of time playin’ the guitar for her though. She loved it. Used to tease me n’tell me that I had a god awful singin’ voice.” He snickered.

Your giggle was soft, sweet, floating like a warm breeze. “Hey, I’m sure your singing isn’t that bad! It's wonderful that you found a lot of joy in that hobby. What about now? Do you still play the guitar here and there? Perhaps..sing in the shower like the rest of us?”

“Wouldn’t ya like t’know?” He wiggled his eyebrows playfully in your direction. “Yeah, I’ve picked it up here n’there. Started writin’ some lyrics as well. Maybe..one day I can play for ya? Give ya your own lil’ private concert, front row.”

“Yeah, you dork. That’s why I'm asking!” You giggled. “Wow, a private concert, just for me? Well, I'd be honored.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, “don’t go gettin’ your hopes up jus’ yet, but I think I can manage.” He shot you a subtle, yet playful wink. “Now, whad’ya got there? Frank Sinatra, You Make Me Feel So Young?”

“An oldie, for the oldies.”

“I ain’t that old, darlin.’” He scoffed playfully.

“Mhm. Let’s face it, we’re a little old, but silver looks good on you.”

“Not nearly as good as it looks on you.” He countered smoothly.

“Charming.”

“Jus’ tellin’ the truth, darlin.’”

“And they say chivalry is dead.” You were looking directly into his eyes which naturally sent a blush rising to his cheeks. Yeah, he had it pretty bad.

“Y’wanna give it a listen?” He offered with a sheepish grin.

“Absolutely.”

He reached for the vinyl, fingers gently brushing yours as he gently removed it from your grasp before he stood up. He shuffled over to the nearby record player that had been neglected for years. He blew off a bit of dust buildup that had naturally settled along the surface before he placed the vinyl down carefully.

The needle slowly fell into place as the old turntable crackled to life, flooding the small expanse of the room in sweet music.

You make me feel so young

You make me feel so Spring has sprung

And every time I see you grin

I'm such a happy individual

Joel watched the way your eyes suddenly lit up, bright, glassy, beautiful. Your energy was infectious as his knuckles lightly thrummed along the hardwood. He wanted to ask you to dance, to make up for what happened at the Tipsy Bison. Why was he so apprehensive? What did he have to fear?

Connection. Intimacy. Devotion.

You seemed to recognize the inner turmoil he was presently facing almost immediately. The nervous thrumming of his knuckles, the way his brows furrowed inward as if he was deep in thought. The light unmistakable pursing of his lips.

“Hey, Joel?”

He blinked once before his eyes hesitantly met yours, “Yeah, darlin?’”

“You wanna dance with me?..It can be like a redo for our first date?” Your thoughtful suggestion was as comforting as a warm summer breeze as his fingers absentmindedly inched closer towards yours.

“Y’wanna make up for that night?..Beanie, we don’t gotta–I mean..only if you want to?” He was nearly stumbling over his words by the time you had gently grabbed his hand and interlaced your fingers through his.

“C’mon,” You replied with a small smile tugging on the corner of your lips. “Dance with me, Joel.”

His hesitation was evident, at first, but your gentle smile, and kind eyes eased his nerves as you both slowly stood to your feet. You could feel how clammy his palm felt around your own as his other hand slowly dropped to his side. He wanted to hold your waist, but after everything that happened, he was apprehensive.

“It’s okay, Joel.” You reassured him as your free hand dipped down to his side and delicately wrapped your hand around his wrist before coaxing his hand to rest around your waist.

“I’m a shit dancer, honey.” He murmured low and soft as his fingers slightly flexed against your waist.

“Joel, don’t overthink it. Just dance.” You encouraged him with a reassuring smile.

When his nerves slowly began to dissipate, he fell into a rhythm as he spun you around playfully. He was less worried about accidentally stepping on your toes, and more focused on the way the soft glow of the kitchen lighting bounced off your skin. How pretty you looked. How your eyes never seemed to leave his. The increased thrum of his heart drowned out the soothing crackle from the tabletop. All he could see was you.

It was as if a magnet was slowly pulling you in closer. The gravitational pull, foreheads touching, noses brushing, exchange of breaths. So close. So close. You could nearly taste him on your tongue–

“Beanie..” He breathed out. Pausing. Thinking. Just ask her. The worst she can say is no.

“Can I–”

“Please. Please kiss me, Joel.” Your thoughts were swirling, tumbling like a shaken up jar of marbles. You wanted him so bad. Terribly. You wanted and yearned to know what it possibly felt like to be kissed by Joel Miller. The moment was there in your grasps, and gone in a flash from the distinct creaking sound of the front door opening.

Ellie’s footsteps were soft along the floorboard as she pulled the door shut behind her. She was hoping that Joel wasn’t home. She wasn’t ready to confront him after what took place at the Tipsy Bison just a few nights prior. She was still hurting. Her curiosity got the best of her in the end when she saw that the kitchen light was on.

“Joel?..” She rounded the corner, eyes going wide, cheeks turning a deep bright red as she caught the moment you and Joel nearly kissed. She squeaked a fast apology, “Shit, I’m so sorry!” before darting out of the room like a bat out of hell.

You and Joel were startled by her presence to say the least. His eyes went wide before he was dropping his hand from your waist. He murmured an apology of his own before he slipped out of the kitchen to follow his kid.

“Ellie, wait! Kiddo, can we please–” He was hot on her heels as she scurried up the stairs and b-lined to her bedroom. If he was there a second sooner, he would have stopped her from slamming the door in his face.

“Kiddo, please. I jus’ wanna talk.” He sounded gravely defeated as his forehead came to rest upon the chipping paint on her bedroom door. He could hear her muttering to herself as she stuffed her backpack with overnight clothes.

Moments later the door flung open as she brushed past him with her bag slung over her shoulder.

“Ellie.” He tried one more time.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Joel. Sorry for interrupting your date.” She muttered before jogging down the staircase.

“Kiddo, please. I’m sorry.”

“I’m going to Dina’s.” Was her short response. He could detect the hurt in her voice as he pathetically watched her disappear through the front door once more. The entire house was silent as he scrubbed a weathered hand across his patchy beard. Healing took time, he reminded himself. It didn’t happen overnight, but fuck. He missed his baby girl so much.

The old floorboards of the staircase groaned under his heavy footsteps as he trudged back down the stairs. His brain was telling him that it was time to call it a night. Send you home so you didn’t have to witness his pain at the forefront. His heart told him differently. His heart urged him to seek out your comfort, so he did.

He found you right in the kitchen where he left you. You had just taken the freshly made pizza dough out of the fridge and set it out on the counter. Your eyes slowly flitted upwards at the sound of his footsteps.

“Hey, I think the dough is ready to be rolled out. Want to give me a hand?”

Bless you.

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry for runnin’ off like that. She’s been avoidin’ me since that night at the Tipsy Bison.” He admitted in a hushed tone.

“It’s okay, Joel. You don’t have to apologize for that. Did you..want to talk about it?”

“No, not right now. Let's just..make these pizzas. I’m starving.” He sighed, feeling his own mental and emotional exhaustion begin to way down on him like a bag of cement.

He met you on the other side of the counter, shoulders brushing as he pulled out a rolling pin from one of the drawers. You rolled out half the dough in silence together. It was almost as if you were sharing the weight of his present grief, soaking it in and absorbing it like a sponge.

Once the pizzas were dressed and popped in the oven, he wiped down the counter before grabbing a glass from one of the overhead cabinets. “I uh–really could use a drink. Would you like one? I’ve got wine and some spirits.”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having, Joel.”

“Whiskey it is then.” He murmured as he grabbed another glass. “I really don’t usually drink. I jus–’ need somethin’ right now.” He didn’t know why he felt like he needed to explain himself to you, but it was too late to take his words back when they were already spoken.

“Joel, you don’t have to give me a reason as to why you need a drink right now. We all have our vices, and I hold no judgment towards yours.”

“I know I don’t have to explain myself to you, Beanie. I’m jus–’ I'm not okay right now. I don’t know whether I should laugh, cry, punch a fucking wall in.” He muttered bitterly as closed the cabinet door a bit too harshly. He shuffled past you to the wet bar area where he snatched up the bottle of whiskey with trembling fingers. He popped the cap off with his teeth as he poured a hefty splash of amber-colored liquor into his glass. He was considerate enough to give you half of what he was having.

“Joel, I know you’re not okay right now. Do you want me to?..”

“No.” He croaked softly, “No. I don’t want you to leave, please.” He took a sizable sip from his glass before he returned to your side, sliding your glass over.

“Okay, I won’t go, but is there anything you..need from me?” Your hand slowly grasped the crystal glass before raising it to your lips. The warmth of the liquor coated your insides like sticky molasses. It had a twinge of smoke, finished off with a hint of cinnamon. In short, it was fucking delicious.

“I don’t know.” He admitted somberly before he slowly sank down to the kitchen floor with his back resting against the oak cabinets, and the glass resting in his hand between his knees as his head fell back with a soft thud.

You descended alongside him with your legs outstretched, and ankles crossed. Sometimes all a person needed was a gentle soul. A wordless extended notion of comfort. Sometimes that was enough, but sometimes a person needed more. Whatever Joel needed in those crucial moments, you’d be there.

“Can I be honest with you?” He broke through the growing silence with a heavy huff through his lips.

“Of course.”

“I am fucking terrified of losing every goddamn person that I love, Beanie. I’m terrified of losing my brother. I’m terrified of losing my daughter, and I'm terrified..of losing you. I feel like a broken record that can’t quite find its rhythm because the vinyl is scratched, and the needle keeps catching. Do..you get what i’m sayin?’” His head slowly turned to meet your eyes.

Your heart skipped a monumental beat when he said that he was terrified of losing every person that he loved, and that you had made the cut. (not that there was one to make). You ignored the butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and focused on him, and his willingness to rawly communicate with you.

“Joel, I understand why you are terrified, but you haven’t lost Tommy, Ellie, or me. We’re all right here. I don’t think you sound like a broken record at all. Try and show yourself a bit of compassion, okay?”

He stifled a bitter chuckle as he brought the rim of the glass back to his lips. He took another sip before he closed his eyes.

“Beanie, I don’t think you’d be tellin’ me to have some compassion for myself if you knew what I've done, the people I've killed, the choices I've made. I ain’t a good person. No matter how many times I have tried to justify my actions, I ain’t a saint.”

“Joel, do you think that anyone is truly a saint? Do you believe that we’re all innately good? That we’ve never hurt a friend, or said words we didn’t mean? Joel, even if the outbreak never happened, and we didn’t lose the people we loved, we still would be making mistakes. We still would be hurting people whether it was intentional or not. I mean this with full honesty, your past isn’t going to scar me. It isn’t going to make me think of you in a darker light, because goddamnit, we all had to fucking make some hard choices in the name of survival. I’ve killed people too, you know that, right? I lost count years ago. I lost my fucking faith in the shreds left in the remants of humanity until–” you felt yourself choking up with tears welling along your waterline, and your words lodged in your throat, clawing to be set free.

“Beanie–”

“No, please. Please just let me finish, okay? Joel, you’re so incredibly hard on yourself, and hell, we all are. I just want you to realize that you are not a bad person. You’re not a bad man. You’re not some evil monster lurking in the shadows. You’re a fucking human being that has spent over 20 years trying to survive. You have endured and survived up until this point. You and Ellie will be okay. She’s hurting, and so are you, but one day she will forgive you, for whatever it is that you have done. She needs time to heal, and so do you.” You felt mildly exasperated from the energy you were exerting.

Joel was speechless. He was floored as his pupils were blown out wide. His jaw physically dropped. He scrambled to gather his thoughts so that he could come up with a well-rounded response. He struggled with his words, as you knew. All he knew is that he had to be just as vulnerable as you were being.

“I killed an entire hospital of fireflies. I killed every single one of them to save her. To save my Ellie. My light. They were going to kill her, Beanie. Ellie is immune. She’s the only one. Marlene told me that the doctor that was going to perform the surgery on her thinks that the Cordyceps has grown with her since birth. Because it’s adapted to her, it tricks the normal Cordyceps into thinking that Ellie is one of them. That’s the reason why she is immune. Tess and I were taking Ellie to the fireflies because I made a promise to Marlene. It turned into something else along the way. I grew to care for Ellie as if she was my own. I even–I even told her that we didn’t have to keep going. We could come back to Tommy’s and forget all about the fireflies. My baby girl didn’t want that. She wanted to save the fuckin’ world, but she didn’t want to die. I know she didn’t want to die, Beanie. She thought that after it was all said and done, that we would be going home together.

