#recaptured Whumpee

[whumpingandsmilinglikeanidiot]

The first time Whumpee said

"Can I have some more?"

"I wish you came more often."

"I'm too tired for that.."

"It may not be perfect but I made it."

"I like that one better."

"..I don't get it- oh!"

"Please remember my meds this time."

"Can you look it up?"

"No, the other left- thanks."

"What did you say?"

"I think I can do it by myself."

"Best day of my life. Really."

"You look like a clown!"

"Surprise!"

"Do you need some help?"

"We're nearly there."

But when Whumpee came back

even though Caretaker begged with tears in their eyes

They couldn't say any of that.

[whumpitisthen]

Whumper who sees escape attempts as part of the game

They never stop whumpee. They always let them do whatever they've concocted up in their silly little head, and escape, either to catch them right at the exit with pitying eyes or recapture them from wherever they thought they were finally safe so easily that it chills whumpee to the bone.

The worst part for whumpee really is that they only find out after so many tries how whumper not only doesn't mind, but nearly encourages them to keep looking for ways out — more ways to get punished. They look forward to catching them over and over again. The last time they had dragged whumpee back to their cell they wore a big smile, and were giddy as they tied them down, singing, — "I can't wait to see what you come up with next."

Whumpee begins to lose interest in looking for a way out.

[bedtimescenarios]

Recaptured living weapon Whumpee who is about to face the consequences of their escape. And when Whumper brings them back into that painfully familiar room, when they calmly take out the whip, Whumpee knows precisely what to do.

Their feet take them to the middle of the room, and they kneel, methodically disposing of their shirt. As their shoulders roll back into a straightened position, they can practically feel Whumper's gaze burning into the back of their head. A sadistic, eyes-only smile, knowing that even though Whumpee was physically free for some time, they never truly escaped.

[whumblr]

"Well well, look who came to spring the trap."

All three of them spun around, Whumpee the most reluctant as they recognised the familiar voice and fear rooted them to the spot. Caretaker's hand moved to the gun on his hip, Team leader had his already raised with the safety clicked off. Both took a step towards each other, shoulder to shoulder, to stand in front of Whumpee.

Whumper merely raised his hands in a calming gesture. "Let's not get too excited, hm? All I want..." His hungry gaze slid in-between the two and fixed on Whumpee, who had no weapon drawn and seemed closer to backing away than to stand with their team against him.

Caretaker peeked a quick glance back at them, before focusing on Whumper again. "A trap?" He almost scoffed. "You're outnumbered and unarmed. What makes you think we can't stop you?"

"Oh sure. You can stop me from taking them." Whumper's chin tipped down and he leered at Whumpee. "But can you stop them from coming to me?"

[lumpywhump]

The sheer panic and pain of whumpee being recaptured!

its something whumpee has always feared, and now their nightmare is real. When whumper grabs them from behind, knife to the throat, hand to the back of their head. Whumpee took self defense classes with caretaker because of their paranoia. Whumpee tried whatever they can. They stomped on whumper's foot. No effect. They try to headbutt whumper, but their hand is in the way. They try to knock out whumpee's knee. No effect. Whumper just chuckles at their attempts. Whumpe is getting desperate. They drop all their training and just tries to do whatever they can to get away. They start screaming and sobbing for help. No one can hear them though. Whumper isn't that careless. So whumper lets them tell as much as they want. It's cute that they think they can get away. Whumpee pulls at the hand with the knife. Whumper is too strong and too big. They flail against whumper. Finally, their sobs quiet and their attacks cease. Whumpee is exhausted and helpless. Whumpee leans back on whumpers chest unable to hold themself up any more. Whumper leans down, their voice curling around whumpee's ear. "Are you ready to come home?" All whumpee can do is nod.

[loreleiloon]

POLL 1 Prompt: Intimate Vampire Whumper

"So...I found you..."

That voice, it turns their blood to ice. Whumpee's eyes wrench open. Whumper, a vampire forged in dark and broken with time, looms at the foot of whumpee's broken bed.

"No-no!" Whumpee scrambles up from the dingy mattress. "H-how did you--?" "I like this place. It's quaint," Whumper says, red eyes glancing around the cramped apartment. Cramped due to size, not furniture. Whumpee doen't even have an old TV. Their bed is a mattress covered with two sheets. Their "closet" was the worn suitcase with a busted wheel.

Whumper slips closer. "Do you like it?" "Yeah, I have a bathroom," Whumpee admits finally, "Kitche's right there," they point to the tiny corner of the room, "Can't use the stove yet. They shut off--that is, the gas isn't wired right yet...I have a hot plate, though. And a microwave. So I'm--I'm good." It's a tiny one, can barely fit a frozen meal in there. The breakroom sink at Whumpee's job is double the size of their kitchen sink.

Whumper looks over Whumpee, smiling along but it only makes Whumpee feel painfully pathetic. They remember Whumper's mansion, gilded doorknobs, a crystal ballroom, nine jacuzzis, seven bedchambers depending on how Whumper wished to seduce their prey. Whumpee hated how much they miss those comfortable beds, even if their scars don't. "And how have you eaten?" Whumper asks, pale skin appearing sallow under the singular bulb. Whumpee's heart lodges in their throat. "Oh, I have enough," they lie. "Store isn't that far away. One of the perks of being here, y'know?"" Whumper nods, smiling, flicking non-existent dust off of their black silken suit. Then their hands suddenly catch Whumpee's waist. "Don't lie to me, now, darling." Cold, slender fingers feel up under Whumpee's hoodie. Whumpee goes limp against the wall, mind racing. They're back again, they're right back to where everything was before they escaped. "I'm not lying," they say, trying to steady their voice. "Show me you're not," Whumper says, but their voice seems tender. It steals away any argument Whumpee thinks to have. "Come, come, let me see--" "It's--I'm fine--" Whumpee flushes, but they let Whumper draw the hoodie off of them. Whumper's fingers find every rib, every stomach cavity Whumpee keeps hidden beneath the hoddie. Whumper's breath sends cold chivers down Whumpee's spine. The flame in Whumper's eyes burns brighter. Their pupils dilate and Whumpee's swears that Whumper's nails grow extra sharp. "I forgot how beautiful you are..." "You mean that?" Whumpee asks. Not because they want to be beautiful, but because they know Whumper is noticing how thin they've become. "I always did," Whumper whispers.

