#office whump!

[deluxewhump]

The Scry

Marginal Gains

CW: noncon unmedicated surgery mention, forced labor, whumpee with supernatural power, guilt, old fashioned soft h/c, forced carewhumping, scar reveal

“Marginal gains,” Max muttered in his best impression of Martin Olson. “How about exponential ones?”

It was bittersweet. The competitive side of him was elated, looking at the numbers over and over like his eyes were transposing a zero somewhere.

But there was no mistake. In the last week he’d put up two more major contracts, both with multimillion dollar companies in Milwaukee and Minneapolis. Their legal teams gave the green light after looking over the paperwork, and the necessary signatures were right in front of him, the figurative ink already dried.

He e-signed the bottom of the contract for Milwaukee and saved the file.

It felt good. He’d been back and forth with a logistics company in Boston for weeks now, wasting his time and breath on the phone to their obtuse CFO about the minutiae of the contracts wording.

Meanwhile, there were clients like these two out in the Midwest, eager and ready to pull the trigger on a contract the same week they recived it.

He’d never have found them if it wasn’t for the tireless efforts of his precog, Carlo.

And therin was the bittersweetness.

He’d bought a folding cot for his office, some soft blankets. He made Carlo a bed and gave him a tablet to watch movies, tv shows, play on the internet. He fed him lunch every day, made sure he had the mini fridge stocked with different kinds of drinks— his favorite pink lemonade, sparkling water, those little Starbucks iced drinks. He took him home every night and weekend.

But it was all a lame apology— a bandaid pasted over a wound that required stitches.

He’d used Carlo’s scrying abilities to find both his new clients. It had taken several sessions. They’d find out a piece of information and follow it to its end, where they’d begin to see the shapes of the gaps in the information they already knew, not unlike the game of Wordle they played every morning, trying to beat each other's score.

Carlo would go lie down after each scry, shaking and pale and sick, and Max would dig until he thought he had the next lead for Carlo to chase down like a supernatural bloodhound.

And so they fell into a terrible routine where Max did the legwork, and then pointed Carlo's precognition at a hunch like a flaming arrow in the dark.

And it had taken a toll.

He sent the signed contract back in it's email thread, clicked out of his browser and stood to go check on the boy.

“How’re you feeling?”

Carlo gave him a grateful little smile from the cot. Even though his pain was for Max's benefit, and Max did it to him, he acted like it wasn’t so. Like it was some other source that caused his suffering and Max was the one who provided a place to rest, who spoke to him softly and petted back his hair from his sweaty brow.

“Do you need me?” the boy asked.

Max's heartstrings pulled.

“No, little one. No more today. Or this week, for that matter."

The nicknames came easily, someow even easier than calling Ingrid babe for the first time after they’d gotten together.

Honey, sweetheart. Little one. Carlo seemed to like it, and it took away some of the captor and captive dynamic he felt when he was torturing the poor kid for information— which, Ingrid told him, was a twisted way of looking at it.

But it’s how it felt.

“I can,” Carlo assured him. "If you need me."

He was sitting on his cot with his back to the office wall, wrapped in a blanket with the tablet on his lap. He was pale. Max reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers on his cheek. He was warm to the touch.

“You’ve done amazing work this week. Two major new clients on my account? Contracts executed? That’s three months of digging around and making shots in the dark for me.”

“Did we get the profit margin you wanted?”

“We did.”

Carlo beamed at him, his eyes glassy like he had a fever. A chill went through him and he closed his mouth so his teeth wouldn’t chatter as he shivered. “Good,” he said when it passed.

Max sat down on the cot beside him. “I’m sorry I did this to you.”

Carlo dropped his eyes shyly. “It’s okay. I know you have to.”

“I wanted to refuse, at first. But…”

Carlo shrugged, way ahead of him. “It’d just be somebody else, if you did. Or worse.”

“Worse?”

He picked at the soft edge of the blanket Max had bought him. “They could just give me back.”

Max was quiet for a moment. Carlo never volunteered anything he didn’t want to talk about. The fact he brought it up made Max more comfortable asking a follow up question.

“Back where?”

Carlo hesitated.

“Do you think they've bugged your office?” he asked finally.

Max almost huffed but second guessed himself. Now that he thought about it, he wouldn’t put it past Spartan, or Martin Olson. And honestly, he signed some things regarding the precog without reading all the fine print (they designed it that way, it would have taken hours.)

“Possibly, yeah."

Carlo thought about that. He pushed the blanket to his hips and pulled up the corner of his shirt to reveal a deep and alarming scar running down the side of his body like a whip weal.

“What did that to you?” Max asked quietly.

Carlo opened a notes app on the tablet.

A doctor, he typed.

Max felt his stomach turning. He asked for the tablet and the boy turned it over for him.

Were you sick?

Carlo took the tablet and started typing.

They study us. In a hospital. Research.

Max stared at the words on the screen, not wanting to look into those dark, expressive eyes at this very moment.

“Against your will?” he said softly. If his office was bugged, they’d lost the context of the conversation by now.

Carlo blinked at him. “I don't get one of those."

Max felt slightly sick. There was no air all of a sudden. None of the tenth floor windows opened, of course. He willed the AC to kick on.

Carlo looked from him to the tablet, like he was contemplating saying something. He decided, and Max waited as he typed something out and turned it around for him.

I don’t want to leave in case I go back there. I can't do that again They kept me awake.

Max stared at the words, comprehension coming too fast and slow all at once, creeping and settling in.

“Awake for…” he nodded at Carlo’s shirt, where he now knew there were scars on his belly.

Carlo nodded, one single dip of the chin.

“Jesus.”

Carlo swallowed, looking away now like he was embarrassed.

Don’t overreact, Max told himself. He doesn’t want pity. He wants you to understand him.

He leaned forward and beckoned Carlo closer to whisper to him. Carlo leaned in, and Max held him gently by the back of the neck. “No one’s going to take you from here. From me. We’re leading the pack right now. This is exactly what they hoped for.”

Carlo dropped his forehead so it rested on Max’s shoulder. It was a touching gesture. This was the closest they’d possibly ever been, physically, he realized. He was almost holding him.

And why not?

Slowly, he draped his arm around his back, scooping him closer. Carlo came to him, closing the distance so they were pressed together with his chin tucked down and his cheek pressed against Max’s shoulder.

He wrapped his other arm around him and held him, his too-warm body giving off heat like a furnace in his arms.

“I think I’m learning,” Max murmured to him. “I’m getting more precise, understanding how to use your power more sparingly ... and with more accuracy.”

Carlo reached up and hooked his arms loosely about Max’s neck. He could feel the tension leaving him, how much he liked being held. The thought of someone keeping his helpful, sharp, sweet precog awake for surgery made him angry, but as usual when it came to the precogs it was a directionless, impotent anger. Where could he direct it? Some faceless doctor? A team of them? Some shadowy government operation? Whose fault was this? Whose responsibility?

The salt in the wound was that it wasn't just Spartan gaining financially from Carlo's pain. Max knew his own paychecks next month were going to be the largest he'd ever made.