“And when we’re done, we’ll go wherever you want, Joel.” Ellie reassured him.

“Tommy’s, sheep ranch, the moon.”

“I’ll follow you anywhere you go.”

“But there’s no halfway with this.”

“We finish what we started.”

Ellie was determined to use her immunity to save the world, and Joel couldn’t stop her.

“Ellie..is immune?” You whispered softly as the weight of Joel’s words sunk deep into your soul.

“Yes, she is. You have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone, Beanie. Not even Maria knows. Only Tommy and I. The rest of the community would turn to chaos if they knew.”

“The fireflies were looking for a cure, and Ellie was the answer? But, Cordyceps–”

“Grow inside the brain.” He deadpanned as he finished off what was left in the contents of his glass. “I did what I had to do to save her, and if I had to go back and do it all over again, I would. She didn’t want to die. She never consented to the surgery. Marlene never gave her the option, and neither did I. The worst bit? Beanie, I lied to her. I told her that there were more people like her. People who were immune. I told her there were dozens like her, and that the doctors couldn’t actually make any of it work. That they’ve stopped looking for a cure entirely.”

“They’ve stopped lookin’ for a cure.”

“Where are my clothes?” Ellie mumbled.

“Raiders attacked the hospital. I barely got ya outta there, kiddo.” he squeezed the steering wheel tightly as he lied through his teeth.

“Were people hurt?..”

“Yes.” He didn’t lie.

“Is Marlene okay?”

Joel paused as he glanced back at his daughter through the rearview mirror.

“I’m takin’ us home.”

“You never told her the truth, did you?” You knew the answer, but you wanted him to confirm it.

“No, I did tell her, and she hates me for lying and taking that choice away from her. She feels like..she holds no purpose in life now, and it’s all my fault.”

“Joel, you did what every parent would have done for their child. Biological or not, she is your daughter. She was in danger, and you saved her. I can’t blame her for the way she currently feels towards you. Her emotions are valid, and you should have never lied to her. You should have told her the truth from the start, but I understand why you didn’t tell her. You felt ashamed of your actions.”

“I just wanted to protect her.” He murmured as his eyes casted downwards.

You reached your hand out and gently grasped his shoulder and gave it a firm, grounding squeeze.

“Joel, you did just that. You protected her. You saved her. You saved the world.”

His own eyes began to water. His lower lip trembled, wobbled with uncertainty as his glassy irises met yours.

“You’re right. I did save the world.”

And then, you were hugging.

His tears and your own fell freely as you cradled his head protectively against your chest with your chin resting gently against the top of his head. Your fingers threaded through his soft salt and pepper tendrils as he enveloped your frame in his strong arms. The oven dinged signaling that the pizza was ready, but neither of you moved an inch.

“Spend the night with me, Beanie. Please.” His words fell heavy on his tongue. His heart begging you with a steady thrum to stay.

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[blackrosesandwhump]

March of Pain Day 7: Please

CW: mild lady whump, male whumpee, magic whump

“Please, let him go!” the princess cries, straining desperately at the ropes binding her to the stake.

Held chokingly tight in the enchantress’s grasp, the knight struggles a final time then gives up, his body turning limp. The enchantress's magic blade hovers an inch from his abdomen, ready to impale him through. He can’t fight anymore.

But the princess can.

“Let him go,” she repeats, summoning power from deep inside, power that sends pleasant fire spreading up her arms. The ropes suddenly feel less tight.

“And why would I do that?” the enchantress questions, her voice distorted and inhuman. Her creaturely form, towering and scaly black like a giant serpent’s, looms over the knight and the princess, overshadowing them.

But the princess will not let the shadow overcome her.

She takes a deep breath. The last resort. She might regret what she’s about to do, but she has to save the knight, and all other hope seems lost.

“Because I asked nicely the first time.” She closes her eyes and lets her magic unbind itself inside her.

@marchofpain

[chaotic-orphan]

MILD UPDATE:

The next part of Stranger and Supervillain’s brand are in the works!!!! [so expect them in the next week or two]

Also, Heroic betrayal and Defiant Leader x confident Villain are halfway through their next chapters. {expect within the week}

Vendetta is basically written in my head I just need it written down first ((if my brain would stop starting new projects that would be wonderful, but here we are🙃))

Also more Alphabet of whump is coming it’s just taking time

Sorry it’s taken so long, thank you for being patient XD I really appreciate it 🫶🫶🫶

More rants below, I’m sorry for so many rants this week, I am a very loquacious person

I usually write the next part in the ask box and then publish it, so I don’t respond to asks until it’s written — except the semantics ask where I published it by accident😅 but yes!! Just a lil update for you all!!! And if you like a series, no matter how small [@me with Immortal Hunter and Benignant mischief ] you can ask for a second part if you enjoyed it, and I am happy to oblige!!! Though it may take a while, usually one-two weeks

[[Except twisted love, which has left me writer’s block like I’ve never felt before so I think that will be re-written and changed a bit storywise so I can actually write it because I love the idea, BUT SEMANTICS— it’s like royal whump, male whumper, lady whumpee, kind of same ish vibes if you want more — BUT OKAY RANT OVER THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK ]]

XOXO Mack

[bittersweetimaginings]

Request for an Alex fic!

I've always wanted to see some heavy whump put on this character-

Maybe a sick fic?

Or just a senerio where he is hurt/exhausted/thirsty/hungry etc.

She/Her

Tired • Alex DeLarge

⚠️Content warning: Implied & mentions of t0xic relationship dynamics, ch3ating, Alex being an asshole (as always), mentions and mild descriptions of injuries, description of (consensual) s3x and cursing (yes, theres SMUT in this one). 

*These characters do not belong to me, all rights to their respective owners, this is just a piece of entertainment by and for fans. 

Summary: After one of his outings with his droogs, Alex finds himself being injured. As his long-time girlfriend you feel the urge to take care of him. 

Reader’s pronouns: She/Her 

Keys: Y/N = Your Name. Nadsat glossary. 

Author’s notes: If you want to send your own request, please check the Disclaimers & Rules post and the MASTERLIST post to see more content and which characters are available. 

This is somewhat of a continuation to this fic: “in the aftermath” or at least I wrote it with the same MC in mind! However, this time she is less submissive and has grown to be a bit more confrontational with Alex and his shit! But is not necessary to read the first one, this can be enjoyed as a standalone if you want! 

I'm not here to judge why you are consuming this type of content (I'm the one doing the writing after all) I know from personal experience that this type of content (as weird as it sounds to some of you) might be used as a coping mechanism to a similar situation some of us might've experience or are currently experiencing irl; but just in case, I want to encourage you to reach for help, so please, if you're going through a tough time or experiencing some kind of violence, here are some resources that I was able to find and might be of help, please stay safe everyone: 

List of countries and their helplines for d0m3stic abus3, s3xual as5ault and other resources. 

List of other resources for immediate help. 

List of countries and their respective helplines for su1cid3 prevention/crisis. 

Consider donating to my Ko-fi! 

"He's been in there all week! Barely eats, barely goes out...I might knock the door down and put an end to this worry!" 

You hear Alex's mom tone through the phone slowly rising making her concerns quite apparent. 

 “I don’t think that’s necessary, I’m sure he’s fine, Ms.-”  

“Y/N dear, wouldn’t it be possible for you to come by the house this mornin’?” 

A slight pause is settled as you ponder her request. Truth be told, you haven’t talked with Alex much as of lately, the reason being you two breaking up (again) over him continuously flirting with another woman (again) and since you were already used to such behavior it wasn’t really the flirting that set you off (having Alex as your boyfriend had made you grown desensitized to many things), it was more the time and place that angered you, and though you knew you’ll get back together eventually, you had grown quite comfortable as a single woman, it was like allowing yourself a breather and would like to stay that way at least for a little bit longer... 

“I don’t think-…" 

“Please, dear...I- I noticed you and Alex haven’t talked much but maybe is time to patch things up?” 

You fall silent. The lady on the other end of the line has always been kind and warm to you even when her kid really wasn’t. Though perceptive she’s unaware about the true nature of your relationship with her son, only knowing the brighter side of the whole ordeal, it’s natural that she asks for your help, believing you to be a positive influence in Alex’s chaotic life. 

“Y/N?” 

She asks; the undeniable worry dripping in her voice tugging at the heartstrings of your own weak and sensible heart, you comprehend her pain and to be quite honest...you had been worried too...after all it is hard to break old habits...  

“I’ll be there as soon as I’m finished with school” 

You announce with a heavy sigh, hoping you won’t regret it. 

“Thank you dear! I appreciate it!” 

[…] 

The door to Alex’s home is right in front of you, the apartment is unusually quiet even knowing that his parents are most likely at work at this hour; you open the door with the spare key Alex gave you long ago and enter, his room it’s right down the hall of the apartment and before you knock there’s a slight hesitation as you wonder if this is really the best choice...maybe you can still turn back. 

You measure your options and become unaware of the movement in the rotary combination lock and only come back to reality as the door suddenly springs open. 

You haven’t seen his blue eyes in a couple of weeks, maybe that’s why you freeze in place as his surprised gaze meets yours, his brows narrow in confusion but soon a smirk on his face appears. 

“Well, well! Hi, hi, hi there! ‘Been a long time, innit?” 

He seemingly mocks you and visibly sizes you up with his eyes as he leans his body in the doorframe; it takes you a couple of blinks to get out of your trance and when you do you can’t help but feel angered at his smug attitude; you didn’t expect an apology, it’s been a long time since those stopped coming for every time he cheated. In fact, you don’t know what you expected...but definitely something better than this, your brows furrow and take a quick glance at him only to notice the state he’s in: bruises, most of them in the left side of his body, part of his chest on that side even seems quite swollen and some small superficial cuts on his right cheek. 

“Something wrong?” he asks dryly  

“You look like trash” the words come out of your mouth, hoping to hurt him even if just a bit, but instead he scoffs while leaning this time in your direction, his gaze looking for yours as he closes the distance. 

“My, really?” his voice drops in to a suggestive but slightly threatening tone, mocking smile never leaving him. 

The closeness of it all making you realize the man in front of you has been half naked from the beginning if only for a pair of underwear to cover him. 

As you roll your eyes and aggressively walk into his room you hope your cheeks aren’t flushed in case, he decides to tease you any further. As you enter you notice the messy state of the room which strikes you as odd since you know Alex usually tries to very careful when it comes to it but you figured he might’ve just thrown a tantrum recently. Then you see Basil sitting calmly in his usual spot by the poster of a naked woman, you immediately approach it. 

“Oh, hi there!” your baby voice coming through as you pet the top of the snake’s head. 

You hear him walk and feel him right behind you, his chin eventually touches the top of your head, his arms wrap around your body just right below your breasts and although you’re still mad you don’t make any attempts to remove him. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of viddying* you here?” 

“Your mom called; said you wasn’t coming out of your room like some pathetic hermit. Figured it was serious if there was no record of you and the boys in the last few days”  

“Were you worried then?” 

“No” Yes, you were but won’t admit it so easily, he scoffs once more, he can see through you and as he holds you tighter, he bows his head just slightly to kiss your temple. 

“Then...why is that you’re here? More than welcomed to ignore her, are you not?” Whispers in your ear and you only try to calm the goosebumps by focusing your attention ever harder on the reptile in front of you. You hear him laugh lowly at your reaction. 

“My kisa*, you’re not being quite honest...” His declaration carries on with his mouth now traveling down your neck peppering small kisses. You hate how quick the urge of being all over him invades you, turning around quickly you reach to kiss him but as your hands rest on his chest for support he suddenly winces in pain and pushes you away. 

“bloddy cal*!” he mumbles as he tries to soothe his pain by covering the affected area with his hand, though startled by his sudden action you take the time to examine what exactly is wrong. Walking towards him you place your hand over the one he holds defensibly, subtly asking him to lower it to which he complies. 

Your hand explores the swollen side of his chest gently, it takes you a couple of minutes to realize the reason he is in pain:  

“Jesus, Alex your rib is fucking broken!” his brows furrow once more in an annoyed expression as he hears you exclaim. 

“Quite the sharp one are you, eh?” sarcasm present in his voice, maybe a bit bothered you didn’t notice it sooner. 