Their words are so honeyed and sweet. But Whumpee mustn't listen. They can't go back. Not yet. "You don't want me. I'm just a caged bird that got away." "Then why didn't I steal you away in the night? Claim you in those dark moments while you wait alone for the bus?" "You stalked me?" Whumpee gasps. They push against Whumper's chest. "I can't even exist without you trying to control my life!" Whumper catches Whumpee's fists, pulls Whumpee flush against their silk-clad body. The soft material kisses Whumpee's bare chest, brushes their back as Whumper holds them. "I know your blood, my runaway bird," Whumper says, fangs inches from Whumpee's lips, "I can taste it in the air when you are near." "Then why did you drain me so much?" Whumpee asks. "Every night, you took--you took everything..." they shudder, head sinking as Whumper's nails trace the scars left on their back. "And now you're back to just...take what's left of me." "There isn't much, is there?" Whumper asks. They lift Whumpee's arm and sink their fangs into the slender wrist. "But it's mine," Whumpee says defiantly, tears pricking their eyes as they glare. "Maybe I don't have long to live, but it's the path I made. So either you kill me tonight or leave me to die on my own terms." Whumper's eyes are firm, cold. "Do you really want this?" "I want freedom. I'm so tired of," Whumpee's hand goes limp as the blood drains from their arm, "so tired of waiting for you to find me." "Well, now I have," Whumper smiles. Their forked tongue licks up the blood dribbling from Whumpee's wrist. "What shall we do?" Their eyes meet. Whumpee wants to pull away, but the silk is so soft and cooling against their skin. And Whumper's arms--Whumpee hasn't been held in so achingly long. The smell of the vampire's cologne, the cooling breath that fans Whumpee's wound as Whumper's kiss heals it. "I'm hungry..." Whumpee says. "...I'm ready to wake up." "Let me bring you back from sleep, my runaway bird." "Not yet--" Whumpee pushes back, pinned between Whumper and the wall. "Just...let me walk around my spot, for another minute?" Whumper catches whumpee's lips. "Don't linger long." Whumpee hurries through the apartment, taking in every detail, turning the knobs on the oven, just to be sure the gas truly was shut off. When they finish, they find Whumper lying upon the mattress. "Leave yourself here, little runaway," Whumper beckons, "All of you." Whumpee works off the rest of their clothes. "Lie down with me, now." Whumpee settles down on the mattress. But they pause, they take one last look toward the kitchen.

"I am hungry," they say as Whumper's cold hand paints their body. Whumper kisses them again, this time drawing blood. "So am I, my runaway heart." The vampire fangs sink into Whumpee's neck. Whumper's hunger is ravenous, consuming. Whumpee's body arches as they're taken, but they don't even cry. The dream will end soon. Then another will follow. Maybe in the next one the vampire won't find them.

[whitecoatwhump]

Today’s vibe:

That moment in recapture whump when a defiant whumpee goes from “You aren’t taking me back; I won’t let you!” to “Please don’t take me back. Please!”

[letitbehurt]

Dog-catcher poles being used to manhandle Whumpee.

Wire choking off air when Whumpee fights or fails to move fast enough, easily cutting through the skin. Hands bound behind their back so that they can’t grab the pole being used to drag them along. Whumper(s) keeping their distance because watch it, this one bites—

[pretty-face-breaker]

Reunion: Nick Catches Up

cw. whumper finding runaway whumpee, manhandling, kidnapping, very creepy and intimate whumper, violence, borderline psychological torture, manipulation, gun

Art by me! :D

next

—

Hayko feels the weight of a hand clamp down on his shoulder just as he’s halfway through his burger. His first instinct is startled confusion—Vlad had only just gone around the corner to complain about his steak being overcooked—but then he sees it.

A grin in the periphery. A familiar razor-slash of teeth.

Nick’s swung around in the booth behind him, arms draped casually over the red vinyl seatback, both hands now planted firmly on Hayko’s shoulders like anchors.

The moment hits Hayko like a car crash. Every muscle locks. His throat closes. His spine stiffens. His heart forgets what it’s for. Every nightmare, every panic attack, every choke-collared memory rises like bile. This can’t be real this can’t—

They’re alone in the corner of the diner. No one seated close enough to hear anything. It’s quiet. Night presses against the windows.

The diner is quiet. No one nearby. Outside, the windows are painted in cold streetlight. In here, just soft rock and his own rapid, ugly breathing. And Nick’s, fanning warm and lazy across the nape of his neck. 

“How’s dinner?”

Hayko’s fingers won’t respond. His hands stay frozen, white-knuckling the fork and knife. His body refuses to remember every self-defense move he’s spent a year drilling into his bones, spent weeks and months staying late in the training rooms until he tasted his own sweat. His mouth doesn’t work. This isn’t how it was supposed to—Dr. Carter said it wouldn’t happen this way.

“I always did like your freeze response more,” Nick murmurs, giving his shoulders an affectionate squeeze, one that makes Hayko’s stomach convulse. Then, his voice dips, low and coaxing. “My love. Look straight ahead. Do you see him?”

Hayko’s eyes flick to the window. Beyond the blinds, a hooded figure stands partially obscured. Watching them both.

“One nod from me,” Nick says, “and he puts a bullet in your friend’s head.”

Another squeeze. Hayko’s breath hitches audibly. 

Nick adds lightly. “Unless you make a fuss, I have no reason to.”

Hayko swallows, voice fraying.

“What do you want.”

“Up.”

He pushes off the booth slowly, barely making a sound. Nick rises with him and in the same motion swings an arm over Hayko’s shoulders, a movement that could have been mistaken for a lover’s, if anybody else had been bearing witness, but Hayko feels the cold snout of a pistol nestling like a promise between his ribs.

His thoughts blank out on instinct.

They walk.

The distance to the door stretches forever, and Hayko catches Vlad’s blond head in the corner of his eye—still turned away, mid-argument with the cook. Hayko wants to scream. Wants to bolt and shout, but—

Vlad’s profile vanishes behind them as they cross the event horizon. In its place: the hooded man. Closer now to the window, a predator stalking its prey and about to pounce, one hand already buried in his jacket where it hadn’t been before and Vlad is still arguing with the cook. He hasn’t noticed and he isn’t fucking going to notice.

“No—”

The protest barely escapes before Nick’s palm crushes it. A hand clamps over Hayko’s mouth, fingers locking his jaw so tight he hears something creak.

“Hold off until I text you,” Nick says, not to him.

The man hesitates and a breath stutters loose in Hayko's throat as he watches his hand slip back out. Empty. But Hayko doesn’t have a second to savor it.

Nick forces him forward. A black sedan glides up to the curb. The rear door swings open.

Hayko resists on good instinct, feet locking against the concrete, but Nick is faster—gripping the back of his neck, forcing his head down and shoving him into the car. He crashes face-first into the seat and tries to right himself, tasting blood, but everything is slowed—his limbs syrupy with shrill terror—by the time Nick’s inside and the doors are locked.

He’s yanked upright. Metal kisses his throat. Pressed right against his carotid as Nick buckles his seatbelt with a soft click, like a parent strapping in a stubborn child.

Then another. Nick buckles himself in. 

“Evening, love.”

The voice slithers in from the driver’s seat. Hayko looks up and locks eyes with the rearview mirror. Platinum blond hair, slicked into a grotesque pompadour. That wolfish, wide grin.

Harvey. That fucking—

Hayko doesn’t even register the sound he makes. His spine seizes. Electricity floods him, a flash-fry of memory—wires, teeth, screaming into a wet gag. All under that horrible, loveless smile. It’s not Nick’s. Nothing fond in it. Nothing in it at all. Just that empty-calorie cruelty wrapped in human skin that Hayko remembers so terribly.