“I'm going to get as good at this as I can," he promised. "So we can do what they want, and not have to hurt you too much.”

“You don’t hurt me too much,” Carlo told him, muffled against his shirt.

"Anything at all is too much," Max said, and kissed the Scry chastely on the top of his head.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

thinking about a whumpee on a forced march through rough terrain

hands tied in front of them, on foot while their captors are mounted, sleeping out in the open, forced to beg for adequate food and water

maybe they're barefoot, a captured royal in silken robes

maybe they're in a torn suit or soldier's uniform

maybe they were stripped at the start, increasing the exposure to the elements, the humiliation

are they a terrified mess from the beginning, or do they try to endure with dignity? how long before they're stumbling, barely putting one foot in front of the other? how long before they fall?

[ayushsan]

Officer Black Belt (2024)

Lee Jeong Do (Kim Woo Bin) whump

stabbed and hit repeatedly over his wound (fav trope tbh<3)

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 51

Geralt isn't a fan of the new intern his family's office has hired. He never stops humming or snapping his fingers, and he always gets Geralt's coffee wrong, and he trips over nothing and spills paperwork everywhere at least twice a week, and he won't stop flirting with Geralt, but more than anything, the absolute worst part about it all... is Geralt's starting to look forward to his shenanigans. This all comes to a head when one night when everyone is going home, Geralt and Jaskier are last in the building. They're on their way down in the elevator when it stops. Oh shit- They're stuck in the elevator. Possibly overnight. I like to imagine Jaskier thinks Geralt hates him, and is also terrified of their current situation, so he has a quirky fun lil panic attack (I can make this joke i used to have really bad panic attacks before i got on better meds) and the person talking him down from it is the chiseled god of a man he wants to drool over but Jaskier is SURE must hate his guts. Geralt doesn't hate his guts. Anymore-

[jimmyspades]

THE BLACKLIST 1.10 "Anslo Garrick (No. 16): Conclusion"

[whumble-beeee]

Yur Gonna Get Murdalated, Rookie

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 15.5

Content: adult character perceived as a minor, kidnapping/captivity, noncon drugging, guns, recreational drug use, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, past captivity references

* * * * * * * *

Excerpt from: The Law Enforcement Policy Handbook, Chapter X: Superhumans

[Officers of the law have the right to ask any civilian to show their upper right arm to verify whether or not the civilian bears the ‘General Super Brand’. If the civilian does possess such a marking, they are superhuman; the officer has the right to use whatever superhuman training they may possess. 

If the brand indicates that the superhuman is also a ‘Latent Supervillain,’ ‘Supervillain,’ or Test Subject,’ the officer is also compelled to check the superhuman’s upper right shoulder blade for the ‘Hazardous Super Brand,’ colloquially known as ‘The Villain Brand.’ Depending on the contents of the brand, the officer may be required to arrest or otherwise subdue the superhuman. They are advised to use their best judgment to subdue the superhuman or hide and call for backup.]

* * * * * * * *

The night was peaceful. Boring, even. The type of night where you’d wanna just sit back and smoke a cigar in the amber-dusking twilight that spilled through the half-closed blinds of your office. It’s filled to bursting with old bookshelves sworn by the tests of time, a single chair for you to sit in as you work, and a sprawling, book-laden red oak wood desk, surrounded on all sides by stacks and stacks of notes, files, crucial evidence about your latest case. The scent of cigars burns your nose. You’re so close to a breakthrough, you could just about taste it on the tip of your tongue, You would find it, you always did, and you could feel it now, edging ever closer after a tirelessly rewarding and sleepless night.

And yet here Officer Kalis Brooks sat instead, bored out of her skull watching some dinky ass highway that was lucky if a car graced its beaten roads once every twenty minutes. 

If only she were a film noir detective. Truly an unfair life she led.

It was a suspicious sort of fellow she finally spotted slowly making his way down the highway. A scoundrel who wore a bandana over the lower half of his face.

A person with something to hide.

Of course, she pulled him over. Simply her duty as an officer of the law.

She approached the truck and rapped lightly on the driver’s side window, and it rolled down with a gentle whirr. She shined her flashlight into the vehicle, and the view to greet her was almost something of a–

Holy shit.

The driver sat there, lazily gripping the steering wheel, looking like some sort of modernized pseudo-cowboy with a buncha scary lookin’ gadgets. A burn scar ran all the way up the side of his face, down his neck, and reappeared on his arm where his leather jacket rolled up to his elbows. His eyes were dilated, every movement markedly relaxed. Disjointed. Uncanny even. 

He was definitely high. But at least he’d had the forethought to take off that bandana concealing his identity. That was a good thing, right?

Then her jaw nearly dropped when she registered the passenger. He didn’t even look at her, his gaze stiff and unseeing. Very obviously also high on some sort of drug, though Kalis reckoned this high was less than consensual. Not to mention the super-power suppression collar wrapped around his neck. 

He was a super. 

She wasn’t trained to handle cases like this. Was this a super kidnapping in progress?! Something more?

Shit, no time for film noir roleplay bullshit, this is serious.

This is a villain.

Her gaze snapped back to the driver, just as her hand unclipped the gun holstered at her hip.

“Sir, please step out of the car slowly with your hands up. You’re being detained under suspicion of committing an in-progress felony.”

The driver’s gaze immediately shot to his passenger. “Officer, there uh… seems to be a misunderstanding–”

“Step out of the car or I’ll have you arrested for disobeying an officer of the law.”

That got his attention. The driver blew his bangs out of his face with a slow, deep sigh, and equally slowly reached down to open the door. The metallic creak of the door swinging open was almost deafening in the moonlit night. 

“I should mention I have a gun holstered on my belt,” he drawled inattentively, boots crunching the sparse gravel scattered across the shoulder of the highway. His arms stayed firmly raised, thankfully. “A revolver. Left side.” 

“Thank you for informing me,” Officer Brooks said quickly. This man seemed to be an easy-going fella, thankfully, but air around him stank of danger, like the haze of the walking dead. She slipped the ornately decorated gun out of its holster and slapped all the bullets to the roadway with 6 distinctly clean clinks. Then triple-checked that the safety was on. Then a fourth time. The matching knife too, for good measure. 

“I’d like to ask you some questions,” she stated, barely halting her transatlantic accent from slipping through. Stop it with the film noir. “Show me your upper right arm, please.”

He sighed, then nodded, then struggled to push up the leather sleeves of his jacket enough to show her the clear absence of a super brand. 

Good, one less thing to worry about. Not a supervillain.

“Alright then, what’s going on with that boy in the truck, friend?”

“Nothin’ much. That’s Stan. He’s my ward.”

“Your ward?”

“Yuh. I have custody over him. He’s a test subject.”

“Really?” She said, voice full of faux intrigue.

“Really.”

“And who are you, exactly?”

“Handler, of sorts. A bounty hunter. I work with the police sometimes, actually, we have an arrangement.”

“Oh? An arrangement?” she asked, as if daring him to tell her all the illegal dealings he held in his hidden hand of cards.