The thought of asking “what happened?” crosses your mind, but seeing the state the room is in, you pick up on the fact that it might be a sore topic for him and you don’t want him throwing another tantrum as he might injure himself further; instead, you scoff at him in a mildly angered expression. 

“Lay down, let’s treat it before it gets worse or Mr Deltoid finds out and questions you about it” you command and are satisfied with how quick he obeys at the mention of Mr Deltoid. 

[...] 

You surprise yourself with how many times you have helped Alex with his injuries it’s almost second nature to you at this point and though you pride yourself in your impeccable first-aid abilities you can’t help but see just how sad this really must be. 

Alex lays on his bed, eyes closed and wearing a pained expression that you know comes from the sensation of cold he feels through the bandages you had applied in his chest moments before; you hold a frozen bag of peas covered with a random woman’s blouse you found lying in his bedroom and take note it is not one that belongs to you and most certainly not his mother... 

“careful” he warns as he feels the pressure shifting; out of spite you disobey him and apply more pressure, making him wince once more. 

 “Ah! What you think you’re even doin’?!?!” in anger he almost sit up, but the pain knocks him back down. 

“Asshole” you declare throwing the clothing item in his face, setting the frozen bag aside, you sit by his side as you try to calm your own frustration. Alex gets strangely quiet but doesn’t move a muscle at your sudden vent and there’s a brief silence before it breaks. 

“You don’t need to take it so seriously” he says, seemingly in an attempt to comfort you without lying telling you that “it won’t happen again”  

“...” you look at him in frustration, he looks back at you and even through his expression is serious at the beginning, a smile grows on him as he notices your gaze, probably taking pleasure in your aching in some way. 

“C’mon, my pretty kisa, are you jealous?” he lightly tugs at the fabric of your dress as a way to secure your attention. 

“You don’t know what I’m feeling” you mutter. It’s true, you’re not jealous, just tired of the same shit, yet he’s so sure of his assumption he chuckles at your denial. Holding your elbow, he guides you to lay beside him, you don’t fight his action, deep down wanting the comfort he extends. 

“Now, now, my kisa, you can’t be jealous at some starry sooka who can’t even compare” 

You sigh, already overwhelmed by his sweet-talk, you just want him to shut up. 

“Don’t” he looks at you, one eyebrow raised in confusion as you interrupt him in the middle of his speech to kiss him lightly. 

“I don’t want to hear it” you whisper as your voice seems to falter slightly by the lump in your throat.  

He smiles his ever-dashing smile, those bright electrifying blue eyes staring at you with a hint of amusement, but this time you don’t really care about it. 

He stares at your lips, holds the back of your head tightly and finally kisses you roughly, it’s hard for you to keep up with him when you feel so close to crying; none the less you continue, allowing yourself the opportunity to block everything out; right now you don’t want to think how bad he really is for you. 

He caresses your leg, his hand lifting your dress allowing him easy access to your ass which he squeezes firmly enough to hurt you just slightly and as you react by throwing your head back to allowing yourself to moan, he quickly takes the space to kiss your neck this time even leaving a trail of bite marks on it and you make a mental note to find a way to cover those later. 

You can feel his hand trying to unfasten the top part of your dress and so you help him, allowing for your exposed breasts to be tasted by him, you moan even harder when you feel him suck especially harsh on one of your nipples. 

“Shit” you curse at him, this time you decide to get back at him by sliding your hand past his underwear and taking his cock in your hand making harsh up and down motions earning you a sudden grunt from him followed by a small laugh. 

“Quite the baddiwad* are you, my kisa, eh?” He manages to let out in between all the groaning 

Your only response comes in the form of a mocking smile, one similar to the many others he had given you 

“I can be even worse” you declare, in an act of petty revenge you press lightly at his injured spot, just enough for the pain to leave him lying on his back once more as you act quickly and climb right on top of him, you make eye contact with him and can tell that he is not only surprised but curious to see where this new found side of you might lead him. You lower yourself until your entrance falls just above his length and start grinding on it. You moan along with his grunts; you can feel him trying to hold himself back from cuming right then and there by gripping your ass and thighs with so much force you can tell he’s trying to anchor himself. 

You make a slight pause as you place your own underwear aside, leaving yourself partially exposed as your dress still hangs by your waist. You lower back onto him, this time allowing him to enter you; you watch as he looks at you with that beastly gaze of him, one full of determination and lust. Wasting no time, you begin riding him, but unlike many times before, this time you only care about your pleasure. 

You can’t tell how many times you danced up and down his cock, whatever the number might be you fasten your own pace when you feel so close and finally you reach it, your head and body naturally lean forward asking for a kiss as you moan a random curse you can’t even remember now. He complies kissing you and allowing yourself a few seconds to catch your breath, but only that...seconds, as he grabs your hips and tries to replicate your movements from moments before. 

But before he can do so, you act faster; pressing once more the sore spot on his chest he is thrown back in bed by the pain and you take the chance to come down from him, stand up, quickly fix your clothes and walk towards the door without allowing him any release. 

You hear him curse at you behind your back and maybe make an attempt to grab you but instead you get the pleasure of slamming the door right in his face. As you bolt through the hallway and out of flatblock 18A where your long-time boyfriend lives, you smile to yourself.  

It might be time for a change in your life... 

Consider donating to my Ko-fi! 

[clairelsonao3]

Aveline

TW: Slavery, technically lady whump and minor whump (this is a flashback to when the POV character was 14, but there's no physical whump at all), dehumanization, drug addiction, mild references to and suggestions of past and present noncon touching, mild flirting/attraction/romantic feelings (it's a teenage crush, basically), light angst, some emotional hurt/comfort I guess. It's quite tame all in all.

This is a companion piece and prequel to my ongoing original whumpy romance story, Good Slaves Never Break the Rules. But it stands on its own, I think, so you can still read it even if the main story isn't your thing.

This was originally intended to be part of Whumptober but ended up not fitting. I guess you could call it a sneak peek at No. 30, and an experiment in posting a full piece of my writing on Tumblr for the first time (please let me know what I fucked up in terms of formatting, etc). 😅

And for those familiar with GSNBTR, a glimpse of a couple of secondary characters you might recognize, including one never before seen in person.

Ever since she was sold when she was four to pay her father's debts, back before her name had been replaced by the number engraved on the chain on her wrist, she'd been told no one need ask permission of her anymore. She was property now, an object to be touched, displayed, prodded, and paraded as others saw fit. Even Master Phillips, one of the "good ones," if that were possible, would lightly flick her hair or tilt her chin admiringly to show her off to guests. She hardly felt it anymore, or so she told herself.

But she must have felt it. Because if she didn't, she wouldn't have noticed that Master Ethan was different. Miss Louisa's older brother was always a perfect gentleman. A rare breed, and a dangerous one. The kind that got a slave girl believing in all the stupid fairy tales she was supposed to have outgrown. She still remembered that one Saturday, home and behaving himself after his first rehab stint, when he'd offered to help her paint one of the downstairs bathrooms in matcha green, just because he "liked painting," so he claimed, then spent the afternoon trying to make her giggle with jokes that fell just short of wildly inappropriate. She expected an ass grab any second, because in her world, that was the natural progression of things like this.

Instead, she got: "Hey, can you turn around for a second?"

She did.

He had a splash of green paint in his loose chestnut curls, the ones that spilled over his forehead and bounced when he shook his head. He reached out one long, tanned arm hesitatingly. "You have — can I — "

She'd blinked uncomprehendingly into his gray eyes, until she'd realized he was asking her a question. Asking for permission. Permission to touch her. Dazed, she nodded, and he brushed a finger over her face slowly and meticulously as if wiping something away.

"There. Much better," he said, nodding with finality as he turned to help her gather up the trays, brushes, and rollers and wash them all off in the utility sink. It was only later when she looked in the mirror as she was cleaning herself up that she realized he'd drawn stars on both her cheeks in matcha-green paint.

He'd stayed scarce after that, relapsed soon after, and now she hadn't seen him in six months. She didn't think anyone in his family had. So much for the fairy tales.

Except late at night in the narrow cot in her windowless room, she still repeated her name in a soft, slow voice, wondering what it would be like to hear it in his.

Aveline.

[spicywhumper]

August of Whump 2024 – Day 02. Shock

Masterlist // Series: Hellhound – Hunting Dangerous Safety // Warnings: implied injuries, mild blood, mental confusion 

“I think you’re in shock,” Larkins sounded far, far away, muffled by the intense ringing in her ears. Muffled by the pulsing ache as deep as her bones. “Try to breathe with me.”

Hunter just couldn’t fucking breathe.

She was shaking, and didn’t even have strength to even cry. She could vaguely tell she was surrounded by water, cold but not too cold. Hunter wondered if her body was shutting down from this unbearable amount of pain. 

There was a warm hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, and another on her chest, right against her heart.  A heart that was beating too hard, too fast, she could almost feel it pushing against the hand on her chest. Hunter opened her eyes, barely halfway, the world was blurry and the light made her sight even fuzzier. She could see the woman trying to help her, not clearly enough to recognize her like she couldn’t hear her well enough to recognize the voice.

She was almost sure she could see red dripping from her nose, too much red on her mouth. 

“You’ll be fine, I promise, I have to keep doing this.”

Doing what? Then her face was under water, she’d thrash and struggle if she could. She was pulled up again, shivering subdued the slightest. There was warmth spreading from where the hands touched her.

‘You’ll be fine, I promise, you’ll be fine.”

The stranger repeated like a mantra. Hunter kept trying to believe her.

[actress4him]

Stabmas 2024 - The Shadow of Death - Cinderella AU

It's the second annual celebration of Stabmas, hosted by the Slices of Whump discord server!

And yes, yet another new Brumaria AU. Bruno, as always, belongs to the brilliant and lovely Izzy (painful-pooch), and she wrote a good bit of his dialogue for this.

Happy Ides of March, everyone!

Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze

The Shadow of Death Masterlist

Contains: referenced lady whump, dude whump, stabbing, mild blood, referenced parental abuse, referenced noncon touch, touch aversion, referenced mass murder

.

.

A million stars fill the night sky, a full moon illuminating the cobblestone drive and the tips of each of the castle’s spires. The heat of the day has faded, cool air brushing Kamaria’s bare shoulders and arms. 

It’s a perfect night for a ball. Or so most of Ethorcon seems to think, judging by the number of carriages parked outside, awaiting their owners. 

Kamaria marches past them all, uncaring of what the drivers and footmen may think of her less than dignified arrival. Reaching the steps, she hitches up the heavy silk skirts of her mother’s borrowed dress, only pausing her momentum once she reaches the towering front doors. The uniformed man standing there gives her an odd look. When she merely nods at him, doing her best to look down her nose like nobility are wont to do, he gives a slight bow and tugs open one door to let her inside.

The entrance hall by itself could fit her father’s entire manor inside, she’s fairly certain. Everything gleams, from the marble floor that she can nearly see her reflection in, to the golden ceiling high above. A magnificent waste of money, on display for all to see. 

That’s nothing new to her, though. Nobility all think the same - why waste your riches on helping people who desperately need it, when you can spend it all on flaunting your status?

She’s arrived late out of more than one necessity. First off, she had to wait until her father had taken the carriage to come this way, himself, before she could even start getting herself ready and make the long walk. But more importantly, the ball is already well under way. No one but a few staff members have noticed her entrance. She doesn’t have to mingle with the rich, doesn’t have to be announced, and of course, doesn’t have as much of a risk of running into her father. 

There’s a gold-framed mirror hanging on the wall to her right. Kamaria takes one last glimpse at herself, avoiding actually looking at her face in favor of adjusting the stiff dress and brushing back a few stray curls.

Then she takes a deep breath, skims her hand across the knife hidden safely in the folds of her skirt, and forges further into the castle.

She has a prince to find.

She expects him to be in the ballroom, right in the thick of the festivities. After all, this entire spectacle is about him. King Tristan is determined to find him a wife, and every eligible young lady around is here throwing themselves at his feet tonight. 

Technically Kamaria fits that description, as well, but she has no intentions or delusions of marrying. Even if she did, Prince Bruno is the absolute last person on earth that she’d ever consider.

It isn’t hard to find the ballroom. All she has to do is follow the sound of lilting music, which grows into a cacophony of instruments, murmuring, laughter, and the clinking of glasses the closer she gets. The doors are thrown open wide, with a few guests spilling out into the corridor.