Hayko reels into the flashback, yanked under—until he surfaces, hearing Nick’s breath again far too close. Until his warm leather and cologne ghost Hayko’s nostrils. Until he feels that arm pull him closer. The muzzle of the gun still firm against his throat.

And then—

And then it happens. A sob. Ragged, helpless, cracked down the middle.

Nick sighs in satisfaction beside him, like he’s just finished the best meal of his life. He presses his lips to Hayko’s ear and whispers lovingly.

“God, Hayko. I’ve missed you.”

—

Before this. A year of recovery, but never peace.

Hayko lived small in Montreal. A quiet apartment on the fourth floor. Two bedrooms, one filled with plants that Vlad watered fervently, even having a notification on his phone. The other full of plastic bins marked “don’t touch.”

In them: Doctor’s visits stacked like receipts. MRIs, lung scans, a neurologist who frowned at his reflexes. PTSD, insomnia, night terrors that left him raw-throated and shaking. Scars that ached and itched when it rained. A few months ago, he passed out on the bus because he thought he saw Nick’s silhouette in a storefront reflection.

Dr. Carter, his therapist, had soft eyes and a hard rule: no talking about Nick in the second person.

He earned a teaching certificate. Grade threes. Morning bells and watercolor handprints, tiny socks lost on the playground. He kept his sleeves down and practiced smiling in the mirror in the least fractured way possible. The children called him Mr. G. and he answered to it like anything else would be unthinkable.

They were laying low. But they were living. They were healing. And then—

The muzzle never leaves his back. Hayko walks ahead of Nick up the long stone path, his shoes scuffing on wet grit. The house is unfamiliar. Modern, faceless. Black paneling. Frosted windows. A house for a man who doesn’t plan to live in it but where it might be optimal to keep someone for a day. Or a few, if Nick intends for Hayko to pay more fully for his misdeeds.

The lock clicks. Nick gestures him in.

“Make yourself at home,” he says lightly. “Drink?”

Hayko doesn’t answer. He steps inside. The air is sterile, reeking of oak and varnish, cold metal underfoot. There’s an absurdly luxurious bar cart in the corner.

Nick walks ahead toward it.

He turns his back.

Hayko sees it all at once: the phone dropped on the counter, just out of Nick’s reach. The silence of the house. The hitman—waiting on that text. And there, on the console table, a glass vase catching the dim overhead light.

His body answers before his brain.

He grabs the vase and swings.

It shatters on impact, a crystalline shriek that floods the house. Nick goes down hard, a mess of blood and shards. He snarls, an animal thing that makes Hayko’s skin crawl but is already rising, pain ignored and teeth bared.

Hayko doesn’t let him. He throws himself at him again, fists raining wild, furious. One cracks Nick across the jaw. Another lands square in his collarbone. There’s blood on both of them now—Nick’s, maybe his own. Hayko doesn’t care.

A grunt. A shove. They crash into the wall. A picture frame falls and the glass within shrieks and shatters. Nick snarls, grabs him by the shoulders, shoves back. They stagger over furniture, breathing like animals.

Hayko brings his knee up. Nick blocks it, catches his wrists mid-swing, trips him, and slams him down against the floor. His head impacts viciously hard and Hayko cries out between his teeth, eyes squeezed shut.

“Goddamn it,” Nick mutters, laughing through bloodied teeth, breathing hard. “The diner. Where the fuck was this version of you?”

Hayko lunges forward and sinks his teeth into Nick’s shoulder.

Nick howls—in pain, but not in defeat or even in anger. In delight.

“There you are,” he pants. “Fuck, baby. It’s been so long.”

Hayko snarls, wrenching, struggling, hissing like a feral thing and angling for another shot at ripping out Nick’s throat.

“Get the fuck off.”

Nick keeps him pinned, one hand digging into his forearm, the other still smeared with blood. His voice turns low and practical.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says. “Stop fighting. I just want to talk.”

“You have a gun to my fucking neck.”

Nick raises an eyebrow, mouth bloodied but smiling.

“I’ll text him. Tell him to back off. That better?”

Hayko doesn’t respond. He breathes hard and uneven, chest heaving beneath Nick’s weight. Sweat gathers under his shirt collar. His wrists tremble in Nick’s grip and he doesn’t answer. Nick can go fuck himself with his mind games. Hayko won’t be so easily swayed with false promises of security, of mercy. Not again.

Not again.

Nick studies him for a long, quiet beat. Then his voice drops, not soft but sharpened.

“I know your house, Hayko. Every inch.”

A pause.

“Your bedroom. The kitchen. The basement, where you keep that box of medical receipts. I touched the flowers in the garden you and Vlad planted last spring. Daisies, mostly. A few sickly tulips.”

Hayko stiffens. His breathing skids.

“For two months, I know where you sleep,” Nick continues, unfazed. “Where you work. Where he works. Unless you plan on tearing your life up by the roots again—I’m in it. I’ll be in it. Forever.”

Hayko shuts his eyes. Regulate. Dr. Carter's voice in his skull: Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Ground. You are safe.

But he isn’t. He never was.

“I’m not going to torture you,” Nick goes on, still holding him fast. “I’m not going to kill you. I don’t need to break you.”

What would be the point? hangs unspoken between them.

“I want a conversation. Maybe we figure something out.”

Hayko’s voice comes out hoarse, a rasp over gravel: “What’s the alternative?”

Nick chuckles. Amused and warm and chilling.

“You don’t want the alternative.”

Silence swells between them. The only sound is Hayko’s breathing—irregular, staggered, sharp.

Then, finally:

“You don’t want a conversation,” he spits. “A conversation. You want me to shut up and kowtow to you and beg for mercy and forgiveness and grovel like the pathetic-” 

He gasps, air catching in his throat like smoke. A sound like a death rattle claws its way out of his lungs. 

“—shell you turned me into.”

Nick doesn’t flinch, only counters as softly as velvet. “You killed people, Hayko.”

Hayko jerks as if slapped. His voice thins, cracks on the edges.

“That was you. You made me.” 

Nick tilts his head. A mock-thoughtful expression, like they’re in court and he’s about to call surprise evidence.

“Beat them to death,” he recites. “Negotiated drug deals. Defended murderers. Slept like a baby some nights, didn’t you?”

“No. No.”

“Should I continue?”

“You fucking made me—”

“All I needed you to do,” Nick cuts in, almost gently, “was the defending part, my love.”

He smiles a terrible, crooked thing. There’s pride in it. Nostalgic recollection of a child walking for the first time, or maybe a dog finally learning how to maul on command.

“I provoked you. You rose to the provocation.”

Hayko stares at him. A pit opens behind his eyes.

He wants to kill him. Truly kill him, this time. Not just with fists or glass. He wants to erase him. Smother him in cement, because that’s all he deserves, and salt the earth where he stood. But it’s like trying to throw a punch in a dream—his fury keeps folding inward. Every move against Nick feels like it happens inside a sealed room, and Nick is always waiting on the other side of the glass.