He just shrugged.

Ugh, she hated these types.

 “Fine. You have any proof?”

“Think I left my bounty huntin’ papers in my other pants,” he quipped. “Check the kid's villain brand, call in my ID, talk to your boss. Should be proof enough.”

That was absolutely not how that worked. Though she did feel a slight vindication in her chest that she would actually probably arrest this man.

“You have your ID on you?”

“Mhm.” 

He flicked out his ID between forefinger and middle to the officer, seemingly plucking it from thin air before she snatched it out of his hand, noting every piece of identifying information, checking for signs of a fake. Nothing seemed to be out of order… Had he really just handed her his real ID?

“And you said something about the boy having a villain brand?”

The man– Declan Cansano, so said the ID– nodded. Then rolled his damn eyes.

“Oh, I'm sorry, am I boring you?” She smiled sarcastically. “Need I make it obvious that you are suspected of kidnapping?” 

“I just have somewhere to be. It’s late. If you’d call in to ask about–”

“Are you telling me how to do my job?”

“No ma'am, I'm sayin’ you'd save yourself a lot–”

“Well stop ‘sayin'’ or I'll be ‘sayin’’ that you resisted arrest when I’m writing up your arrest report. This way.” 

She had to keep from grabbing his arm and yanking him as she led him over to her cruiser and deposited him near the passenger side door. Only after ordering him to turn around so she could cuff him behind his back of course.

“Stay here until I come back,” she ordered. “And remember that running from a uniformed officer is a criminal offense.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he lulled back, almost sing-songy while leaning nonchalantly against the car. “Keep an eye on the kid, he's the type you’d have to worry about.”

Because you kidnapped him? God, she couldn't wait to throw the book at that man. 

Kalis pressed the talk button on the radio clipped to her shoulder. “Officer Brooks reporting, I have a man pulled over here named Declan Cansano, roughly 6 and a half feet tall, blond, possibly… Latino? I have him detained for suspected kidnapping of the boy he has with him, a white brown-haired male, very battered and bruised and likely drugged who looks to be about… sixteen-ish? The man claims the boy is a super with villain status, and that he has jurisdiction over him as a ‘handler’ or ‘bounty hunter’ or something. Can you look him up for me?”

There was a moment of silence, then the radio crackled to life. “Report received, I'll look into a ‘Declan Cansano’ for you real quick. Do you have a name for the white male I can look into as well?”

“Not yet, I’m going to check that out now and get back to you shortly.”

“Wait,” A third voice interupted, familiar in just the right way to make Kalis’ heart flutter in her chest. Officer Frida Galleta. Her mentor, her favorite person on the force, one of the people she trusted most in this world. And… well, it didn’t hurt that she was easy on the eyes as well. “Brooks, did I hear you right? You said last name Cansano?”

Just as fast as it had soared, her heart dropped like a stone in a vacuum. She’d never heard that tone from Frida before. “I– I– Uh... yes. Why?”

“Oh god, I… Brooks, don’t engage with him– Look, I’m gonna call you on your personal cell–”

“Wait, Frida, what do you mean ‘don’t engage with him?’ I have him detained, I can’t not engage with him.”

“Officers, please keep small talk to a minimum over the radio,” Dispatch interrupted. “Officer Brooks, I couldn’t find anything on a ‘Declan Cansano’ anywhere, not the super or villain database, the criminal database, the employee database. But uh… to Officer Galleta’s point, if he said he’s a bounty hunter... Well, let’s just say you might wanna follow up with the chief about that before you make any decisions. They might have some sort of arrangement, so to speak.”

Arrangement…? Like a… Like…

Officer Brooks smelled the stinking injustice of a rat.

“Co–... Come again, dispatch?” she breathed into the radio.

“No!” Officer Galleta’s voice interrupted. “Dispatch, I’l’-I’lll handle this, no need to get the higher-ups involved. Please.” 

Then her phone rang. Officer Galleta’s beautiful profile photo graced her periphery as she pulled out the phone and promptly sent the call straight to voicemail, eyes straight ahead and staring into the pitch-black night. At the car that a captive was waiting for her in.

“Kalis, please answer your phone,” Galleta pleaded.

Officer Brooks silenced her radio, that wretched squeal, and started toward crime scene in the making.

It was a pig-filled world out there. She wouldn’t stand idly by as they made the entire world their mud pit.

Her phone rang again.

A single deep breath to steel her razor-sharp wit, then slammed open the passenger side door, preparing for the occupant to do anything from attacking like a spit-fire to running for the hills to grasping onto her and holding her close as the first friendly face this boy had seen in years.

Somehow, she didn’t expect the boy inside to startle and struggle, legs scrambling and weakly kicking at her to put distance between them. He leaned precariously back on the console of the car, shaking as if he were in hell when it finally froze over, and only then did she realize his hands were restrained behind his back.

Now that she wasn’t looking at him over the angry presence of a kidnapper, she could see clearly now that her first impression of him was so very wrong; He was so much worse off than she could have imagined. Deep-set dark circles under his eyes, so many bruises lining his skin, specks of dried blood flakes dotting his body, cuts caked with disgusting oozing brown, eyes dilated and bloodshot, angry red welts peaking out from under the power-suppressing collar that only could have been from being yanked around or choked, and dried blood-stains that drip-drip-dripped down the front of his oversized white t-shirt.

Her face went ashen at the ghastly scene. What had that man done?

Her phone rang once more. She muted it. It still buzzed in her pocket.

“Hi,” she started slowly. Her voice cracked slightly. “My name is Officer Brooks, or Kalis. I'm here to help you. What's your name?”

He simply returned her a wide-eyed stare. Then glanced over to her cruiser. At the man leaning on it. Then at her badge. Then down to his lap, not a single word uttered.

The phone buzzed with another call.

“It's alright,” she soothed, like a mother beckoning a lost child home. “He can't hurt you right now. I'm here to help you, but I need you to talk to me or else I can't help you. I need to know your name. It’s Stan, right? Stan? That’s what I heard from him.”

He looked up, staring into her as if she wasn't even there again, eyes so wide, so dilated. No words. He frowned, considering for a moment. Then a vindictive determination spread across his features and he moved his gaze right back to his lap.

“Alright, that's uh… that's alright.” She felt like a kindergarten teacher with the way she was talking. Her phone buzzed with yet another call. “Can I… can I at least see the super brand on your back? Can you do that for me, Stan?”

He jolted back. “No.”

More phone buzzing. Adrenaline surged in her chest. “Stan, please. I can't get you back to your family if I can't find out who you are.”

“... fam–... family?...” His eyes widened, pupils somehow blown even wider, unfocused into the middle distance.

“Yes, Stan.” She very carefully reached for the collar of his shirt, ready to pull back at any time. The boy didn’t react. “I just want to get you back to your family.”

Kalis pulled the shirt down just enough to reveal that awful blue of the villain brand. The blue that signified a test subject.

Shit, the bounty hunter had been telling the truth.

The phone buzzed once more. Kalis snatched it out of her pocket. Turning around swiftly so Stan wouldn’t think what was about to happen next was directed at him.