Kamaria stiffens when she sees them, adjusting her posture and expression. The last thing she needs, when she’s finally this close, is to be called out for not belonging. Her heart pounds, but she reminds herself of the reflection she just saw.

For tonight, she is as noble as her blood. No one can see the scars on her back or the callouses on her hands. No dirt or ash smears her cheeks. She looks the part of a lady, and so long as she plays it, no one should be the wiser.

Swallowing hard, she edges her way into the ballroom, but stays on the outskirts, slowly circling the room. Beyond a few columns on one side is an open section that no one seems to be utilizing, too eager to press into the center and be near all of the action. Kamaria gladly takes it for herself. It’s no quieter, but the lighting is dim and it feels much safer than being within the crowd. From here, she can linger in the shadows and still see everything.

There’s a dance ongoing, couples swirling by in a dizzying whirl of color. The prince will likely be out there, dancing with some lucky girl who’s caught his attention. He doesn’t seem to be with the king and queen, sitting on their thrones on a platform overlooking the festivities, anyway. 

She has honestly no idea what he looks like. She’s counting on the crown to give him away. Faces are going by too fast to catch from this distance, but she should be able to spot the flash of gold in the torchlight.

“You have the right idea, I believe.”

Kamaria is so caught up in her search that she doesn’t notice the man’s approach until he’s upon her. Jolting, she grabs fistfuls of her skirts and tries to calm her suddenly racing heart, giving a quick sideways glance up at him. She has to think of something civilized to say. 

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” There’s a smile in his voice. “I mean that, uh…this can all get to be a bit…much.” With one finger, he indicates the dancers and the crowd. “Sometimes I need to hide away, too.”

Part of her automatically wants to agree with him, but she can’t give away how very out of place she feels here. “Yes, well, I just…needed to catch my breath for a moment. All that dancing, you know.” She cringes inwardly at how stupid she sounds, but then again, maybe that’s for the best. Let him think she’s just another airheaded noble. She doesn’t really care what he thinks of her as long as he doesn’t call her bluff, she needs him to move on so she can continue looking for the prince. 

“Right.” She can see him shift out of the corner of her eye, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Personally, I’d stay back here the whole night if my father wouldn’t hang me for it.”

Something about the way he says it has her taking a second, longer glance at him, just enough that the golden glint above his brow is quite obvious. Suddenly her heart is in her throat, pulse roaring in her ears. 

It’s him. After all these years, the prince is standing here, right next to her, close enough to touch.

Her fingers itch to reach for the knife, but she can’t. Not yet. Not here.

She clears her throat, trying to find her voice again. “I’d think that you would enjoy all of the attention from so many young ladies, sire.”

He sighs. “Well, if any of them were interested in more than just the position my father is offering them, perhaps I would.” She can feel his gaze on her. “What about you? I’m fairly certain you haven’t attempted to approach me yet. You won’t even look at me now.” He sounds amused. “Am I not what you thought I would be? Or has someone already claimed your hand?”

Drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, she spins abruptly to face him, chin tilted up to meet his gaze. Whatever response she was concocting is gone immediately. His blue eyes light up, and a smile spreads across his face as he voices the exact words running through her mind.

“It’s you.” He chuckles, as if Kamaria’s whole world hasn’t just come screeching to a halt. “I’ll admit, I’d kind of hoped to see you here tonight. I was foolish enough to leave without getting your name before, which made it rather difficult to find you again.”

Her mouth has gone dry. “You…you’re Prince Bruno?” Maybe it’s a misunderstanding. Yes, he has on the crown, and he confirmed that the eligible ladies were here for him, but…maybe she’s made a mistake somehow.

“That would be me.”

Every part of her wants to turn around and leave, to find somewhere quiet where she can process this and decide what to do now. But no, nothing has changed. Her plans haven’t changed, she still has to follow through. Just because an hour conversation with this man had made him seem kind and caring and polite and funny and nothing like any other man she’d ever met, that doesn’t erase the last decade of knowing that he has to die.

“You, um…you failed to mention that you were royalty during our first meeting.” She prays he can’t tell how fast her heart is beating or hear the slight quiver in her words.

The prince gives a sheepish smirk. “Yes, sorry about that. It…didn’t seem relevant at the time? We were having such a nice conversation, and…”

He didn’t want her reaction to him to change by knowing who he was. And he’s right, it definitely would have changed. Just not in the way that he was expecting. 

“Of course.” She tries to force a smile. So far, he doesn’t seem to suspect anything, not even that she’s actually a servant. Thankfully, she’d been presentable that day in the orchard, wearing a clean dress and having just washed her face and braided her hair. She probably looked like a peasant, at best, but then again, he hadn’t been dressed like a prince, either.

She opens her mouth to suggest that they find somewhere quieter to talk, but he speaks before she can get the words out. 

“Would you dance with me?”

Kamaria can feel all of the blood drain from her face. “I…I couldn’t, I don’t…” I don’t know how, she almost blurts, but every lady should know how to dance, right? “I’m…not very good at dancing, I’m afraid, and…” Her eyes flit over the crowd. “There’s…so many people…”

His gaze follows hers. “I understand. A dance with me unfortunately would draw a lot of attention. How about right here, then?” He gestures to the dimly lit space around them. “And don’t worry, I won’t judge your dancing skills.”

What can she even say to that? She has no excuse to say no anymore, none that would be acceptable.

Why does he have to be such a gentleman?

Forcing another half-smile, she reaches out her gloved hand to take his outstretched one. “I’d be honored.”

His hand wraps around hers, engulfing it in warmth, and a tingling sensation shoots all the way up her arm. It makes her automatically want to jerk it back, but she just clenches her jaw and steps in closer. He’s smiling so genuinely, sliding his other hand gently around her waist to rest on her lower back. It feels like ice against her spine. 

Touch like this isn’t usually gentle. It’s usually harsh, possessive, accompanied by Lord Roderick’s leering face and nauseating words. And that’s the only kind she gets, other than her father’s fists striking her. She can’t even remember the last time that someone touched her and it didn’t hurt or repulse her. Even now, with no evidence in his stance or expression that he’ll change from exactly what he’s doing right now, she desperately longs to disappear.

But instead, she does exactly as she always does. She stays very still, focuses as hard as she can on her breathing, and pretends not to exist. 

The orchestra begins a new song, a slow, violin-led waltz, and Prince Bruno’s feet start moving in rhythm, pulling her along. “Just follow me,” he murmurs. “And don’t worry if you step on my toes. I have tough feet.”

This is not what she’s supposed to be doing right now. This is the exact opposite of what she should be doing right now. Being held firmly in his arms, swaying and twirling through the shafts of moonlight that illuminate the floor, like two lovers…she feels dizzy, and it’s not from the dance itself. 

He’s a murderer, and a perfect gentleman. She allowed herself to like him, the day they met, to think about him often since then. Now, knowing who he really is, the thought makes her sick. But at the same time, she still feels herself drawn toward him in that same way. The way he looks at her…it’s nothing like she’s ever seen before. He makes her feel wanted, and no one has wanted her in many, many years. 

Kamaria sucks in a sharp breath and pulls her gaze down to his shoulder. If he actually knew who she was - a servant and a Navarian - he wouldn’t want her. Perhaps he’d order her death, like he had dozens of others.

“Are you alright?”

He sounds so concerned, and she can’t take it anymore. She stops abruptly, stepping away and yanking her hand from his grasp like she’s wanted to all along, before she fully realizes what she’s doing. Luckily, she’s granted a plausible reason as soon as she glances past him. A group has gathered between the columns, gawking, apparently having noticed the movement of their dance and realizing that it’s their prince finally dancing with someone. Kamaria stares at them for a moment, heart still pounding, long enough for Prince Bruno to turn and see for himself. 

She has to get out of here. There’s a door in the corner, she has no idea where it leads, but it has to be better than this stuffy room full of curious people and too-loud music. Leaving the prince behind, she lifts her skirts slightly and runs toward it as fast as she dares.

To her immense relief, it lets out onto a large balcony, overlooking the gardens at the back of the castle. Kamaria crosses to the railing and drops her skirts, leaning heavily onto her hands and taking in gulps of the cool evening air. She’s trembling all over. 

The door opens and shuts behind her, and she tenses, fingers gripping the rail. 

“I’m sorry about that. Unfortunately, that kind of attention tends to follow me.”

She swallows and forces her voice to work. “Will they now? Follow you, that is.”

“No.” He’s walking a bit further onto the balcony, but staying back away from her. Giving her space, presumably, because he always seems to somehow know what she needs. “I’ve ordered a guard to hold them off, with the promise that I will return shortly.” There’s a pause, even his footsteps quieting. “But I don’t have to. I don’t actually have to return at all. Will it tick my father off? Yes, but I don’t really care.”

No. No, he doesn’t have to return. He doesn’t deserve to return, doesn’t deserve to keep living his luxurious, perfect life being fawned over by hundreds while her people’s blood stains the ground. 

The knife is out of its hidden pocket and in her hand without her really thinking about it. She turns slowly and begins to walk toward him, the rush of her blood once again filling her ears.

He has to die. It doesn’t matter how good he seems now, he sealed his fate ten years ago. 

He’s leaning against the wall, watching her. She can’t look him in the face, if she does she might falter, and that’s the one thing she can’t do. Close enough to hear his breaths, she places one hand against his arm to brace herself. 

She’s ready. Just like all those times she’s practiced. One sure, swift movement, and the knife is buried in his flesh.

There’s a quiet choking sound, deep in his throat. He sucks in a sharp breath, huffs a laugh. “Was it…something I said?”

Kamaria stares at the knife hilt protruding from the prince’s shoulder, at the bright red blood seeping out from around it, at the blue silk glove on her hand that still holds it. She should pull it out. Stab him again, in the chest, where she’d meant to stab him to start with. 

She can’t seem to do so.

"You're not the first to do that. And I'm sure you're not the last.” He’s still talking, still so bafflingly calm despite the fact that the woman he was flirting with has just stabbed him. “Do you really want me dead? Because you sure didn't think I was a terrible person when we were talking a few weeks ago.”

She’s shaking again. Or still, perhaps. It’s unclear whether or not she ever stopped. 

This is supposed to be her moment. She’s been planning this for so long, been waiting for the perfect chance, and now it’s here and…it’s all wrong.

His hand comes up, slowly, and covers her, wrapping around the knife just as gently as he’d held onto her inside. "How about we talk about this. You can keep the knife there, or not. Preferably, I would like to live after this, but if you are determined enough, I suppose I could go."

Now he doesn’t even care whether she kills him? He wants to talk, rather than just shoving her away, shouting for the guards, having her arrested and hanged?

She shuts her eyes, jaw clenching and unclenching. “You weren’t supposed to be…nice.”

"I wasn't supposed to be a prince either, but things don't work out that way, love. I'm sorry I wasn't a terrible person like some think of me."

Kamaria’s eyes fly open, and she finally looks him in the face, glaring. “You are a terrible person. You killed them. And I’ve been waiting my whole life to return the favor.”

"And who told you what I am?" His brow is furrowed, confusion with flashes of irritation playing across his features. "What would I have succeeded in the death of others? If you think that low of me, then go ahead, twist the knife, or go for something lethal this time."

His hand releases hers in favor of raising both in surrender, obviously moving the left carefully to avoid jostling the knife. "There's nothing I have to hide, my dear. Nothing. If you want answers, then I'll do my best to help you find them. If you want to do away with me once you have your truth, then so be it."

She knows the answers already. She just doesn’t understand them now that she’s here. What if she’s wrong? What if she’s had it wrong all along, and this is really not the man she should have been looking for?

Her eyes search his, looking desperately for the truth. "I don't know. I can't...I can't reconcile the man I met in the orchard with the one who had my family killed. Which one are you? Was everything you said to me...a façade? Or are you going to try to convince me that you've changed, because that was all so long ago? Or that it was a necessary loss for the good of the country?"

"I'm the same man I've always been, the one you met. I have not lied to you since the moment we met, and I don't plan on changing that about myself." He lowers his arms, noticeably gritting his teeth as he does so. More blood oozes out and stains his crisp white shirt. "I did change, but not in the way you imagine. And I would never…what loss would make the country great? Our people are our people. What would there be to gain from killing those that I'm supposed to protect?"

"You tell me!” she spits. “Because those were royal soldiers that burned down the village that night. I was there. I saw them.” The memories of that night are seared into both her mind and her skin. “And all fingers have pointed to you as the one who sent them." She pauses, still watching his face, ready for her next question to reveal his true nature. "Was it because we were Navarian? Because we were outsiders?"