“You broke me,” Hayko says, voice thudding low. “You broke everything I was.”

Nick steps forward, slow and deliberate. Hayko doesn’t back away.

“No,” Nick says. “I just peeled off the part that pretended otherwise.”

Hayko’s fists clench. His legs tremble. Sweat pools under his arms. He feels the blood rushing in his ears, the fire racing up his throat. He wants to punch, scream, shove something off a balcony. Instead, his voice shivers out of him like steam:

“I had a life.”

“You have a life.”

Nick moves like he might touch him, but doesn’t. And that’s worse. The excess and absence of contact and how they were wielded as one weapon against him. The ache opens right back up. He aches.

“A house. A job. A live-in partner who still believes he can fix you,” Nick says, and his tone is deceptively gentle now. “All I want is a place in it. A seat at the table. A corner, if that’s too much for you.”

Hayko laughs. One sharp bark.

“A corner? You blew up the whole fucking house. I had to teach myself to breathe again.”

Nick gives a small, pitying smile. 

“And look how well you’re breathing now.”

That does it.

Hayko lunges—but Nick slams him back down by the wrists, forceful but nowhere near as cruel as before, when Nick was getting his kicks off Hayko's immobilizing terror. They lock eyes. Nick’s pupils are blown wide with adrenaline and glee, but under it, something more calculating waits. A long game.

Nick is going to get what he wants.

“I’ll call off the guy. I’ll let you talk to Vlad,” Nick says smoothly. “But I meant what I said.”

He leans in, voice dipped in gravity now.

“You will never be free of me. You can live with that. Or you can keep running.”

Hayko’s breathing stutters. His body begins to shake—there's too much fury, too much heat in too small a cage.

He closes his eyes.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

The technique fails. Everything feels wrong inside his skin. But when he opens his eyes, it’s quieter. No less terrible. Just stiller, to the point that he can string together a coherent sentence that manages to make some progress in this waking nightmare.

“Fine,” he rasps. “That’s it. Just talk.”

His voice trembles with restraint, but it holds.

“Call him off. Call Vlad. Now.”

Nick’s phone is already in his hand. He types something out, then locks it.

“There,” he says. “See? Progress.”

Nick rolls his eyes when Hayko just glares at him with accusation, clearly tired of playing the patient villain.

“Fine. I’ll call him off while you watch. Jesus.”

He unlocks his phone, pulls up the messaging app, some off-brand secure interface with Cyrillic UI settings, and clicks through a few chats. A check mark appears next to the message. Sent. Hayko watches the movement of Nick’s thumb like it’s a loaded weapon.

“There. Happy? He’s off. Vladimir lives.”

Hayko’s voice is quiet but firm. “I’m not doing anything else until I talk to him.”

Nick groans theatrically, drops his head back like a man besieged by unreasonable demands.

“Come on, Hayko. You think I’m letting you call him so you can give him a head start?”

Hayko’s voice trembles and accidentally turns desperate. “Call him.”

It must do more than just give him away because Nick eyes him, lips thin. “You switch to Russian, the call ends.”

Hayko nods once, trying not to show his relief.

Nick exhales sharply, then taps open an encrypted call app—one Hayko doesn’t recognize. He dials. Hands it to Hayko.

Vlad picks up on the third ring. His voice cuts through the line like a blade.

“Where is he?” 

Hayko swallows. Suddenly, speech feels like walking a tightrope with a gun to his chest.

“It’s me,” Hayko says quickly, too quickly. He checks Nick’s expression to make sure he’s doing alright. If this is allowed. “I’m okay.”

There’s a pause. The kind that indicates Vlad's already stepped outside the diner, away from witnesses.

“Where are you?” Vlad’s voice is sharp but careful.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Is he there?”

Hayko doesn’t answer fast enough. Not that he really needed to.

“Bring him back by tonight or you will regret it.”

Before Hayko can answer, another voice cuts in, close to the mic:

“My regret won’t be necessary,” Nick says, sing-song. “Your man will be home before sunrise.”

“Fuck yourself,” Vlad snarls immediately. “You lay one finger on him—”

“Please,” Nick laughs, easy, smooth. “We’re just having a conversation. And don’t bother trying to trace this call, by the way—it’s bouncing through five proxy servers and an Albanian VPN. Your Google Maps won’t help you here, comrade.”

Silence. Then:

“If anything happens to him,” Vlad says, even as ever, “I will not call police. I will call Alexei. I will name the city. And I promise you, Nick, by morning, I will have everything you own.”

Nick’s smile falters, just a hair. He covers it quickly with a chuckle.

“Very pretty, Vlad,” he says, lighter than before, but not quite cheerful now. “Ever the poet.”

Then he ends the call.

Hayko stares at the blank screen a beat too long before gently lowering the phone to the counter. The absence of Vlad’s voice leaves him cold in the bones. But he’s already calculating. Thinking of exit points, of how fast he could run now that the gun isn’t pressed to his ribs.

Nick watches him closely, then breaks the silence with a too-light question:

“Drink?”

“No.”

Nick sighs. “I wasn’t asking. And stop looking for exits.”

He moves to the bar cart again to pick up a new, still-sealed bottle of wine—a heavy red, foreign label—and uncorks it with a pop. The sound makes Hayko flinch. Nick notices, of course he does, but says nothing. Probably delights that he’s uncovered one of Hayko’s post-traumas already.

He pours into a glass. Then sees Hayko’s face.

“Oh for god’s sake.”

He grabs a clean glass from the shelf, holds it up to the light, then takes a cloth from the drawer and wipes it carefully—inside, outside, stem.

“See? Not a drop of chloral hydrate, I swear on my heart.”

He pours again. Slides the glass across the counter like an offering.

“Happy now? Drink. You’ll need something to take the edge off.”

Hayko stares at the glass. The color is dark, almost black in the low light. He doesn’t touch it. He’s not sure if it’s poison—but that’s not what stops him.

It’s that part of him, somewhere deeper than caution, darker than fear, knows Nick is right. He does need something. Something to slow the adrenaline, to anchor him in the room. Something to drink while bargaining with the devil. Because he needs to make this deal. 

Because there’s no alternative anymore.

Hayko picks up his wine and sips it, trying not to look too sour. Nick's life is half-theatre and Hayko will perform if it means they get to live.

Nick watches him with the same ease he might bring to observing fish in a tank.

“Did you really think you could run forever?” he asks, not expecting an answer. “New name. New job. New little apartment where the stove only half-works and the radiators clank all night.”

Hayko’s face twitches. He doesn't look up. His smile is faint, edged with something harder.

“You did a good job,” Nick continues, syrup-smooth. “You even got certified. Helping kids, shaping minds. Safe and sound, in a city where nobody else knows your name.”

He leans forward slightly, forearms on the table.

“Do you sleep better, knowing the men who wanted to carve you up are dead? The ones I killed. Or does that part not count, in your narrative?”

Hayko looks at him now. He does it slow. Purposefully.