“What do you want?” She hissed. “I’m trying to talk to a kidnapping victim.”

“Oh thank god, you’re alright,” Frida's tinny voice came through the speaker.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I– Look, Kalis, I know this sounds bad, but I need you to let the bounty hunter go. Now.”

Officer Brooks grit her teeth. This was exactly what she was afraid of. “Why.”

“He’s… look, alright, I’m surprised no one told you before, but the police have a sort of… deal… with certain criminals and organizations. Mr. Cansano is one of them–”

“So you’re a dirty cop, then?” Kalis interrupted, voice strained, chest tight. “And– and you’re trying to bring me down with you, now? Frida, I–...  You should see what he’s done to this captive. I can't let him go.”

"I’m not a dirty cop! Not the way you’re thinking at least, I– just trust me, I can't even say over the phone but I'm on my way and I’ll tell you when I get there, I swear. Please don't do anything, for both our sakes.I know him, he's–”

“You know him?!”

“Yes, he’s–”

“How do you know him?!”

“Kalis. Listen to me.” Her voice turned deathly serious. “He's got ties everywhere. Hell, he does jobs for the police sometimes, they won't protect you if you get in trouble. He might try to kill you, and even if he doesn't and you get him arrested, now you have a target on your back from both the mob AND the corrupt police. If you try to arrest him, you're going to die. Please just leave him alone. Please."

She grit her teeth. “So that means he doesn't have any… official paperwork to prove he has authority over the super?”

“I– uh… probably not? They don't work within the law, that's why you need to let him go.”

Well then…

That’s all she needed to hear.

“I’m arresting him.”

“No! No, Khalis, I'm on my way, I'll-I’ll be two minutes, just wait–”

She slammed her phone down and turned back around to Stan, only then realizing that the poor boy probably heard everything she just said–

Nope, he was off in his own little world again.

“Stan?...”

No response.

She waved her hand in front of his face. “Stan!”

He startled back to himself, terrified, scrambling to get away from her just like the first time she'd walked up to him.

She didn't have time for this.

“Stan, honey, I'm going to arrest the man who hurt you alright? He won't hurt you anymore. I have to leave now, but one of my friends will be here very soon. She'll help you out, alright? Everything will be alright. Just please stay here. Hopefully I'll see you soon.”

Officer Brooks closed the door of the truck before she could catch a reaction, hoping that ditching Stan to be found by Officer Galleta was the best choice here.

It had to be, it was the only choice.

She steeled herself, resting her hand on her gun once more, and walked back over through the oppressive black night and into the spotlighting brights of her police car. 

To face down the bounty hunter.

“Mr. Cansano, you're–...” 

Then all of her built-up courage suddenly burst. What the hell was–...

She gaped.

Then scoffed.

Really?

“Are–… are you… smoking a blunt right now?”

The bounty hunter’s hand withdrew from his mouth, followed by a puff of dark white smoke. His gaze never once broke from the bright dot of red-yellow ash that oh-so-subtly lit his face. “Yup.”

She just stared at him for a moment. Then shook her head out. Whatever.

“Mr. Cansano, you're under arrest for suspected kidnapping of a super and illegal bounty hunting.” He didn’t so much as blink. “You have the right to remain silent, as anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you.” Crickets chirped somewhere in the forest sidelining them. “Do you understand these rights as I’ve spoken them to you?”

He didn’t move in the slightest through her whole spiel. He almost seemed to have paused time around him, actually, a frozen snapshot.

A pause as Kalis stood ready to arrest a few feet away, yet unable to move closer as the air turned sticky with his low chuckle.

A pause because, only then, did Kalis realize that when she last left the man, she'd left him in handcuffs.

The bounty hunter shoved the burning tip of the blunt into the metal siding of her cruiser, instantly extinguishing the bright ember. “You talked to your boss?”

She clutched her gun. “I've been made aware of the situation.”

“Brave one, you are.”

He pushed up out of his lean. She whipped out her gun and aimed it squarely at his chest. “Freeze.”

He stopped, staring at her gun hand, eyes narrowed, hands shooting up to show he wasn’t a threat.

Yeah right.

Police sirens in the distance. Couldn’t be anyone but Frida.

“Put your hands on the car. Slowly.”

He looked her up and down. It was funny, his eyes almost looked red, with the way the headlights shined off his eyes.

“Hands on the car.”

The hunter almost seemed to think about it for a moment. Then he laughed, pulled his bandana up over his face, and took a step forward. 

Her vision tunneled, heart pounding in her ears. All she had to do was pull the trigger.

“Shame,” he drawled. Now he had… a string? A metal string, the type used to cut clay. Held taut between his hands. “I’ll try not to make this hurt, youu seem lie one of the good ones.”

Kalis’s gun hand shook. She should shoot him. She’d never shot anyone before. Shoot him. Shoot him. In the chest, in the leg, somewhere, shoot him, shoot him, you’re going to die shoot him shoot him do it fucking SHOOT HIM–

Her finger squeezed the trigger as he lunged forward, a flash of light, everything bright white and hot and blinding as a loud CRACK split through her eardrums, her very skull. Her gun arm knocked to the side, the gun flew from her hands. Her only chance at defending herself disappeared somewhere into the inky black night.

Suddenly she was staring right into his dark brown eyes that seemed to gleam red. His hands slammed just short on either side of her neck, the wire held gingerly between them pressing into the hard muscle of her larynx.

Just the two of them. 

The crickets, the trees.

The stars, shining above so sweetly.

Her last witnesses.

She was going to die here.

“Sorry about this,” he whispered, a low grumble that reverberated her entire soul. She couldn’t look away from those blood-red eyes. Would her blood be added to that as well?

A deafening screech of tires.

His brow furrowed, gaze stuttering elsewhere. A new set of headlights spotlighted them like startled deer, two omens of death and justice heading straight for them, night turned into a shining white day. 

 Brighter, brighter.

“Holy shit,” the bounty hunter yelled. Low engine revs turned into deafening roars that wholly swallowed any screams that ripped from Kalis’ or Declan’s throats, right before a hand yanked off her feet, just barely heaved over the hood of the car and tumbling jarringonto the ground next to the man who had apparently saved them both as a giant mass of immoveable flashing red and blue and black and white metal screeched past them as it attempted to grind to a stuttering halt before flying into the ditch that sidelined the highway.

Kalis slammed into the ground.

The world spun around her.

Frida.

Frida.

Ow, FUCK–

What’s–

It was Frida!

She was saved!

Or wait, was Frida trying to kill her now?

Why had the bounty hunter saved her, were they on the same side now?

What was happening?!

The door of the cop car flew open before the car even fully screeched to a halt, and there she stood in all of her gorgeous, life-saving, terrified and anger-filled glory, pointing her gun over the top of her cop car right at the man in the cowboy hat sprawled dazed on the ground next to her.

“DECLAN CANSANO, WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!”