He does react, but not in disgust like she expected. He flinches, as if she’s physically struck him. "I never sent my troops to harm your people." She can almost see the thoughts racing in his mind. "Navarian or not, I swore to protect their lives as well."

He just keeps on denying everything, and Kamaria doesn’t know whether to believe him or stab him again for it. She leans in a little, putting more pressure on the knife. "Then why are they dead?"

Prince Bruno tightly shuts his eyes, the pain obviously getting to him. "Let me figure that out with you. You want justice, and I'll make it happen. I never wanted to hurt people." He opens his eyes to meet hers, and she hates that she can see honesty shining in them. "You have no reason to trust me, but I need you to give me a chance to prove my innocence. Because if I didn't do this, then that means someone else will just let it happen again."

She wants to believe him. She wants to see if he can actually find different answers than the ones she’s always known.

Part of her, the part that has planned his death since she was twelve, also wants to be done with this here and now.

But as she’s debating, the clock tower in the center of town begins to chime. Her attention jerks to it. Midnight. Far later than she ever planned on being here. Her father won’t stay much longer, and she still has to walk all the way back home. If she’s not there when he gets there…

“Fine.” It’s an effort to pry her fingers away from the knife, but she does so, taking two steps back. “You have your chance. If you didn’t kill them, then find out who did. And I’ll find out if you’re lying to me.”

She has to go. She doesn’t know whether to hope that she ever sees his face again, or not. But she turns, hurrying toward the door on the other end of the balcony, one that doesn’t lead back into the ballroom. 

"Wait, can I at least have your name this time? I want to find who hurt your people, and I want to be able to tell you when I do."

Her steps slow, then stop, and she stares at the ground, debating what to tell him. If he comes looking for her, he’ll know that she’s a fraud, a pathetic lord’s daughter being used as a servant in her own home. Maybe he won’t even want to help her anymore.

She should tell him something, though. And since her father refuses to call her by her real, Navarian name anyway… “Kamaria.” That will have to do. She’ll just find him herself as soon as she can get away, and make sure he’s holding himself to his vow.

She looks back over her shoulder at the prince, still leaning heavily against the wall with her knife sticking out of him. “Don’t let me down.”

Without waiting for an answer, she shoves through the door and runs off into the night.

[needfantasticstories]

DAY 6: YOU LIED TO ME 

[Mild on whump. Trying my hand at a Warrior’s Hyrule trope I love]

Stalls crowded the streets in Warrior’s Hyrule. People moved in unpredictable tides, going wrong ways and in eddies instead of flows.

Wind wasn’t sure how he got separated so quickly from the others. He’d only been looking at the food a little bit. One moment he was walking behind Legend, the next he realized the person ahead of him was a lady in a red tunic with blue hair, her face nearly buried in a book. 

Wind stopped in the middle of the crowd, looked around, and groaned. 

How long have I been following this lady? He searched the crowd for his brothers, but they must have been long gone by now. 

How was he supposed to find them in this crowd, anyway? He needed a crow's nest. There were stairs that led to a tall building ahead, a guard at the top. Maybe he could get up and get a better view. 

Towering turrets came into view as he rounded the corner. The castle! He didn’t even need to climb to see it. 

Wind made his way to the breathtaking structure until his path led to the gates. Off-duty guards milled around at a tavern near the entrance.

“Excuse me, um, Sir…knights? Have you seen Captain Link around? We got separated, and I really need to get back.”

“Oh!” The knight replied, handing his drink to a friend who stared at Wind as if seeing a redead. The first soldier seemed unfazed, so Wind ignored the other. “Yeah, I remember seeing you with him. I just saw him, actually. Let me send word with some messengers in case they find him first, but I saw him come this way,” the guard smiled warmly. 

“Thanks!” How cool to have a whole crew to help defend Hyrule. Wind felt a little jealous of the knights among the heroes, who didn’t have to face Ganon alone, who had skilled fighters at their back. Then again, Tetra was a one-kid army.

Wind smiled back at the soldier and sighed in relief. Thank Oshus that Warrior was probably one of the easiest Links to track down. If it had been Hyrule’s Hyrule… Wind guessed he’d probably have a pack of moblins chewing on his legs like a cuckoo wing long before ever finding the Traveler. He shivered. He’d never say it to his face, but his era was the worst era by far. Actually, he probably had said it to his face, now that he thought about it. The poor teen looked like death when he first showed up. At least the bags under his eyes had finally faded. 

He wished he could show them Outset Island, but he didn’t want Shadow opening more portals leading monsters to his home.  

The guard turned to listen to a messenger whisper something in his ear, and turned with a smile to Wind. “Excellent. He’s waiting for you at the stables.”

Warrior’s Hyrule was a dream by comparison. It had all the excitement Aryll and Tetra and the crew could want, and seas of grass he could run through for days. Traveling with the chain showed him just how amazing having more than an island to travel could be. Still, he couldn’t wait to show them what real fun looked like—sailing open seas with a full sail, conducting the wind, exploring for treasure with your crew. 

Wind followed the man away from the tavern and around a corner. 

“In here?” They came to a stable. The knight stood in the door, welcoming him inside. The stalls reeked horribly.

“Link prefers a bit of privacy. Not everyone is a fan of his,” he explained. 

Wind knew the other Links loved their big, stinky horses, so chided himself for being surprised that he’d come here. Wind had good money on a bet with Four that Warrior also had an Epona. Sky had bet that Legend had one, and Hyrule had bet on both Warrior and Wild. 

Not everyone is a fan of his. Something about the words nagged at him.

“What do you mean?” Wind asked.

“Oh, we’re big fans of the Captain, though. Happy to follow him. Just one moment. I think I see him coming…” The soldier stood on his toes to look to the far end of the stable where another set of doors stood open to another street. 

A sting on his neck and darkness closing around him showed that was a fat lie. 

He swatted at the spot and grabbed a glass vial with a tiny metal point on the end. A large hand grabbed his and held it tight, and another circled his arm and chest, pinning him. “What the…what are you doing?” he stammered. Exhaustion flooded him from the prick on his neck, weighing him down. His eyes felt heavy. But he pushed back and squirmed, trying to fight it. 

“What’s going on with this brat? Spirit normally would have seen this coming a mile away. He’s never been this easy to get the drop on…” the man holding him said.

Wind slumped against his attacker. The first soldier came closer, staring at him. 

Wind struggled to stay alert and remember who this stranger was and why he was here. He struggled to keep his head up enough to glare back.

“He’s smaller, isn’t he? Younger? Has our Dear Captain been messing with portals again? The kid probably doesn’t even know about it!” The venom in the man’s voice at Warrior’s title made Wind gut clench with anger, and if he was honest, a touch of fear. This man hated Wars. Clearly, they hated him too.

“The kid probably doesn’t even know about it”

Know about what? Wars, what didn’t you tell me? 

He huffed heavily. Had he been running? Had they chased him? Is that why he felt so tired and out of breath? No… they were liars… 

“What more damage is that monster going to cause?” a voice near his head said. They were angry. But Wind couldn't understand, couldn’t keep track of the words. Who were these people?

He was so, so tired.

[a-crumb-of-whump]

rank stardew valley's bachelors/bachelorettes on how much you'd wanna see them whumped:0

(and perhaps spice it up a bit and describe how exactly)

You have no idea how excited this ask made me. i hope you enjoy 👉🏼👈🏼

Content: Lady whump, sensory deprivation, pet whump, gags, collars, begging, [non-sexual] nudity, non-con body modifications/mutilation (cutting off fingers, cutting hair), humiliation, [forced] self degration, defiant whumpee, [non-con] drugging, failed escape attempt, multiple whumpers, multiple whumpees, [mild] blood.

1st: Elliott

Definitely the best in pet whump scenarios.

Gagging and putting a collar on him, bringing him to his knees without any sort of restraints or force. It’d be such an easy thing to do, I think. 

Stripping him of his dignity and pride. Humiliating him until he’s got nothing left. 

His whumper forcing him to lick their shoes. 

When he’s not being played with, he sleeps in a pet bed with a chain around his neck so he can’t go anywhere. 

Cutting off his hair. Watching as he grabs it all into his hands and cries, going on about how it was all he had left and that they’ve taken everything from him. How could they be so cruel?

2nd: Sebastian

Sensory deprivation for the win. 

Tying him in a stress position and taking away all his senses until the slightest touch is enough to make him cry. 

Forcing him to degrade himself. He’s already got self-esteem issues, but it would be great if his whumper could put that to the test. Getting him to admit to everything he dislikes about himself before confirming that he is indeed all of that. 

Beating him as soon as he messes up. Perhaps even before it happens. Let’s just assume he’s going to fuck up. 

Dragging him around by his hair. 

3rd: Maru

Forcing her to design and build things for her whumper to use on her. She’s got the brains for it. 

She comes off as super defiant to me. I think she’d give her whumper a rough time whenever she isn’t gagged:)

Getting a beating whenever she so much as looks at her whumper wrong. 

Crying whenever she’s left alone. She doesn’t understand why this is happening to her. 

Leaving her alone in a dark, empty room for days on end until she starts to hallucinate and doubt herself. 

4th: Shane

Experimenting on different drugs with him. Forcing him into withdrawals and watching as he begs for more, even if deep down he doesn’t want it. 

Denying him even a moment’s sleep. Beating him whenever he shuts his eyes for more than a few seconds, putting a shock collar around his neck that goes off whenever it senses him nodding off. Either that or Whumper might be watching from afar, just waiting for the moment where he fucks up. 

Giving him piercings against his will. Doing it in vulnerable places, or painful places that will no doubt get him screaming. Make him cry until he’s red in the face and barely able to breathe. 

Cutting him up and forcing him to blame it on himself when he does eventually make it home. Making him believe that he’ll never be safe again while his whumper is alive. 

5th: Alex

He’d do everything in his power to keep his dignity as he’s getting whumped. Biting his lip so hard that it bleeds to avoid crying or screaming, insulting/threatening his whumper to make himself seem braver than he is. That’d be dealt with pretty quickly, though. A few beatings and he’d resort to quietly fuming. 

Giving him a five minute head start before his whumper is after him. Making him believe that maybe he can escape, if he just gets a little further… but in the end, Whumper has him by the neck and is beating him for even thinking about escaping, even if it was his whumper that encouraged him to. 

Filming him and threatening to send it to his friends and family. Watching as he gets down onto his knees and begs for mercy - begs for his whumper to keep it a secret. That would be some wonderful leverage. 

Forcing him to hold his own weights out in front of him until he’s given permission to stop. He starts out by going “this’ll be easy” but by the end, he’s in tears and his arms are shaking as he begrudgingly calls his whumper “sir/ma’am” and tries to butter them up into letting him drop them. 

Choking him with his collar. Tightening it so much that he can barely breathe and making sure he knows that if he touches it, it’s back to punishing. 

6th: Abigail

Once again, such a defiant whumpee. She’d give her whumper hell. There would have to be a lot of restraints involved just to avoid letting her get the better of them. 

Cutting her up and seeing what’s going on inside. Squishing around and watching as she screams and watches in horror as her insides are literally rearranged. 

Some good ole’ humiliation would be great for her. Even if it’s just dying her hair bright pink and dressing her up in short skirts and other revealing clothing. Forcing her to walk around in public like that and act like it’s all normal. 

Giving her a free pass to insult her whumper as she likes, and then beating her for doing just that. Telling her that she has no right to behave that way and watching as she hesitates a little more each time they do it until finally, she gets the message and bites her tongue. 

Cutting off her fingers so she can’t really defend herself or do anything that she enjoyed before she was captured. Making her into a true pet.

7th: Harvey

Drugging him would do him good as well. Forcing him to explain the affects of each drug before he takes them, describing it in great detail, knowing that he’s going to go through that exact thing. 

Dressing him up in nothing but a collar and a gag. 

Forcing him to accept comfort when he’s scared. Quietly hushing his quiet whimpers as he’s forced against his whumper’s chest and can feel their hand, so soft and gentle, running up and down his back. He’s seen what hurt those hands can do, and he waits in anticipation for the kindness to change at any second. 

Making him ask to be hurt. Forcing him to describe what tools he’d like to be used on him and how much he’d like to be hurting by the time he’s finished. Harvey learning exactly what his whumper likes to hear and repeating that every single time until his whumper gets bored and forces him to say something different.