“Is this a free therapy session?” he says flatly. “Or should I be charging by the hour for your whinging?”

It lands, despite Nick’s face not moving. His jaw finally clicks—once, audibly—as he grinds his teeth. Hayko sees it. And he smiles, sharp and small.

Good.

Nick’s fists clench, but only briefly. He exhales through his nose, forcibly casual.

“You’re lucky I like you like this,” he mutters.

“Just get on with it,” Hayko snaps. “Your terms. And no—no, sex won’t be one of them unless you’re planning to—”

Nick cuts him off with a dismissive sigh and a pointed eye-roll.

“Obviously I’m not stupid enough to open with that.” He gives him a dry look. “You can unclench. This isn’t that kind of negotiation.”

Hayko doesn’t answer. The silence bristles.

Nick adjusts his sleeve. “But since you’re so curious—fine. Terms.”

He counts on his fingers like he’s listing groceries.

“I want to see you. Talk. Sometimes. Coffee shop, bench in a park, dark alley, I’m flexible.”

Hayko blinks at him. “You think I’m going to just—schedule hangouts with you?”

Nick shrugs.

“You’d be surprised what people will do when their lives are on the line.”

He picks up his wine, sips.

“And keep in mind that yours is. Stalking was fun for the first few weeks. Watching you wait for your bus on Rue Rachel like clockwork, pretending you didn’t see me in the reflection—”

Hayko flinches. The blood drains from his face. He remembers that day. The way his spine locked. The full-body tremor he chalked up to a panic spiral.

“Yeah, love,” Nick says, gleefully watching the realization curdle. “Wasn’t your imagination, was it?”

Hayko swallows, hard. His palms are damp. But he’s still upright.

“How,” he says slowly, “do you imagine this conversation happens on any kind of even ground?”

Nick tilts his head.

“You think we’re equals now? You kidnapped me. You blackmailed me. You—" Hayko's breath stutters "tortured me. For two years. And yeah, you housed me. You fed me. Indulged my masochistic urges. You protected me from being tortured by other people. But that doesn’t erase it. You ruined my fucking life.”

His voice cracks, rising.

“Do you know how recently I got control of my panic attacks? You think that wine is gonna calm me down?”

Nick doesn't even blink.

“I know,” he says smoothly. “I read your therapist’s notes.”

Hayko’s whole body goes still as white horror washes over him. He sees a flicker of Dr. Carter’s handwriting. A post-it with his progress goals.

Nick's voice cuts easily through the fresh horror, unfazed.

“Without me, your body would’ve been dumped in a ditch on the outskirts of Chicago three years ago. You were a loose end. I saved your life.”

Hayko buries his face in his hands.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispers. “I was so far gone I actually thought—”

He stops himself, shaking. His voice cracks again.

“I thought you loved me.”

Nick doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, matter-of-fact: “I do.”

Hayko laughs. A short, dry bark that’s almost a sob. “No. You don’t. You love owning me.”

Nick doesn’t refute it. He sits very still, fingers tapping once, then stopping.

Hayko lifts his head. His eyes are damp, but furious. His mouth set. His voice, hollow steel.

“Tell me your terms.”

—

TO BE CONTINUED (1/2)

@doveotions @thewhumpstuff @thatsthewhump @adamantem-rose @lonesome–hunter @whumpsorbet @whumpasaurus101 @lektricfergus @downrivergirl914 @burtlederp @redwingedwhump @nicolepascaline @ifbtnna  @whumperfully​​ ​@brittaunfiltered09

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[macknus]

Febuwhump: Day Three

Prompt: Pinned Down

Febuwhump Masterpost

Whumpee ran. Sprinted through Whumper’s camp, feeling the cold, packed damp earth slapping beneath his feet was disgustingly wonderful. A feeling he didn’t think he’d ever miss, no… but here he was, breathless from the run, already exhausted from weeks of being captured and subdued, beaten and grounded and starved. His lungs screamed at him to stop, his muscles clenching as if he was ten sets into a workout, but Whumpee continued running.

A small crazed smile on his lips as he felt the wind on his face, rushing through his damp hair that Whumper kept tied back. The first thing Whumpee did when he got free was take that blasted bobbin from his hair and let his shoulder length raven birds nest free. He felt… oh gods, he felt alive.

He cleared the camp paths, rushing out of the alleyways packed with tents like buildings on either side and when he emerged onto the field that their camp was on he finally— after weeks that felt like years, stretched his white, feathered wings and continued to run.

Damn the ache in his back from spreading them.

Damn the stiffness of his limbs as he stretched them out to their full wingspan. He felt whole again now that they were no longer chained to his back at awkward angles.

He swallowed the cheers, the hollers, the whoops that threatened to spill out of his mouth from the relief, but he wasn’t out for the woods yet. He still had to clear Whumper’s camp before he risked making any more noise than is necessary.

He beat his wings after the stiffness faded to mere pins and needles. He was skinner than before, even if they were a little out of practice, they would hold him in the skies until he was free. They had never failed him before. And with the cool night air on his cheeks, the sable night sky calling to him, the stars winking, beckoning him to the heavens, Whumpee beat his wings, once, twice, then he was up.

He faltered a bit as he tried to steady himself in the air, a single, breath denying moment of a stumble as he fell through the air. But his wings caught and he wasn’t out for flying— he was—

He was FLYING!

He didn’t care as hot tears rolled down his cheeks, whipped away by the wind as he soared high above his prison, Whumper’s vile camp.

He was— he was actually going to be free…

And then he flew straight into a wall. Whumpee blinked, stunned as his body slammed against it— but it was just open air. Open sky.

“No,” he muttered, slamming his hand against it and a ripple whirled against the invisible barrier. The same barriers that Whumper’s sadistic Right Hand could weave. “No! No, NO!”

He pushed and clawed against the barrier and glanced up. He tried to fly above its edge, the impenetrable wall meeting a ceiling and he cursed.

“No! No! No! Come on,” he cried, pushing with all his strength against the barrier. There had to be a weak spot. There had to be.

“Do you know what the real kicker is?” A cold voice asked from below. Whumpee froze physically, while his insides raged against a storm. His heartbeat hammered against his chest, sweat forming on his brow, his chest, his back from the exertion. Whumpee trembled as he tilted his head down to see Whumper directly below him. Whumper met Whumpee’s gaze with a cruel smile as he stepped past the barrier that kept Whumpee trapped within the confines of the camp. “It only works on you, darling. It helps to keep your pesky friends out, and your defiant, ungrateful self in. Exactly how I want you.”

Whumpee snarled. “I’m not coming down. I’m not letting you chain me up again.”

Whumper stepped back into the barrier, all humour gone from his sharp, angular face, but his eyes glinted with a dark promise. “Good thing I don’t need your permission then, isn’t it?”

With a click of his fingers a spear appeared in his hand and Whumpee paled. Whumper tossed the spear in his hand, getting the weight of it in his fingers as he assessed Whumpee above.

“You can either come down here, now, or I’ll bring you down, boy.”