* * * * * * * *

Next (when posted)

Also linking this rq for anyone who didn't see bc I think I'm hilarious

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

@paperprinxe | @tippytappytyping | @chaotic-orphan | @notactuallyluska | @lumpofsand

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees | @whumpwhittler | @thelazywitchphotographer

(If you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist, don't be afraid to ask!)

[icamefromthepinterestscreenshots]

CW: child whumper (sidekick), mentions of previous abuse. (If you find any more CWs I’ve missed, please tell me!)

Villain was feeling great. Todays plan had gone perfectly and now hero’s own sidekick was tied to a chair in front of them. Poor sidekick probably had no idea where they were, Villain smirked.

‘I bet your praying hero is going to show up and save you. I assure you they won’t. They don’t even know where my lair is; besides, do you really think they’ll go through all the effort just to save their stupid little sidekick who got themselves kidnapped?’

Sidekick was shaking. Terrified. Now completely at the villains mercy, their identity was going to be revealed, they just knew it. And then it wouldn’t just be sidekick that will die, but their loved ones too. Hero has told sidekick about villain. Sidekick knew villain was a ruthless killer. Their fear mixed with their guilt for having endangering not only themselves but their friends too. Hero would be so disappointed in sidekick. Villain was right, hero would never bother to save them. It was their own fault that they had messed up and gotten themselves kidnapped.

Villain crouched down and reached out to sidekicks face-

‘Let’s see who’s under this disguise- which I must say, is rather pathetic. Could you not have come up with a better costume for yourself?’, villain joked.

-Sidekick flinched away, but villain swiftly grabbed sidekicks mask and roughly pulled it off their face.

‘I bet you’re-‘,

The villains grin dropped along with their stomach. This was not what they were expecting. Rage shook through villain. Sidekicks face showed nothing but absolute fear.

‘A child. You’re just a child’

Villains face softened as they tried to hide their anger from the kid that sat before them. Hero had sent a child to fight them. A child. How could hero do this? And who was responsible for sidekicks black eye? Villain knew it wasn’t them. Was it hero? When villain got their hands on them-

But that could be dealt with later. Villain needed to focus on the terrified face in front of them.

‘I’m not a child. I’m 15’

‘Who told you that was old? Was it hero? You can’t even drink yet, darling. You’re a child.

And to be clear, I am not going to hurt you. I know hero’s probably told you horrible lies about me, but I can assure you, they’re not true… at least most of them aren’t true. But I would never intentionally hurt a child’

Sidekick was shocked by the softness of villains voice, which was completely different from the roughness it had been filled with 2 seconds ago. It was just an act. It had to be. Sure, hero could be harsh to sidekick, but sidekick deserved it right? Hero was just training sidekick.

‘Are you hungry? Injured? Let me patch you up’

Villain gently brushed sidekicks hair out their face to get a better look at the purple bruises forming on their forehead. Sidekick flinched away from the hand, letting out a small whimper.

That was it. Villain vowed they would destroy hero next time they saw them. But first, they have got to help the poor kid.

————————————————————————————————

This was my first time writing something like this, so any feedback and help would be appreciated. In fact, it think this is the first time I’ve written a story outside an English lesson (which I haven’t done as a subject since GCSE’s) since I wrote a short Harry Potter headcanon when I was 12 lol. I still remember that headcanon tho, and I’m pretty sure it might still be on tumblr somewhere 🫡

[pyrepostings]

Teeth/dentist visit in whump (tw mouth whump, needles. Related dentistry triggers)

How much plaque buildup do you think happens after a few years of not being provided a toothbrush. And the cavities or dental surgery- oh fun.

Return of the blood pressure cuff! Does whumpee's panicked reaction mean they need to try again after a breathing technique or two, or do they forego it altogether?

The dentist giving orders. Lie down, stay still, open wide, spit-

A rubber bite block- texture to spark memories, maybe of chewtoys given to dehumanize. Maybe gags in general.

The bib feels dehumanizing.

"Oh the cavity isn't deep enough to need numbing." *almost immediately hits a nerve with the probe*

Does whumpee do the signal to stop (raise its hand) or in any way cry out, or does it bare it as it's used to pain?

If dentists or caretaker notices it's in pain, the numbing injection needle also hurts. And takes noticeably too long to deploy. Dentists mock whumpee's reaction to the pain.

The feeling of numbing could also be triggering. This could be the moment a medically traumatized whumpee fails to keep it together. Stroke symptoms are numbing on one side of the face. Does It worry about that?

As first the inside of its throat feels faint, then the side of the bottom lip. Maybe the air starts to taste just a little more sanitized (likely from the topical numbing that didn't stop the needle from hurting.) Eventually, the side of the tongue finally goes numb. It bites the other half to prove that it can still feel.

The dentists awkwardly waiting for the numbing to come into full effect. (Do they seem mad? They seem mad. Oh god I'm holding the procedure up they hate me. Why couldn't I just let them grind into the exposed nerve-)

The dentists talking to each other, about the weather and lunch and other smalltalk. Like It isn't even there.

Maybe the numbing drug isn't effective enough and needs another shot or more time to affect. Does It say anything this time?

Whumpee could go into a full flashback mode or disassociate and no one would even notice, if Its reaction is to just lock up and stare.

"Does your bite feel normal?" *panic as It can't give an accurate response because Half Of Its Face Is Still Numb*

Choices, what flavors of fluoride paste/toothpaste/toothbrushes/topical numbing does whumpee want? Would caretaker call ahead and get all the options beforehand so It can make those decisions before in a familiar place?

The instruction not to eat before numbing has worn off. Does It think It's being punished? Does this trigger anything else? Or is it already simply resigned to only eat when caretaker specifically gives it something to eat?

That instruction is usually meant as 'or only eat soft and cold foods so as not to bite yourself when you can't feel it'. Is this an excuse for ice cream? (Exercise in breaking rules and also treat)

Normally stoic whumpee making faces as It trys to stimulate numbed skin and tongue afterwards. Caretaker telling It to stop biting Its lip and tongue.

[letthewhumpbegin]

Blade Runner 2049 (2017)

[whumpfish]

Extractions! (Tooth vs. Nail)

I've been wanting to do this one for a long time, for all you torture fans out there...

So I metabolize lidocaine like a motherfucker, and any time I get a local, I always have to get a second one halfway through whatever is being done. For the most part, doctors and dentists listen to me when I say this... for the most part.

Tooth

(The oral surgeon did not give me my second shot when I asked for it.)

1. Any fillings you have will collapse under the pressure of an extraction, even a medicated one. (I'm not sure if this is true for metal ones; all of mine are plaster.) It produces a half-crunch, half-thunk sound that reverberates in that half of your skull and sounds absolutely terrifying.

2. The pain of an unmedicated extraction is acute and radiating at the same time. The acute part feels more like having a stiletto stabbed upward into that space than a tooth taken out in a downward motion.

2a. In maxillary extractions, the stab goes straight up, and depending on the location of the tooth, that stab can feel pointed anywhere from your eyeball (frontmost) to right into your brain (rear).

2b. Mandibular extractions* stab downward from the chin (frontmost) to the hinge of your jaw and straight down your throat (rear).