Getting him new glasses just so his whumper can break them over his eyes whenever they feel like it. 

Him curling up in his pathetic excuse of a bed and crying himself to sleep, wishing he was anywhere else. 

8th: Leah & Emily

She’d do everything in her power to de-escalate the situation. Assuring them that she’s cooperating and calling them the titles that they prefer, even if it makes her uncomfortable. 

I think she’d do well in a multiple whumpers type situation. Two whumpers holding her down while the third tattoos degrading words onto her body. Forcing her to give them ideas for words to tattoo. 

She’d also do great in a multiple whumpees situation! Perhaps her and Emily, since they tie for 8th anyway. Leah trying to comfort Emily after their whumper(s) have gone for the evening and holding her tight. Protecting her when they’re about. They’ve never really talked much until now, but they’re growing close and bonding over trauma. 

Emily being forced to hurt Leah. She’s such a softie, it’d break her heart having to purposely hurt another person. Yet she does it, because Leah practically begs her to. She believes it’s much better than the whumper(s) doing it. 

9th: Sam, Haley & Penny

I think the three of them would make a great whump trio. Comforting each other as they’re tortured, growing closer and bonding over trauma, just like Leah and Emily…

Sam taking beatings for the girls, to the point where he’s sure a few bones are broken and he’s sure they won’t heal properly. However, he can’t let it happen to them.

Yet it does. Penny can see how much of a toll it’s taking on Sam and offers herself up instead, only to find that it’s a lot harder to endure than Sam makes it seem. She’s strung up and beaten like a punching bag, forced to thank her whumper after each hit. Eventually Haley decides to take a turn, too. 

After the lights are out, the three of them curling up together for extra warmth and falling into a pitiful sleep because they’re all so tired. They have no idea how long it’s been since they’ve had a proper sleep. 

The girls offering whatever blankets and protection they get to Sam to make sure he gets what he deserves. Tending to his wounds after a particularly harsh session and assuring him that it’ll all be okay, even if they don’t believe it themselves.

[whumpy-daydreams]

Remember you are a knight

been thinking about rome and gladiators recently so here have gladiator whump about a lady knight

Writing masterlist

CW: lady whump, mild gore, forced to kill

The shouts from the arena were muffled by thick stone walls that kept the air cool. Ylja could picture what was happening by the cheers and screams and groans of the crowd, imagining how blood soaked into sand, bright at first before darkening into an iron-stained brown.

She paced, clenching and flexing her right hand - any way to relieve the rage filled tension building in her muscles.

Rage against being cooped up, rage against the costume she’d been forced into, at the crowd high above her, at the commander she’d failed to kill. The commander who had sent her to die for other people’s entertainment.

You are still a knight, she reminded herself. Remember your dignity.

Noise from outside the cell stilled her agitated pacing. Not the yells of other prisoners, nor the raucous noise from the arena itself, but someone walking, the sound deadened by the sand yet still echoing against the walls. 

One of the overseers stopped before her. Dressed in the simple tunic and leather cuirass that denoted him as one of the lower ranking trainers, he looked her up and down before unlocking the cell door.

“You’re next to fight. Follow me.” He moved back, already turning to walk back down the corridor. The way he seemed so sure she wouldn’t resist almost made Ylja say no. As if sensing her instinct to run he turned to give her a curious look.

With one look back at the safety of the cell, Ylja stepped next to him, silent as they passed rows of cells full of bait for the arena. Every step they took made the din grow louder, chanting and groans joining the cacophony until the first rays of pure sunlight streamed onto the ground through a barred doorway.

Ylja didn’t need to look through to know she’d see bloodshed on the other side. Instead she focused on the passageway she now waited in.

Rows of weapons lined the walls: swords and maces, axes and flails and spears. On the opposite wall were shields and helmets of all shapes and sizes, some still with dried blood half worn off.

“Any preferences?” the overseer asked, sizing her up. Ylja looked over the swords again but they weren’t what she was looking for.

“I want the sword you took from me.” The overseer just laughed. “You asked my preference - if I am to die, I want to be holding my own sword.”

“Then you’ll fight with your fists alone. We do not have your sword. Pick another or die unarmed.”

“Where is it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know - you should ask whoever brought you here. Choose a new sword.”

Biting back an insult Ylja reluctantly pointed to a longsword that looked as though it hadn’t been used in years. It was in the style of swords from the northernmost countries of the continent, the closest thing to her own sword she could see. It had a good weight to it, the leather handle perfectly worn to a soft smooth sheen.

“No shield?” The overseer seemed confused. Ylja wasn’t surprised. The grey tunic she had been given to wear had no protective qualities to speak of other than the thickness of the wool already making her sweat. She glared and he held his hands up.

A roar erupted from the arena as the last fight ended and the overseer pulled her forwards. 

For the first time Ylja could see the crowd. The bodies merged into a writhing mass of colour, protected from the early afternoon sun by billowing fabric sails that threw shadows onto the arena floor itself.

As the bars in the doorway began to move to the side the overseer spoke. “There’s a stake in the sand twenty paces forward. Stop there until the fight is started. There are no… rules, but you gain more favour for fighting fairly.” 

“Why should I need favour? I’m only here to die.” 

“The arena has its own mind. Slaves have become heroes here.”

“I am not a slave.” Ylja adjusted her grip on the sword and stepped into the light.

___

The sun was blinding, the heat bearing down on her like a fist, not the slightest breeze to ease the inferno. Ylja forced the world into focus. Three people stood in the arena with her, separated by a vast expanse of sand.

Each one weighed up the others, trying to determine who would be the easiest to defeat, who would be the victor at the end of the bloodbath. Ylja immediately dismissed the man to her right - a slender man burdened by a shield too large for him. To her left was a woman much burlier than Ylja herself, with an expression that implied a preference for cruelty over skill.

The last, the man directly opposite, was the only opponent Ylja gave a second glance. He was dressed in the uniform of the professional gladiators, the fighters paid to perform the most spectacular battles. If the crowd were betting, and Ylja knew they were, they were betting on him.

Ylja redirected her focus to the stands opposite her. In the centre of the rows of civilians was a large platform, a private gallery for the wealthiest and most important people in the empire. Seated at the front was the Emperor himself; the silk of his robes such a bright gold he could have been the sun itself. At his sides were people Ylja didn’t recognise, with one exception.

The commander stood just beside the Emperor, dressed in clothes that, while fine, would be more suited to a war room than the largest theatre in the world. Even from the other side of the arena Ylja knew he was watching her.

Well, if he wanted her to die in a spectacle she’d give him the performance of a lifetime.

Drums began to beat, the deep sound echoing Ylja’s racing heart, growing louder as the crowd became restless, all eyes on a crimson flag high above the centre of the arena. Ylja raised her sword.

Time slowed as the flag began to fall. The woman to her left braced her feet ready to run. The boy opposite looked ready to run. The gladiator only waited. The Emperor took another sip from his goblet. The commander remained deadly still.

The flag hit the ground like a pool of fresh blood.

The cruel woman was already running to the boy but Ylja turned her attention to the gladiator, who was walking steadily towards her.

He wore simple leather armour, hair cropped close to his scalp, and had forgone a shield in favour of two short swords. Ylja risked a glance back towards the boy and instantly regretted it, his now limp body a mangled mess, blood staining the sand all around him.

He was never going to survive this. 

She met the gladiators blades with the familiar clash of steel against steel, twisting away to disengage and regain the distance between them. They began to circle, each analysing the other’s movements, searching for patterns and weak spots.

The gladiator lunged first, a smooth flurry of movement that had Ylja retreating. Pain blossomed on her arm as a sword bypassed her defence. She retaliated in turn, her sword just an extension of her arms, deadly and beautiful as it danced.

A flail whirled and the pair broke apart, the woman joining the fray with a snarl. The dance became a hurricane of iron, the cheers and shouts of the crowd merging into a steady roar that drowned out the blood rushing in Ylja’s ears.

Sand began to fill the air, stinging Ylja’s skin as she lunged into a roll to avoid a wicked ball of iron. Somewhere in the chaos she met the gladiators eyes and a sense of understanding flickered between them,

The woman’s attention on Ylja, the gladiator moved, fainting to the side as Ylja threw a handful of sand up towards the woman’s face.

She stepped back, blinded, and the gladiator struck, his swords driving through her back until they emerged below her collarbones. Blood sprayed across the ground as he pulled them back. The flail hit the sand before the woman did.

Breathing heavily, Ylja stood, keeping her eyes on the gladiator. Both were tired now, exhausted from the heat. Again they watched each other, that brief understanding turning to the adrenaline filled hope of survival. The crowd erupted in bloodthirsty cries as their swords once again met.

You are a knight. Remember your skill.

The reminder felt futile as Ylja swung again and again, quickly retreating into a panicked frenzy. Steel cut into her hand, blood making the sword grip slick, the sharp cold burn proving what she already knew.

He was better than her. There was no malice in the gladiator’s eyes as he forced her back, only detached determination. Again and again he struck hard and fast, and the next time his sword struck Ylja cried out in pain.

It was only a matter of time. A wrong step and Ylja was on her back, hot sand sticking to her bloody hand, mingling with the deeper wound on her arm, the gritty taste in her mouth and eyes.

You are a knight. Go down fighting.

With a raw scream she forced his next blow aside. He stumbled, thrown off balance, one sword lost to the sand. It was all she needed. Rolling to her feet she kicked out and her foot found its mark in his stomach.

The gladiator hit the ground with a grunt. Before he could recover his breath Ylja was above him, sword poised over his throat. His eyes met hers, a gaze of admiration and sorrow and that same determination. 

Ylja panted. The crowd were screaming, rich and poor alike turned to bloodthirsty savages as they craved the next spilling of blood. Horror dawned on her like the clearest sunrise.

You are a knight. Remember mercy.

Ylja lowered her sword. She wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. The man in front of her was not her enemy. He was just a man. Forced to compete in the same brutal games as penance for some unknown crime.

The gladiator lunged. A flash of steel, a determined look, and Ylja plunged her sword through his heart.

Shock drowned the adrenaline coursing through her. Ylja let the gladiator fall, the sword still stuck in his unmoving chest. She felt sick. For a moment she thought she was going to throw up right there on the sand but before her stomach could betray her the arena grew quiet.

Squinting against the sun, Ylja looked up at the gallery in the stalls. The Emperor had stood, walking to the front so all could see him clearly as someone entered the arena.

Ylja tensed, preparing herself for a new opponent, but the man carried no weapons, only a wooden sword. He beckoned her forwards and reluctantly she complied, wiping her bloody hands on the grey tunic designed to humiliate her.

“The Emperor has gifted you your life, if you choose to take it,” the man said, holding the wooden sword out to her.

Ylja looked up again, past the Emperor, to the commander. She had never seen someone look at her with such hatred, such anger. It had been his command that sent her to the arena. If he thought she would go down without a fight he should have killed her while he had the chance.

“Make your choice, girl.” She looked back to the man offering her life in a wooden sword. The crowd erupted once again as she gripped the handle.

You are not a knight. You are a gladiator.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Forced to Kneel

BTHB: Forced to Kneel/Bow

Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs

Synopsis: Captured by some bizarre cult, Atsushi has terrible flashbacks to his life before the Agency.

CW: captivity, forced to kneel, mild cult stuff, some blood

Atsushi swayed a little on his feet, dizzy with fear. His blood thundered in his veins. The hooded figures surrounding him stood silent, but their presence crowded in on him, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Familiar. It was all so horribly familiar. Flashes of memories skittered across his mind like lightning: a dim, cold church; stern faces glowering down at him; harsh voices berating him for being himself--

A pair of heavy hands forced Atushi to his knees. A low, unfeeling voice breathed in his ear: “On your knees, wretch.” He shivered, keeping his head low, not daring to look at the figure seated on the raised dais before him.

“So this is the boy.” The voice echoed down from the throne, sending icy chills up Atsushi’s spine. He shivered again, unable to keep himself from trembling. The heavy hands pressed down harder, holding him in place, digging into his shoulders with a painful grip. He gritted his teeth against the incoming wave of shame and fear. His nerves shouted at him to run, fight, do something other than kneel like some kind of worthless slave, but his mind felt foggy, and his body wouldn’t move.

The figure seated on the throne raised its head. Atsushi dared to look for just a moment. He got a glimpse of a face: a young woman, his cheeks thin and her skin pale. And her eyes. They met his for no more than a second before he looked away, but their emptiness chilled him to the bone. So empty. The lifeless, dead eyes of a living corpse.