Whumpee glanced around the camp, but there was nobody else out of bed. Only Whumper. He could fly to the opposite end, avoid his attacks and then what? He couldn’t leave! Spelled to remain—

Before Whumpee could finish the thought he felt the whistle of the spear through the air and he rolled, barely dodging the blow in time. The spear ran straight through the barrier like a mocking taunt, but Whumpee couldn’t focus on that as Whumper summoned another spear into his hand.

“This one won’t miss. One last chance, Whumpee,” Whumper sang. His voice like gravel, echoing shards of ice through Whumpee’s ears and sending shivers down his spine. Whumpee knew how good Whumper’s aim was, and he didn’t want his wings to be speared which is exactly what Whumper would do.

Whumpee hung his head, wings beating against the air to keep him up. “Okay,” he said, hands balling into fists at his sides. “Okay,” he said again and let the air catch his wings as he descended.

It was pathetic really. Whumpee had a chance at freedom, at escape, and all it took for his defiance to smoulder was Whumper. Not an army. Not an onslaught of Whumper’s bloodthirsty soldiers, just… just him. With a spear.

Whumpee’s feet had barely touched the ground before Whumper tackled him to the ground. Whumpee’s head hit off the barrier with an oomph as his shoulders took the brunt of the blow to the cold, hard earth below.

Whumper straddled Whumpee’s waist, a cold smile on his thin lips. “You know how much I love your wings, Whumpee,” Whumper cooed, running his fingers over the feathers that made Whumpee squirm. He didn’t want the sensitive spots to be touched, especially by Whumper. That was something that he and his mate would share if he— if he ever got out of here.

But Whumper knew that. Knew how intimate a gesture touching Whumpee’s wings was and did it anyway.

“Which is why I’m so proud you didn’t make me put a hole through them,” he continued, touching an especially sensitive spot that made Whumpee whimper under Whumper. “But you still need to be punished. Right Hand suggested I clip your wings.”

Whumpee’s eyes went wide through his terror, shaking his head as Whumper smiled down his horrible smile at Whumpee. “Don’t worry, darling, I told her I won’t do that. I want you to still be able to fly… but your punishment remains.”

Whumper grabbed Whumpee’s wrist and yanked his hand down until it was parallel to the ground. Whumpee struggled, trying to pull against Whumper’s strength, but his grip was strong, sure. Fed. Whumper wasn’t starved like Whumpee. Whumpee’s resistance was futile and they both knew it.

“Now, since your hands are the actual offenders, getting you out of your chains, I think this will be a fitting punishment.”

Whumper didn’t wait a beat before slamming the spear through Whumpee’s palm and burying it into the ground below. Whumpee screamed and thrashed under Whumper, begging, pleading for him to take it out, take it out, I’m sorry.

Whumper clicked his fingers and another spear appeared. Whumpee kicked and tried to worm his way out from under Whumper but every small movement aggravated his impaled hand and he cried out.

“You got cooped up, little bird, it’s okay,” Whumper cooed. “You wanted to be outside, you should’ve just asked, boy.”

Whumper grabbed Whumpee’s free hand. “No! No! Please, Whumper! Please!”

“See? With those manners, I’d give you anything, darling.”

Then he impaled Whumpee’s other palm into the ground, effectively pinning him to ground, arms stretched out wide to his sides. Whumpee screamed as fire raced through his blood, no longer struggling but every breath, every tremor threatened to move his limbs and he wanted to be sick. The stench of dirt and cold and metal from his blood filled his senses which roared like a beast inside him.

Whumper’s smile dropped from his face as he stared down at Whumpee. He stroked a hand down Whumpee’s wing and Whumpee couldn’t stop the knee jerk reaction that tore against his hand and he screamed again.

“Now boy, you’re outside. Just as you wanted. A nice night below the stars might do you some good.”

Whumpee trembled as Whumper’s heat pulled away from him as the bastard stood. His mind only processing Whumper’s words after he walked towards the streets line with tents.

“Wait! You- you can’t leave me here!” Whumpee yelled after him, panic seizing his throat. “Whumper!”

Whumper didn’t answer, just kept walking further and further away. “Whumper! WHUMPER!”

“WHUMPER!”

There was no response. Whumpee stared up at the stars winking down at him, beckoning him to the sky and he sobbed.

[whumpingandsmilinglikeanidiot]

Words cannot describe how much Whumpee hated that place. Yet they were again dragged here, and the first few days of opening their eyes to that familiar view made them mutter over and over again, this is just a nightmare.

But the days after that, whumpee could feel their heart crawl inwards as the hardwired rules, the accustomed words, the trained behavior

jumped right back and fit them neatly.

It was almost as if this was how everything was meant to be.

[bedtimescenarios]

Please write more mind control whump your piece on it was so good

Thank you so much!! Here you go, hope you enjoy! Mind control is so messed up but so fun to write :))

Lillies

CW: manhandling (brief), non-con touch (not sexual), intimate Whumper, mind control and all the autonomous restrictions that come with it

A pained yelp escapes Whumpee's throat as they're practically thrown inside the room by the hair. They stumble to the ground, head instantly perking upward, just in time to notice Whumper's sharp grin widen. They're well aware of the fact that Whumper could've simply made them go back, yet, to their exasperation, Whumper sometimes prefers manhandling them instead. Perks of having a choice.

As Whumpee nearly bumps into a foot of the luxurious bed in the middle of the room, Whumper calmly steps forward, the smile slowly fading as they speak.

"Oh, Whumpee, what were you doing just now?" their voice resounds, impossibly melodic. It takes everything in Whumpee not to flinch as they take another step towards them, dark eyes scanning the smaller form as if they were a lamb set for slaughter.

The gate was unlocked. Did they truly expect them not to take the chance? To not run from this harrowing paradise they've been trapped inside of for... how long has it been again? Whumpee knows their mind is fucked now, but they don't feel like making matters worse in the moment. As much as they try to remain coherent in finding an excuse, they stammer under Whumper's gaze. They absolutely hate it, how the thought of Whumper's abilities alone makes them shiver. "I didn't try anything- I swear, I was just-"

"I gave you certain privileges, Whumpee." They interrupt, tone calm and composed. With their eyebrows slightly raised, forming a small crease in the middle, they give the impression of scolding a child. "You're making me regret trusting you with them."

Whumpee has to physically keep themselves from scoffing. Privileges, right. As in basic personal autonomy. Being able to use their own body has recently become a reward instead of a guarantee. If they could just reach out, stuff Whumper's mouth with a gag and wipe that grin off their face-

Whumper raises an eyebrow, seemingly amused. "That's not a very nice thing to say." They pause, seemingly contemplating their words for a second before correcting themselves. "Or think."

Whumpee's eyes shut tightly, and they bite back a snarky remark, attempting to also wipe it from their mind. While Whumper chuckles, they gather their thoughts. "Look- I was just in the garden, tending to the lillies, nothing else."