3. The radiating part spreads like a flower blooming, from a concentrated central point outward in a rolling movement.

4. Your ears might pop like an airplane taking off as that blooming pain reaches the hinge of your jaw. Sometimes only in the one ear.

Nail

(I have been doing minor self-surgery** for years because I am genetically predisposed to ingrown nails, and if I don't catch it in time, they grow straight down and I have to extract them to be able to trim them. If I really don't catch it in time, they grow straight down and then curl backward, and I have to get an actual surgeon involved.)

1. Self-surgery, split off edge of nail, 0 to 1/2" down and backward: You have to wiggle these in a sawing/rocking motion back and forth in order to get that tiny bit of root to let go, and when you "saw" backward it feels more like a steak knife than a butter knife, this time moving with the direction of the nail. Then it reverses when you actually yank.

1a. The yank hurts more than the sawing, sharp like a stab from a steak knife instead of one being pushed in slowly.

1b. You will get the best whump out of a whumper splitting off the edges of the nail and doing this and then yanking the middle part

2. Medicated: Locals in the toe/finger area hurt like a bitch. They're sharp and needling like a stiletto to a paper cut, then if someone tried to pry that cut open. At the same time, they feel hot, almost burning. (Hotter than anesthetic being pushed through an IV, if you're familiar with that sensation.) And there are so many nerves involved that just the first round of locals takes 3-4 shots.

3. Unmedicated, grown down and backward, 1/2" to 3/4": The last time I went in, my surgeon said "given the amount of times I have to shoot you up, you'll probably hurt less if I just yank." (She was right.) This sumbitch goes in both directions, down/back from where the root is, then forward. The down/back is a stabbing pain. The forward is like somebody trying to pry open that papercut, a sensation probably caused by the fact that you are in fact messing with something stuck in a very small cut in the skin, in my case the cut was just caused by the nail that has now been removed.

4. If it is a toenail extraction, you are going to bleed significantly more than teeth or fingernails, because your body has to work harder pushing blood up through your leg veins than it does pushing it down into your shoe. Especially when you take a step. Ibuprofen makes this worse. If you take ibuprofen at all that day, expect your shoe to fill up when you take a step. (Mine did, scaring the tar out of everyone present, including me.)

Pain Intensity Verdict:

Teeth > Nails. By a LOT.

Happy yanking!!

*Because of nerve fuckery, dentists using the sonic cleaning tool despite my warnings results in a pain on the level of extractions, and the sensations described here are based on my experience with that.

**This never fails to horrify my friends. They'll see what I'm fixing to work on and say, "Oh ouch, that's bad, go to the doctor," and I'm just like "nah, just get me isopropyl alcohol and some office supplies, I got this."

[warmblanketwhump]

when A is feverish and has chills in an overly air-conditioned office during the summer, so they just sit and shiver at their desk, trying to keep warm by clutching a hot cup of tea in their frozen fingers.

their desk is right under the vent, so they keep a cardigan wrapped around their shoulders for warmth and to try and shield them from the bitterly cold draft. even so, they tremble from head to toe, teeth chattering so loudly that their next door desk mate can hear them.

they take their lunch break outside and sit in their sun-warmed car to thaw their chilled bones, but it only makes the office feel that much colder and more miserable when they have to come back inside.

after a while, their desk mate pops their head over the cubicle and begs A to just go home. A, who feels awful, promptly bursts into tears.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 189

first // prev // next

thank you to @whumperofworlds for lending me Kiefer! (bun, bottom right)

[pixelatedraindrops]

“Here Halara! I made you some of my coffee! Just like I did in Ginma! This will heal your body right up from your terrible cold!”

“I’m not sick Fubuki…it’s just allergies…”

Whew! I finally got this doodle done ;w; I have officially drawn all of the detectives of the Nocturnal Detective Agency at least once yay :3 I never thought I would tbh... x'D

I think Halara came out pretty good, but I think I could've done better on Fubuki ^^; This pose was complicated but once I got Halara to a nice pose, I had a bit of trouble with Fubuki x-x

Yet another ship I could kind of understand due to Fubuki's DLC.

How Halara suffered such an awful allergy attack? Lets just say that Fubuki took them to a cat cafe somewhere in Ginma...this was before she learned their deep dark secret. And Halara couldn't resist the cuteness so...they went anyway despite the penalty... x'D

Fubuki regrets it the minute Halara suffers a sneezing fit on the way back to base and has to lay down due to their head pounding from the sinuses. They end up not only with a runny nose and eyes, but they sadly got a few skin rashes too... yikes, the poor thing x-x; They make sure to have an extra sweet lollipop to help with their mood, as well as act as a substitute lozenge for their dry throat, some nasal spray for the stuffiness and an ice pack for their headache.

Fubuki tries to do whatever she can to help, even if the cause of it was her fault to begin with... xD And Halara cannot move much so...they just take whatever the ditzy time detective throws their way. Fubuki lovingly babysits the stuffy postcogditive detective while they recover.

This was my first time experimenting with allergies as an ailment so...I tried to read up on it before I drew so I could at least be accurate. Allergies isn't really the same thing as being ill. But it was still fun to draw it out :3

(tfw halara looks sicker than everyone else did... lmao improvement?)

Anyway, hope you enjoy this snack Clockmare Nation🩵🩷

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Viviakou Kokobolt

[sweetwhumpandhellacomf]

Remove whumpee from packaging

Pierce whumpee 2-3 times to vent

Heat whumpee for 3 minutes

Remove whumpee from heat and pull back cover to stir

Return whumpee to heat for 1:30 minutes

Leave whumpee to sit for 30 seconds--they will be hot to the touch!

Remove whumpee from heat and enjoy

[painaltar]

I'm beat. Never been so beat.

Sharpe's Challenge (2007)- Cut Scene

[whumble-beeee]

A New Enemy Has Entered The Arena

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 6

Content: disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, tied up/handcuffs, (brief) dissociation, noncon partial undressing, noncon touch, attempted noncon

* * * * * * * *

Except from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters Dr. Vaughn Verhulst

["Make them fear the wrath of god, then remind them the only god they should fear is you."]

* * * * * * * *

“So, this is the capture, huh?” The new voice drawled. Despite the exhaustion and the agony lacing throughout every part of his body, Stan's managed a look up at the new situation. Directly into a pair of steel blue eyes that made his breath stutter. “Not much to look at, huh?”

Stan scooted backward, but Deeby seemed to beat him to the same idea, stepping in front of the man and completely blocking him from view.

“There's no way you're the one doing the pickup. What are you doing here?”

The new man tried to side-step Deeby. “Don't worry, I'm not trying to interrupt your smooch-fest, just wanna make sure you aren't breaking our new toy–”

Deeby stepped in front of the man again, the man barely stopping short of crashing directly into him, just long enough for Stan to gather his scattered bearings and realize there was a new person here and all the distinct possibilities of what that meant for him.

And suddenly he felt lightheaded again.

“Dude…”

“What.” Deeby insisted slowly. “Are you doing here?”