“And he can shift? You have witnessed his transformation?”

“Not directly, my lady, but we know he—” With a hoarse cry the man holding him jerked violently back as if struck in the face. A subtle wave of shock rippled through the rest of the hooded figures; the man staggered in their midst, a hand clamped over his neck. Blood seeped through his fingers. He glanced at the young girl with wild, horrified eyes, and Atsushi dared a swift glance at the girl once again. She was standing in front of the throne, her right hand outstretched, her index finger raised slightly, her eyes still dead.

Atsushi couldn’t breathe. Who was this girl? What kind of terrible power could she possibly have, to make a man bleed like that?

“That is not enough. If you were faithful to me, you would know that.” She advanced a step down, closer to where Atsushi still knelt, motionless. ��You, boy. Transform for me.”

Transform…what kind of messed-up group was this? What did they want from him? He couldn’t transform now. He had to save his strength to rescue Dazai—

“Do it!” the girl hissed, and her voice swelled to fill the room. “Do it, or you will be punished!”

Punishment. It was so horribly familiar.

Atushi couldn’t stop himself from obeying. Part of his mind retreated into itself; the flashbacks started again, painfully vivid, sickening even; he couldn’t stop them, he couldn’t stop himself—

“Atsushi!”

Dazai’s voice.

He was still alive. He was there.

And Atsushi had to help him.

@forthetaintedsorrow-whump @whumping-out-of-time @whumping-to-conclusions @badthingshappenbingo

[narcolini]

in his shadow - pt. 3

ez reyes x oc: ava gomez, 3426 words

warnings for alcohol usage and mild steaminess, 18+

for day 19 of whumpril: ‘i’m worried about you’

a/n: ok. mi gente, mi compas. this had all the intentions of being whump and angst and then. i dont know what happened. im so sorry to the whumpril creators but my brain said we flirting today and thats all i could do. anyway HUGE eyes at this development

tagging: @drabbles-mc @cositapreciosa​ my ez ladies 

previous part here

Her grand plan to make amends, went as smoothly as every other plan she’s had lately—which is not smooth at all, forever doomed to tip into something like disaster, apparently. She’d pulled up to EZ’s trailer undetected at first, which filled her with confidence that this would work. Had managed to get half the weights from her trunk, to the spot just beside his door, without too much noise as well. It was all going perfectly, really, until she dropped the last dumbbell onto one of the others, sending the pair of them clattering to the ground.

He didn’t burst out like she thought he might’ve, gun in hand and ready for assault, so she carried on with her mission regardless. Scooped the lighter one first, put it back into place. Turned her attention again to the one that stretched her arms out tight, too heavy, really, for her to be lifting at all.

Her dedication to correcting the mistake made her miss the door opening, made her oblivious to EZ standing in the frame of it now, half-dressed and rubbing his eyes.  

‘What’s this?’ he asks, voice breaking the silence. Deep, and sleep-trodden, from the step above her. ‘Some sort of reverse robbery?’

‘Shit.’ His arrival makes her jump, grip slipping momentarily. ‘Sorry.’

‘Was about to come out here swinging, Ava.’

Was about to tackle her to the ground, no doubt, demanding to know what she was doing at his place when he’s trying to sleep.

She sighs, standing from her bend, the last dumbbell finally set into the bottom rack. ‘I was trying to get it all out before you…’ The words fade off, replaced by a smile. It doesn’t matter. She shouldn’t have been sneaking up on a Mayan, but the end result is the same now. ‘Peace offering?’ she says, unable to shake the question from the end of it. If he wants her to go, she will. But if he takes the gift willingly, she’ll get to leave with one less burden on her shoulders.

He softens slightly—though with the way he’s squinting into the falling sun, it’s hard to tell. He’d look like he was frowning if it weren’t for the small tweak to his lips. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

‘But I did.’ She pulls open the tote over her arm, grabbing the bottle from within and holding it up to him. ‘I brought Tequila too.’

‘Tequila?’

She winces, apologetic. ‘I don’t drink beer.’

He laughs, head tilting to the side, like he’s weighing up the idea. ‘Tequila it is,’ he says, stepping back for her to enter. ‘But if you get me wasted, Bish will—’

‘I know, I know, you’re on call.’ She waves him off. ‘I’m very familiar with leading prospects astray.’ Sebastian used to pull the battery from his phone and claim he was out of range, with no signal to answer when el presidente called. ‘We’ll be good.’

She just wants to break the tension for a bit, that’s all. It’s been a few days since he came to get Seb’s things, since she sent him away for telling her what he thought. They haven’t spoken about it—which wouldn’t be too unusual, considering she’s only had his number for a week or so—but it feels noticeably awkward somehow. Like they aren’t speaking on purpose. She’d been at the clubhouse yesterday, and only got as much as a nod from him.

The door shuts behind them, pulled to by EZ. He does’t latch it, but leaves a crack for the breeze, for the glimpse of orange sun each time the gap widens it. ‘You really didn’t have to bring all this over,’ he says.

‘I just wanted to…’ She spins, still clutching the bottle with both hands. ‘I don’t know, I thought it over and I realised you’re right. What you said, it’s fucking right.’

He nods, quiet like he knows there’s more. She follows him with her eyes as he steps past her, reaching for a t-shirt, then pulling it over his head as she continues.

‘So I wanted to say sorry for that.’ She takes a breath. Sorry and can we forget it, she means, can we pretend I didn’t turf you out just for trying to be a friend. ‘But, I also think you were really, really, dumb—’

‘I thought this was an apology,’ he laughs, frowning through it.

‘It is—shut up—you were really dumb for laying it on me there when I was already in a fucking weird headspace.’

His brows dip again, but the smile lingers. The t-shirt settles around him. ‘And you’re sorry because…I was dumb?’

‘Because you didn’t know I have a complex about my dead fiancé’s house,’ she finishes, trying her best to remain sincere, but now he’s smiling, she is too. ‘Sorry. For that. Sorry I didn’t take your advice and sorry I didn’t tell you why.’ She nods, huffs. Relaxes now it’s out in the open.

‘Well, thank-you, and thank-you for the…’ He gestures behind him, in the direction of the weights on the other side. ‘But I’m the one that owes you an apology.’

‘Oh, don’t do that,’ she groans, ‘I’m trying to be the better person here.’

He goes to fight her on it, half-smile lifting in his lips, but then decides against it. Concedes and lets her have this one. ‘Alright, call it even then.’ She knows there’s an apology under there anyway. ‘Want me to get some glasses?’

‘Please.’ She passes him the bottle, ditching her bag on the side, and turning to the—‘Oh.’ She stops herself. ‘You were sleeping.’

The two couches that were there last time have been joined by a third cushion, long and filling the gap in place of the table, making the living room into a bedroom. The sheets on top are twisted, his bed unmade and abandoned from when she had woken him up.

‘Late night?’ she asks, hovering by the end of it.

‘Yeah, sorry, you can just.’ He flits from the kitchen space behind her, abandoning the open cupboard, to waft the sheet free and flat. He smoothes it quickly, tossing his pillow to the opposite end. ‘I can put it away if you want.’

‘No, no, I don’t mind.’ Seeing him fuss over it is making her regret even saying anything to start with. She can practically see his ears reddening the longer he tries to make it presentable, can feel her own doing the same as a result. She should’ve just climbed on in the first place, as if nothing were different. ‘Get the drinks,’ she tells him, ‘I can sit here.’

He lets her past, nodding as she settles onto the end of the bed. She toes her sneakers off, then puts her legs up on the thin mattress and shuffles back until she’s sat against the wall. It’s hard to imagine sleeping here, with no space either side of it, and it being thinner and shorter, much shorter, than any normal bed, but it is cozy. She can picture that. If it were her trailer, she’d have fairy light around the nook it’s in, make the bed a den instead of a camping situation.

‘Here.’ He passes her a glass. ‘I don’t have ice, sorry.’

‘You’re good.’ Tequila is tequila. She doesn’t intend to savour it like he might.

He climbs over her then, opting to sit on her left. When he puts his legs out, stonewash jeans atop the sheet, his feet are a stretch away from meeting the wall on the opposite side. Hers barely reach his ankles.

‘Salud,’ she says, clinking her glass to his.

He matches her, but when they go to drink, hers goes back in one, sharp and potent, while EZ just takes a sip.

‘Jesus.’ He laughs, coughing out through the taste of it. ‘We’re doing shots now?’

‘I am.’ She frowns, swallowing a second time to get rid of the burn. ‘Don’t know how you savour this stuff.’

‘Well,’ he considers it, looking into his glass with a smirk, ‘usually I drink nicer stuff. This is, yeah, it’s pretty rough.’

‘Oh, wow,’ her eyes roll, ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t break the bank for our peace-keeping drinks.’

He laughs, teeth flashing, and she joins him easily, glad to be with someone who can take her sarcasm as it’s intended. ‘Damn, was I even complaining?

‘No, but you aren’t rushing to refill my glass either, so…’

He bumps her, shoulder to shoulder. ‘You’re closer. You go.’

*

She did, and now they’re three shots down, cheeks warm, eyes glazing. EZ still insisted on sipping his, which was pacing Ava in a way she needed but would never have managed herself. Once the first was in, that was it, as careless with liquor as she was in college.

‘Okay,’ she announces, humming afterwards, ‘no more for a bit. You take your time with that one.’

‘Yeah? You feeling it?’

She smiles up at him—because he’s still sitting properly, back straight to the wall, and not half way into the bed the way she is. ‘Just the perfect amount.’

He nods, his own glass balanced on his lap. ‘Alright. Perfect amount.’

Perfect, warming, spinning room, amount. They’re sitting close enough to be touching now, arm to arm, hip to hip. More warmth added to the heat stirring in her chest, and tracking down her throat. This might be the first time she’s enjoyed Tequila in years. Her new favourite way to drink, cooped up on EZ’s three-part mattress.

‘You know,’ he starts, clearing his throat in-between, ‘the other day, I really didn’t mean to…’ He rubs the back of his head, itching the words out of him. ‘I’m worried about you, that’s all it is. Trying to look out for you.’ He laughs. ‘And being a dick about it in the process.’

’S'okay.’ She shrugs, sleeves bunching against his own. They’d already been through this. He was right, she was wrong, the timing was fucking terrible. ‘No biggie, is it?’ She pauses, then decides against stopping there. ‘But…’ she adds, drawing out the word, turning the T over between her teeth.

‘Let me have it.’ He sighs theatrically. ‘I can take it.’

Her hand lifts, elbow on the bed between them, finger waving in his general direction. ‘The trying to look out for me part,’ she says. ‘I get it. You’re a gentleman, blah blah blah, but, please don’t. Y’know, just. Don’t. That’s half the pinche problem with the rest of those payasos.’

He smiles, ducking his chin like that might hide it.

Which it doesn’t, of course, because Ava catches it right away, her brows pulling together sharply. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ Another smirk. ‘Just that, well, you’re getting it.’ He takes a sip, hissing it back, then adds, ‘And also, you only ever speak spanish when you’re drunk?’

‘Drunk and bullied by my family,’ she answers quickly, sitting upright and away from the wall to look at him properly. That was beside the point. That wasn’t what he was smiling about. ‘Getting what?

‘How to tell people when they do shit you don’t like.’ He says it like he’s proud, like he wants her to do it again, even if he’s on the other end of the sharpened spike. ‘Now you just gotta times it by like, a thousand, and tell the guys to stop being so fucking weird.’

‘Hm.’ She slouches into herself, smiling. Alcohol or not, he’s right, she had told him—in fact, she’s always told him. It came out easier with him, somehow. Even the argument at her house was proof of it; she never would have told Gilly to leave like that, or Coco, or Angel. There was no Sebastian looming over her shoulder when she spoke to EZ, no old friendship that she had to be respectful of. Just her, just him. A clean slate had never felt so fucking good. ‘I can do that,’ she says, believing it.

‘Yeah?’ His brow arches. ‘You wanna go tell them right now?’

She snorts, loud and uncharacteristic of her. ‘God, no. Fuck, no. I’d say something completely out of order and make everything worse.’

She’d say all the things she’s struggling not to say now, holding back with just a tequila tongue and pure will power.

‘Like what?’ EZ asks, putting one ankle atop the other. Settling in like he expects her to have an entire list of forbidden topics to share.