Whumper tsks, taking a step so sudden that Whumpee can't help but shrink back. A hint of a smile crosses their face at the sight, and they kneel down next to Whumpee. They reach out a hand, and Whumpee half expects all their thoughts to vanish. Surprisingly, they simply run their fingers through their hair, untangling it with an uncanny gentleness. A moment of silence passes, one that feels like ages to Whumpee. As a stray strand of hair is neatly tucked away from their face, and the hand rests lightly on their cheek, Whumpee's instincts overcome them and they speak up.

"I won't try to leave again, I promise. Just don't-"

"Don't what, Whumpee?" Whumper coos, their thumb brushing against Whumpee's freckles. "Don't melt your pretty brain, make all the thoughts in it evaporate? Don't mould you into the Whumpee that nuzzles their head against my neck and smiles whenever I hand them a flower?"

Whumpee's eyes flicker. These blackouts they experience- the stretches where they’re aware one moment but wake up weeks later- have only been described to them by Whumper. The possibility, or rather the probability, that Whumper is telling the truth is gnawing away at them. They absolutely dread it- being mindless again and not even conscious enough to remember, let alone retaliate.

"That's not me, and you know it." They tilt their head, their tone slightly passive aggressive, yet laced with fear. Still, Whumper doesn't seem to mind.

"Oh, but it is. I know it's hard to admit it, Whumpee, especially since you've never witnessed any of it." They pause, eyes studying them closely, and the expression that flashes across their face is one Whumpee can't identify. It makes their hair stand on end.

"Perhaps I should let you."

When Whumper leans back on their knees, picks a flower from the decorated vase on the edge of the table and reaches for their hand, Whumpee flinches back. Whumper's mouth curls upwards into a soft smile, and they gently pull one of Whumpee's clenched hands open, placing their own on top. As Whumpee tries to shift away, their grip tightens.

"You should know by now there's no point in fighting me."

That's the cue for a blackout, Whumpee thinks. Their heart skips a beat as they don't. Instead, the dull room seems to brighten, a caleidoscopic mix of sun rays and soft, hued particles of dust. They surround Whumpee like stars, expanding magnificently until they all gather around the still smiling figure in front of them. Whumper's eyes seem to gleam, and Whumpee notices for the first time just how sage flecks are splattered across their brown irises, how their dark hair glows in tints of red in the sun... No. no, no.

When Whumper hands them the flower, they want to smack their hand away, yet their body takes it. Their mouth curls into a smile, and they thank Whumper, their body leaning forward and arms wrapping around Whumper. They want to scream as they feel the embrace tighten. Let me go, Whumpee thinks. And Whumper hears it, Whumpee's certain, as they see a hint of a grin on their face as they pull back.

"You're welcome, Whumpee."

Whumpee's stomach churns- or is it just their mind wishing it could?- when they're pulled to their feet by the hand and they smile wider at their captor. Let me go, they repeat in their mind, but their body doesn't say it. Their body keeps their fingers intertwined with Whumper's, thumb brushing against their knuckles.

"This is my home. Thank you for making me realize it." Their mouth says, and they wish they'd settled for the blackouts.

"You're such a sweetheart," Whumper murmurs. "Let's continue tending to the lillies together."

[lumpywhump]

A living weapon whumpee trained not to react to pain (unless they faint from it) THIS IS SO JUICY bc rn I'm really into a living weapon whumpee that has to pretend to be the weapon again (please send me any good stories with this I'm dying) (yes I have already seen the falcon and the winter soldier) it's so damaging! OMG and when whumpee thinks they're completely deprogrammed and handler says a command and whumpee does it without even thinking. ASN WHEN ITS A COMMAND/TRIGGER WORD THAT WHUMPEE DIDNT KNOW ABOUT!!!!!!! then when whumpee has to heal all over again they are constantly worried that there's no point bc handler/whumper will take them back and retrain them.

[evil-by-noon]

Agoraphobic Caretaker.

Whumpee dragged themself into Caretaker's front yard to hide behind their walls.

They thought it was unoccupied- it used to be a group home or orphanage, but there are no kids there anymore- many of the windows have been closed and curtained for at least a year now.

Caretaker finds them by chance after sunset when they notice the gate is ajar and assume the wind blew it open. When they realize it's not broken, they get REALLY nervous-

Only to find what's basically an injured animal passed out behind the wall next to the gate.

Oh, now this is right up their alley.

They're not a pushover- Whumpee is hurt and traumatized, but also stubborn as hell. Caretaker knows how to wrangle them without going too far- Whumpee actually appreciates it. It makes them feel normal.

Caretaker even helps Whumpee train and get their strength back. Caretaker is quite strong themself. Even when Whumpee has recovered more, they still have night terrors and flashbacks- Caretaker doesn't have any trouble subduing them when they lash out.

But Whumpee notices something strange. Caretaker absolutely REFUSES to leave the grounds. They check the gate multiple times a day, someone drops off necessities every few weeks in exchange for some herbs Caretaker grows. Nothing is preventing them from leaving, right?

They're a little reluctant to let Whumpee leave, but just a bit. Whatever.

So, cue Whumper coming back for Whumpee.

They don't step foot on Caretaker's property- that'd be dangerous, and besides... They don't have to.

Caretaker walks Whumpee up to the gate when they leave to buy the weekly groceries they've been going out for. Whumpee pulls down the hood of their cloak and waves goodbye-

As usual, Caretaker's heart skips a beat when Whumpee steps over the threshold.

But this time, Whumper's people pile on him the moment he steps into the street- they were hiding behind Caretaker's walls...

Caretaker manages to grab one who got too close and another comes over to assist, but both get downed pretty much instantly. Caretaker throws them at the ones attacking Whumpee, but it's too late- Whumper has Whumpee in their grip.

Caretaker is shaking. They're a step behind the gate.

Whumpee is confused. They were protecting Whumpee, right? Why...?

Whumper laughs, stands just out of reach, taunting. They point at a scar on their neck.

"What's wrong, Caretaker? Come get them. We both know I could never win against you."

Caretaker takes a step forward, but what's wrong with them? They're pale. Their palms are clammy, they keep grasping and ungrasping their fists, opening and closing their mouth.

"Help-" Whumper squeezes Whumpee's neck.

Caretaker clutches their chest, they feel cold, their heart is beating so hard but it feels like it'll just stop any moment now. They're shaking. They try to still themself, but their muscles spasm without their permission. They have to crouch and lean on their knees, staring at the ground. At Whumper and Whumpee's shoes.

They take a step back.

Whumper chuckles and sighs.

"So predictable. Nice to see you're the same as ever, Caretaker. Thanks for nursing my poor Whumper here back to health for me. I'll see you around, hm?"

And drags an uncharacteristically crying, begging, and confused Whumpee away with them.

[whumppromptoftheday]

two whumpees meet by accident and become more confident in public again. as they spend more time out in the open, whumper has a chance to get both of them back

[pretty-face-breaker]

Reunion: Nick Catches Up (2/2)

cw. psychological whump, fear of violence, manhandling, blindfolding, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, manipulation, unhealthy kissing, referenced past drug use

part 1

—

They’re still sitting on opposite ends of the couch but Nick’s moved in closer. The wine’s going down sour, but it’s working, fuzzing his edges, dragging his thoughts slightly behind his mouth. Not enough to forget where he is, just enough to dull the anxiety spiked by each breath.