This new guy… honestly, not much to look at himself, from what Stan saw. He couldn't have been too much older than Stan, fluffy light brown hair, an accent he couldn't quite place, but… probably European? He also wasn't wearing any sort of mask or anything to hide his face, which was only vaguely concerning, Stan decided to believe. Not to mention, this new guy had been wearing a knit sweater vest? It looked soft. Stan almost had to remind himself that the guy must be a threat, just like Deeby, or why would he even be here?

He just looked so corporate.

“I told you, checking on the capture, getting some intel. Making sure you didn't crap up the very simple plan, or kill him. It’s a real concern with you, I'm sure you understand.”

The man tried to side-step Deeby once again, and once again the mercenary blocked him. Stan started to scoot back away from the two, his ankle chain softly clanking as it dragged across the floor. Whatever was going on between them, he wanted no part of it.

“He's secure. And alive. Not fatally wounded, and will continue to stay that way.” Deeby stated. “You can leave now.”

Sweater-vest ventured an exaggerated glance over Deeby's shoulder, just barely giving Stan another view of his steel-colored eyes. Something about them made his heart skip a beat.

“You sure about that, big man? Kid doesn't seem to be doing so hot.

“Yup.” Deeby didn't even entertain a glance back. “Buh-bye now.”

Stan could practically hear the eye-roll that accompanied the groan that Sweater-vest let out. “Well excuse me for not trusting you as far as I can throw you. Look, I'm not just here to mess with you, I'm here on Lana's orders. She wants you to call her.”

Stan stopped scooting dead, an icy coldness surging through his chest, a sudden darkness swirling around his head. Lana. That sounded like a real name. Why was this man using real names? Deeby didn't use a real name, he was very dead set on that! Why was this new man using real names?! Real names were bad why was he using real names–?!

Deeby also stiffened at the name. He hand clenched for just a fraction of a second. Then he shook his head and brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Why didn't she just call me instead of sending your sorry ass to deliver the message?” Deeby finally seemed to settle on.

Sweater-vest's eyes flicked over Deeby, up and down, before an unnerving grin spread across his face. “I know something you don't know~” he sang slowly, like some sort of horror movie villain.

“You planning on telling me? Or you just gonna stand there like a skin-walker.” Deeby look just about ready to blow.

“Soon as I verify the little super lives up to our wildest hopes and dreams.”

“Y’know, technically we’re supposed to be on the same side.”

The man sidestepped Deeby one last time, and this time, the mercenary just let him pass by. Stan shrank back as the piercing gaze of Sweater-vest appraised him, looking him up and down as he slowly walked closer.

“A bit worse for wear, no?” Sweater-vest noted, almost to himself.

“Yeah, little shit tried to escape. Got pretty far too, he's stronger than I thought. Got me right–” Then he noticed Stan had backed up halfway across the room instead of stayingin place on the floor right behind him. And sighed. “Kinda a wuss though…”

“Die.” Stan growled, scowling at the mercenary even as he clutched his knees to his chest.

“Oooooh” Sweater-vest cooed, and Stan nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized how close the man had gotten to him. “Feisty little guy, huh?”

Stan kicked out at him and skittered back, only to realize he was almost out of room to skitter. So he reluctantly stood his ground. Well, sat his ground. “Get away from me!”

“He's mostly talk,” Deeby called again. “Mostly…”

Stan barely even registered what Deeby said. His vision completely tunneled on Sweater-vest as he slowly advanced on Stan, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Dang, Dick Biscuits, you really got a handle of him, don’t you?” Sweater-vest's eyes never once left Stan's. “Leashed and collared, like a little puppy dog… “

Stans cheeks turned a bright red. He glared at the man as hard as he could, jaw clenched so hard it could have broken, because honestly, how dare he?!

Deeby sighed, like he'd rather be anywhere but where he was now. Stan could relate.

“Yeah… It's necessary.”

“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly.”

The man crouched directly in front of the trembling Stan. “Hi,” he said softly, disarmingly, giving Stan just the slightest tilt of the head. “My name's Vaughn, its–”

“Christ man, would you cut it out with the names!” Deeby yelled, causing the both of the smaller men to jump as he marched over. Stan reflexively curled up into a little ball, gut swirling with a new and terrifying form of dread and suddenly very aware of his restraints once more, while Sweater-vest–... Vaughn… sprung up to face down Deeby.

As much as Stan was absolutely terrified of Deeby, he had to admit he agreed with the bounty hunter on this one. The way Sweater-vest threw out names like that felt… Dangerous. On a visceral level. He hugged his legs closer to his chest.

“Why?” Sweater-vest taunted. “It's not like he's gonna live to tell anyone.”

“Nothing's ever 100% with these things,” he growled. “Unless you want to get fifty to life here as well. You'd be doing me a huge favor, honestly, and bring Lana down with you while you’re at it. But leave me out of it.”

Sweater-vest hummed, considering. Glanced Deeby up and down. Then scoffed. “Don't you have an important phone call to get to, Deeby? I’d hate to have to tell Lana that her least favorite ex disobeyed her direct orders and needs to be dealt with.”

The mercenary stared down Sweater-vest. The intensity of it almost entranced Stan, it seemed to go on for an eternity. Then, finally, Deeby let out a small grunt, and took a slow, deep breath.

“Stan!” he yelled. Stan nearly yelped. “If he tries anything, kill him, he deserves it. And you.” he turned his attention right back to Sweater-vest before Stan could stutter out some sort of question or affirmation. “Don't fuck with him.”

“Aw, so protective, falling in love already?”

“I'll be back in a few, don't try anything!” He yelled as he made his way toward the door. Then, only slightly under his breath, “Pinche pendejo.”

The smile on Sweater-vest's face immediately dropped and he whirled around.

“Krijg de tering, vuile teringleier!”

The door slammed shut, the crack of metal against metal deafening in the sudden silence. And they were alone. Together.

Stan stared at the floor and clenched his fists, trying to calm his racing nerves. Did his best to keep his breathing even. Be still, not show weakness while also not challenging the man he was now alone with. He never thought he would ever actually miss Deeby's presence. But here they were.

“Brute.” Sweater-vest seethed under his breath as he sauntered back over to Stan. “Should've just put him out of his misery years ago, swear to God.”

Then his demeanor completely shifted once more as he stood over Stan. More professional, more cold, more demanding.

“Anyway, stand up, let me get a look at you.”

“Are you ‘The Guy?’” Stan blurted out before he had time to even realize he was doing it. Anything to break the sudden unbearable tension.

Sweater-vest tilted his head with a raised eyebrow and a small laugh. “The Guy?”

“Yeah…” Wow, suddenly he wished he never said anything. “The uh, the guy. You know the guy…” Stan's voice wavered as the man scrunch his nose at him. As if Stan was speaking an entirely different language. “Like. Like the guy. The guy who, uh, who…”

He took a deep breath, and blurted out “The boss guy who had me kidnapped!”

A brief pause. The man stared at him.