‘Man, I don’t know.’ She combs through her hair once, detangling it on the exit, fingertips catching in the ends. ‘Honestly? Probably something like…’ She looks down, fiddling with her hands. ‘Never mind.’

‘No, what? Don’t do that,’ EZ bursts, grinning around the complaints. ‘You can’t do that.’

She shakes her head, attempting to dismiss his excitement, his building intrigue. ‘It’s just stupid. Shallow.’ Things she could admit to girl friends and nobody else, especially not him.

‘Try me.’

She looks him over, sitting against the wall beside her. Broad shoulders, soft eyes. A plain t-shirt with a logo she doesn’t recognise. He’s hardly a threat, hardly set up to judge her. There’s no kutte, no sign of the Mayans and all the shit that comes with them, just EZ. Ezekiel Reyes. The guy fresh out of prison, fresh in the club. Just as much of a clean slate as she wants to be.

‘God, okay.’ She sucks a breath in, puts her hands over her eyes like it might be easier to admit in the dark. ‘I think, well, I was going to say, sometimes I actually miss them hitting on me.’

He laughs, loud and deep and genuine.

She should have never expected anything less.

Her hands come down, desperate to defend herself. ‘No, like.’ She’s leaning forward now, a breath away from tapping on his stomach, from grabbing his shirt and making him be serious about this. ‘Listen, EZ, stop it. I can explain.’

‘Relax,’ he says, laughing still, but lifting his hands like he’s innocent. ‘I’m listening.’ The drink sloshes against his glass, meeting him at his lips afterwards.

‘Even when Sebastian was alive,’ she explains, talking through the scorching red blush in her face, ‘they’d try it. Not seriously, sure, but there was some fucking, jokey, acknowledgement that I’m, y’know, a fucking woman.’

He nods, holding back a smile by pressing his lips tightly together. He’s doing his best, he is, and if she wasn’t embarrassed on a deathly level, she’d be laughing with him. Instead, she’s paddling against the tide. Desperate to reach the side where he understands, and he isn’t laughing, and she doesn’t want to be eaten whole by the gap between the trailer’s couches.

‘Stop it,’ she pleads. ‘I know it’s stupid.’

‘It’s not.’

‘But now I’m on the other fucking side of the spectrum, and they act like I’m some wrinkly, old widow.’

‘It’s not stupid, Ava.’

‘Or a mother, actually,’ she continues, talking over him. ‘Like I’m Mom and Dad’s six feet under.’ And the rest of the club are the fatherless kids she’s left with, doomed to forever think she’s more mother than woman, more grief than life.

EZ’s quiet now, sitting back to watch her with a smile he isn’t bothering to hide. ‘Y’know, I can tell Angel to make a move, if it’ll make you feel better?’ A snort comes out of him, head shaking lightly. ‘Think he’d sleep with anyone who asked at this point.’

She recoils, face crumpling. ‘First of all, fucking, ew. Secondly, is that supposed to be a compliment? Am I that unfuckable?’

He laughs, nervous this time, blood rushing to his ears quick enough to be noticeable.

‘God, EZ, if I wanted to be humbled, I’d—’

He cuts her off, setting his glass on the windowsill behind. ‘Alright, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’ He scrambles for words, palms raised to either side of his head, and then gesturing toward her. ‘You’re obviously, you know.’

She stares. She isn’t above begging for compliments, at least, not in her current state. Hot head, hotter heart. She smiles, prompting him to continue, ‘You know…?’

He matches her gaze, holding it, and her, still and silent for a moment. It’s dark in there now, the sun’s slipped beneath the horizon, just about, and neither of them have bothered to hit a light. The room’s dampened in a cool, blue, dusk. Just the green glow from the microwave clock, and the orange from the streetlamp through the window.

It feels smaller, suddenly. One room, one bed.

‘Sorry,’ she gathers herself, ‘sorry. I’m clearly in the desperate stage of drinking.’

It’s not on him to make her feel better, not about this sort of shit. It’s probably not a good idea, either, to even consider going down that road. Flirting with Mayans was only fun when it was harmless, when it lead to nothing because Sebastian was there, telling them to watch their mouths every time that they did.

EZ hasn’t looked away still, even though she’s looking down at her hands. She can feel him watching her. Brown eyes set.

‘I’m game,’ he says.

Her head tugs up. ‘What?’

He shrugs. There’s a smirk in the corner of his mouth, a glint in his eye. He looks boyish, charming, in a way he hasn’t before. ‘I’m game, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

‘But..’ She hesitates, doubt seeping through the pores. There’s no question in his meaning, from the way he’s looking at her, the way her heart’s beating in response—like it knows before she does, what it all means—but in his reasoning. His motivation. ‘Do you want to?’ she asks, hating how it makes her sound. It strips her back of confidence, wanting or not. ‘It’s not just, y’know, feeling sorry for the lonely widow?’

She’s older than him, and layered with baggage he could never dream of. Drunk and babbling about missing attention, even when it meant nothing at all. Surely he, of all people, has better choices, better options for fun, than a night with her?

His eyes flick to her lips. Just once, but lingering. ‘When have I ever said I feel sorry for you, Ava?’

‘Never.’ The word falls out without her having to think it. He’s never said it, never implied it, either.

‘Mhmm.’ He hums, and then he’s leaning forward, eyes on her mouth again, palm flat on the bed between them. ‘Can I?’

Can he?

She nods.

He kisses her once to test the waters; one hand to the side of her jaw, his lips gentle, careful even. When she doesn’t pull back, or screw up with regret, and guilt, the way he must have expected her to do, he goes again, harder, keener. Hit teeth catch hers as he deepens the kiss, a hot sigh pulled from the back of his tongue. She meets him there, kneeling to get closer, putting his face between her palms.

It’s the first time she’s kissed like this since Sebastian. Hungrily, uncaring of the time or place. Her lips open, wanting, her tongue tracing the edge. She puts a leg over his and then she’s sitting in his lap, all breath and heartbeat, and wild, spinning thoughts.

His hands are digging up her top already, shoving the material up her spine to her shoulders. They break apart long enough to get it over her head and onto the floor, then it’s back to kissing. He moves from her mouth to her jaw, then down to her neck. Puts teeth and panting breaths against the column of her throat.

‘You sure you want to?’ he asks, pulling back to look up at her. His eyes are darker than she expected, not glinting with possibility anymore, but deepening with need, lust.

She nods, chest heaving into his. ‘Yeah,’ she says, and then she nods again, pinching brows as she realises it herself, ‘I think I need it actually.’

She needs to be looked at like that again, to have someone’s palms to her thighs and her ribs and the cup of her breasts. To know that she can be wanted, for herself, for her body. To know it can happen again, now that he’s gone.

‘Will you?’ she asks.

He laughs—light and breathy—but nods, sincere in his answer. When he leans forward to kiss her again, he’s smiling. They both are. Lips to wanting lips.

>>> part four here

[thewhumperinwhite]

WKW: The Rose Queen, Part 2

WKW Masterlist / The Rose Queen Part 1

alternate title: [insert power man] you in danger girl

like i said i dont remember who my taglist was and i think a bunch of those people are inactive now so i'm just going through my activity on other wkw posts i'm so sorry anyway uh @whumpitywhumpwhump @buggy-about-town @the-monarch-whumperfly @whump-cravings (also yk please message me if you wanna be tagged in wkw stuff)

TW for: implied/referenced child abuse/neglect; (graphically) referenced whipping; Mild Ritual Self-Harm (cutting palm); Fantasy Religious Themes

----

She should know better by now, she should. But when the news comes that some shadowy invader from the North has besieged the Castle at Colomur and means to take the Lion’s head, Cinth really believes that her grandfather will rise in his King’s defense.

The Rose Count has been one of the royal family’s most important political allies for seven generations, almost as long as the Horned Lady herself. Cinth takes it as a given that the count must marshal his forces against the invaders—he must. He has tied himself to Fourshield house by decades of service and by blood, too—Cinth’s mother may have left the Court at Colomur, and have dragged Cinth away along with her, but she is still the Lion’s wife, and the Lion’s sons have Rose blood in their veins as surely as Cinth does herself.. Cinth knows there is no love in the old man’s heart for anything more complex than the silks and feathers of his own Court, but surely it must be politically expedient to—surely—

“The Rose Court has weathered many of the Lion’s wars,” he tells her while she stands before him in his study, her face hot and palms cold with horror. “We shall weather this, as well.”

About the House, he may even be correct. That remains to be seen.

About himself, at least, he is wrong.

By the time she leaves her grandfather’s study that evening—the second evening of the Seige of Colomur, twenty days before its fall—it is late and her voice is hoarse from an hour of reasoning, twenty minutes of shouting, and another fifteen of begging. She thinks, very briefly, of running to her mother’s chambers, next. Of waking her mother with tears, of crawling into her lap like a child and begging her too, of wasting the rest of the night pleading with Lilianne of Rose to raise one single bejeweled finger to save her sons from death and torture.

However, Cinth has bashed her head against that particular wall before. And, truthfully, she has never had her brother’s stomach for punishment.

She goes to the library, instead. She reads for three days. She picks at the sweetmeats and fruit the servants bring her, thinking of siege rations. Starving herself will not give Andry extra food; she resists the temptation.

The seat of House Rose is an elegant and sprawling manor, not a Castle like the fortress at Colomur. It is an edifice of plaster scrollwork and elaborate frescoes and about a thousand doors, and it is much easier to leave without being seen. Slightly harder to pilfer the fine stuff she needs from the kitchens, but all it takes is a single raised eyebrow to convince the scullery maid who spots her to let her leave with the meat and wine, and a gold coin to ensure her silence about it afterward.

There are a dozen illuminated volumes about the Faefolk in House Rose’s library, and they are almost all glorious histories of the Horned Lady and her generous patronage of Fourshield house. (Cinth tucks one of these into her bag, just in case.) Of the few remaining books and scrolls, one is transparent propaganda from the north about the dangers of the unbound faery and how to kill one, one is an exhaustive catalogue of every minor house in the kingdom and its Patron; and one—Lady-Be-Blessed—actually contains some actionable fucking information.

At sundown on the fourth day of the Siege of Colomur, Cinth rides out through the Rose Trellis’s extravagant manicured gardens and keeps going, through the surrounding town and past the vineyards and farms, into the forest beyond. She brings her rapier, more for a sense of security than anything else; it might deter a wolf if wielded cleverly but no amount of skill will make a rapier any good against a wild boar or a bear.

Cinth does not gamble often. She is gambling a little, now. That the rumors she has heard about this place are true, and that something lives here stronger than a wolf, fiercer even than a boar. And that the book she found in the manor’s library, a unadorned linen-bound volume, many decades old and rarely read if she had to guess, has any truth on its pages at all.

By the time she has finished assembling her little makeshift altar, the only light is the occasional firefly, and the candle she sets on top and lights with a flint from her grandfather’s tinderbox. She sits back on her heels, sweaty and out of breath from hauling stones around for what feels like hours.

One does not summon a Faery, according to the book, and attempting to do so will only cause insult. However, the un-patroned man (or woman, Cinth assumes, though of course the text does not say so) might—entice one, with a little effort.

She doesn’t know if its true. She has not prayed to the Lady since she left Colomur Castle, and does not do so now—her prayer, if so it may be called, is directed at no one in particular.

Lady Hyacinth of Rose is a highborn lady, three steps removed from royalty; she is accustomed, also, to being ignored. She will not be ignored tonight.

Cinth raises her palm above the meat and wine she has arranged on the altar. This isn’t in the book. She thinks, though, of the way the blood poured from her brother’s back the day the Lady claimed him, how it soaked through his once-fine trousers and puddled on the packed earth under the pillory. She draws her sword, wraps her fist around it. Slices through her palm, once, clean and deep.

“Hear me,” she says, fiercely, into the candle’s flame. “No one else with any power will. But if you will hear me, whoever you are, and you have power—give it to me. Give me your power, and I swear, on the Lion’s Head, on my own: I will make your name heard from here to the depths of the Leisevan Wastes.” She squeezes her fist once, brutally; blood splatters over the lamb and wine upon the altar. “And if it means anything,” Cinth says through bared teeth, “I promise you a great deal more blood than this.”

As she says this, a drop of blood lands squarely on the candles wick, extinguishing it with a hiss. Cinth swears at the sudden darkness, and her hand opens automatically.

In the blackness, Cinth feels another hand take hers.

“I think we can work something out,” a voice says in her ear.