“No,” he snorted. “No, I'm not ‘the guy’, as you so eloquently put it. And your ‘guy’ is actually a lady, the lovely Ms. Lana who I mentioned earlier. And I'm Dr. Vaughn Verhulst, you can call me Vaughn. Pleasure to meet you.”

Stan shrank into himself slightly. “Oh…”

Again with the names. They made his skin crawl, like tiny ants crawling up and down his arms. The full name this time too, Dr. Verhulst. And Lana. Where had he heard that name before? Lana...

Stan didn't have time to ponder the question, though, as the man surged forward and reached down toward Stan's vulnerable neck, and Stan screeched and jolted back trying to get away.

But the man was surprisingly fast for a guy who could be mistaken for an office drone.

“Alright now, stand up.”

Then suddenly Stan was choking as the two fingers looped under his collar and dragged him upward, squeezing Stan's windpipe fully shut with Stan gasping and clutching at the collar trying to free himself and allow his body the sweet air it so desperately begged for the whole short distance up. And when he was finally standing and the collar loosened just slightly, Stan coughed and wheezed and tried to double over on himself to lessen the pain, if only the man wasn't still holding him straight up by the collar. He finally managed to get his own fingers under the collar just enough to pull it away from flush against his throat, his body shifting from world-shaking coughs and gasps for air to shuddering wheezes and shivers, and only then did he realize that Vaughn’s other hand wasn't just sitting idly by. No, instead it settled on his arms and ribcage, pressing into the tender bruised flesh that marred his entire body.

He felt a sudden sharp pain at his side and twitched away from it, only for a steadying hand to fall on straight onto another bruise on his waist and press in, clutch at it, holding him in place and sending jolts throughout his entire body that made him dizzy. All the breath left his body. He froze.

“What– What're you–?... Stop, let go…” It felt almost taboo to break the sudden stillness. He tried to pull away, but the grip on his collar just tightened, knuckles pressing harder into his neck as Sweater-vest continued to press into his side.

“Shhhhhh, dropje. Just let me do my work.”

“Your work?...” The hand pressed into his broken rib, and Stan yelped out and shoved the offending hand away from the tender area.

“STOP! Stop touching me! Stop!” Stan cried. This was too much. What was even happening here?

Vaughn's dark gaze fixed on the place that had made Stan cry out, calculating, jaw set. Stan withdrew into himself sightly before he remembered himself, and stared defiantly right back. Then the gaze drifted slightly lower, softening with an almost mischievous smile and a low hum before he finally, finally, looked Stan square in the eyes.

“Take your shirt off.”

Stan's heart turned to ice.

“WHAT?! No! You’re insane!”

Stan managed to rip free of his grip and launch backwards, only for his back to slam directly into the wall. Damn it. He saw stars, and the world rocked around him.

He pressed into it regardless, held his cuffed hands up in front of his torso as some sort of measly defense. “Get– Get away from me! I'm not taking my shirt off! You're crazy, get away!”

He scowled, then reached into his pocket with a deep sigh. A glint of steel gleamed in the light as Vaughn pull out a pair of very sharp-looking scissors and waved them lazily at Stan's chest.

“You are.” Sweater-vest stated simply. “I'm a doctor, dropje, I have to take a look at your body, make sure that ass didn't leave any lasting damage. You worry too much.”

Sweater-vest suddenly went to reach around his arms and get at the top button of his shirt, and Stan slapped them away, earning himself a glare from the man as he stepped closer once more and boxed him in completely.

“Stan… Schatje…” he spoke lowly, voice sickeningly sweet. The scissors drifted so close to his throat. “I'm going to make this so simple for you, yeah? I'm cutting your shirt off now. If you make things difficult, then your shirt won't be the only thing cut, got it?”

Stan squeezed his eyes shut and tried to become so small. Small enough that the threat wouldn't see him anymore and he could run away and never have to deal with it again. This was insane. This was insane, right? This guy was insane!

“No, no, no, no, no, don't, get away from me, get away from me.” He tried to inject as much hissing venom as possible into the words, but they still didn't come out much above a squeaking, shaky whisper.

Vaughn reached for his top button, and though Stan pressed into the wall as much as he could, arms up and ready to strike at any moment, this time his fingers weren't stopped from undoing the top button. Then continuing down from there. Then he gently grabbed Stan's wrists and moved them downward and continued unfastening, all the way down until the front of his shirt was completely open, the cool air giving Stan goosebumps.

“Oh.” Vaughn said, almost to himself, running his finger over the strap of Stan's chest binder. “I didn't realize you were transgender, Stan.”

The swirling mass of thoughts in Stan’s head finally meet the one overwhelming his gut and crashing down upon him, breaking the fragile spell keeping him paralyzed.

“DEEBY! HELP!!” Stan cried out, loud as he possibly could. As if Deeby would ever help him. As if he would save him. All Stan knew was that in that very moment, he would prefer the physically abusive mercenary a hundred times over this guy, the guy who looked at him like a lion at an antelope, the man who feigned kindness, whose smile seemed just a bit too perfect, who made weird cryptic comments and who threw names around as if it didn't matter whether or not Stan knew them. As if Stan would never live to escape. As if the horrors Stan would endure were cursed to echo the walls in which they occurred, never to be heard by another soul.

“Oh calm down, Stanny, he's not going to come save you.” Vaughn dismissed, quickly pulling down the sleeve of his shirt and cutting it open down the seam, the quick repetitive snip snip snip of the scissors filling the room completely. Stan's weak attempts to slap away the scissors or otherwise stop his disrobing were all but brushed off by the ‘doctor.’ A quick but very intentional blade to the neck was all he needed to freeze Stan up and allow him to continue.

Very soon, Vaughn had the shredded fabric that used to make up Stan's shirt sprawled across the floor at their feet. Stan didn't even feel the coolness of the room goosebumping his skin anymore, not with the burning red in his cheeks and the again wandering hands of Sweater-vest to keep him unbearably warm.

He could scarcely breathe. His brain started to feel farther and farther away from his body. His hair was standing on end, shivers running throughout his entire body making him twitch. And he wondered if he should even put in the effort to ground himself. Maybe it would be easier if he was far, far away for all of this anyway.

“It's not like I care, Stan. It doesn't matter to me. I'll even let you keep your chest binder thing on, if that’d make you more comfortable... Hey.”

He snapped a few times in front of Stan's eyes, and Stan despairingly snapped back to reality. So close too. Just for Sweater-vest to smile his weird creepy smile at him. There was no way to misconstrue the malicious gleam in his eyes, the one that made Stan's own eyes go wide and his breath halt entirely as he stared into them. His other hand was on Stan's back now. He was practically holding Stan in a facsimile of a hug. Pressing in his lower back. Lower. Just a bit too low for comfort.

“I'm serious, I can work with that,” he reassured, hand now dipping under Stan's waistband, and before Stan could react, he pulled the captive in close to him, pressing his pelvis securely into Stan's lower stomach while brushing to closed blades of the scissors along Stan's jawline and up his cheek. “It's not what I was expecting, but it doesn't change what I'm going to do to you.”

And that's when Stan pulled back and punched him square in the jaw.

* * * * * * * *

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