Nick has one ankle over a knee, swirling his glass like this is a business-casual catch-up.

“Fridays,” he says, “after work. One hour. Minimum.”

Hayko lifts his head slowly, face pinched in disbelief.

“You want to call me once a week?”

“Mm.”

Hayko snorts, dry and humorless, sitting just rigid enough not to be considered relaxed. He can feel his jaw working, chewing on the ridiculousness of that suggestion.

“What could you possibly get out of a weekly phone call?”

Nick shrugs, amused.

“Humor me. Maybe your kids gave you hell that day. I mean, how sane can you realistically stay in a classroom full of third graders?”

Hayko grip on the cushion tightens, fingers curling into it like he might wring it out. He hadn’t mentioned the grade he taught.

The thought of Nick watching him—worse, watching the kids—makes his skin crawl. He straightens in his seat, sudden cold running down his spine. The reality that Nick could be standing at the other end of the schoolyard fence, just out of view, flickers through him like a blade.

But Nick’s already moved on.

“I want to see you,” he says, shifting forward. “Weekly.”

“No.”

It’s instant. Hayko’s voice is jagged and sharp. It shakes a little, but not from fear.

“I haven’t forgiven you. I’ll never forgive you. I don’t want to see you, and forcing me to sit with you once a week isn’t going to thaw the ice, or whatever you think this is. Even this is bad enough.”

Nick pauses. A small tic works under his eye. His fingers twitch once on the stem of the glass. Hayko braces instinctively, his ribs tightening like he’s about to take a blow. Because Nick hasn’t gotten his way and he always does, regardless of the method.

But Nick doesn’t hit him.

Instead, he sets the wine glass down with meticulous care, leans back, and reclines into the plush couch cushions like someone very carefully choosing not to snap.

“Alright,” he says. “Every other week, then. To start.”

Hayko blinks. That’s... it?

“I—okay,” he stammers, because he’s suddenly nervous not to push his luck any further. “Fine.”

His concession still leaves a bad taste in his mouth. But Nick smiles. Pleased, of course, with Hayko’s cooperation. The satisfaction flickers in his eyes like heat lightning.

“Public, if you want,” he adds. “Coffee shop. Park bench. Whatever soothes your nerves.”

He says it like he’s doing Hayko a favor, letting him pick the color of his own noose.

They lapse into an uneasy silence that hums at the edges. Nick sips again, then casually scoots closer. Hayko leans away before he can help it, spine flush to the armrest. But Nick’s eyes are lit now with something heavier than wine and distinctly predatory. 

“Vladimir has to leave the city,” he says, voice dipped in something dark, injecting menace into every word. “The alternative being that he dies.”

Hayko stops breathing.

The world narrows to the shape of Nick’s mouth.

His ribs quake with the rhythm of a sudden, merciless pulse. Vlad—gone. No hands to ground him when the panic hits like a flood. No soft voice at 2 a.m. to remind him he’s safe, despite the firey itching of his scars. No witness. Just him, alone again in the night with his fingers curled around the edge of the sink and his breath caught in a throat that feels phantom hands squeezing it tighter.

The night terrors. The retching, from the night terrors. The subsequent weight loss he’d stopped mentioning to Dr. Carter, because he knew it was just his body desperate to purge the last traces of Nick's intimacy by vomiting out the remaining cells of his touch. 

And now this. Nick, snaking into his life. Offering to replace him.

To be the one to comfort him with his serpent manipulations and derisive comfort, pretending to heal his own work while, in reality, gleefully admiring what a mess Hayko has become under his hands.

“No,” Hayko says. 

And it’s a verdict. It lands like a commandment carved into a stone tablet dropped at Nick’s feet.

“Fuck no. If he leaves, I leave too. And then you’ll have to hunt us again, and I dare you to do it. Kill us both if you want, I don’t give a shit, but he is not—”

Nick bursts into laughter.

It’s sudden, bubbling out of him like something mechanical misfiring. He doubles forward, laughing so hard he actually wheezes, and Hayko stares at him in raw bewilderment.

“I’m joking,” Nick says, wiping at his mouth. His shoulders still shake with leftover mirth. He watches Hayko regulate with shiny-eyed covetousness. “You’d fight me every step of the way. Probably take off running again.”

Hayko closes his eyes. Rage pulses hot behind them. He tries to breathe steadily and stem the venom in him but it leaves him in uneven bursts. He’d forgotten how much Nick enjoyed the spectacle of plucking his nerves and watching them snap and twitch, drawing on his extremity until Hayko was too exhausted to react. They had certainly kept him more docile, Nick’s cult leader tactics.

“Is this as fun as you imagined?” Hayko hisses.

Nick grins, teeth white and unrepentant.

“More fun, actually. God, I missed you.”

The breath Hayko’s been nursing hitches. Something about the way Nick says it—like it means something. A sliver of real sentimentality under the layers. 

Hayko ignores it. Nick doesn’t miss. He obsesses and consumes with a wrought violence that cannot possibly be mistaken for love, now that he’s clear-headed enough to see past it.

Then Nick’s hand is on his face.

Hayko doesn’t even see the movement, only feels the thumb—light against the side of his temple, then down his cheek. He tenses, but doesn’t pull back. Not immediately. Not with the reality of the gun so close to them, on the table by Nick’s side of the couch. Not with Nick being particularly trigger happy when Hayko rejects his attempts at intimacy.

The touch is gentle but proprietary. It trails over the cut on his temple, already crusting at the edges from when Hayko had face planted on the car seat earlier. 

To his surprise, it stays exceedingly gentle.

And maybe it’s the wine, or the exhaustion, or the fact that his body hasn’t been touched in months without him flinching—but Hayko lets himself lean. Just a little.

Nick watches him with a softness that borders on vulgar.

“I missed you,” he says again.

Hayko’s voice is venom but he has to hold back tears.

“I hate you.”

And he doesn’t move.

The touch holds. Hayko stays. And in the dark, in that sick warmth, he remembers why he had sought this—because this, too, had once passed for comfort. Vlad was his shield, yes, his clinical balm, his cool detachment over the last year, when Hayko couldn’t stand human contact. But Nick’s poisonous intimacy always managed to warm him, from the inside out. It was an intimacy wrapped in barbed wire—comfort that cuts.

And he’s still so touch-starved it almost feels good.

For a minute, maybe less, Hayko starts to fold under the weight of the hand on his cheek.

It’s too much warmth after too much cold. He closes his eyes. The wine is settling into his system, dragging fog through the corners of his brain, and the perilous ledge Nick shoved him onto earlier—threatening to exile Vlad—is slipping just slightly from view.

His shoulders start to sink just enough to let his body pretend it isn’t still locked in alarm. The touch is so disgustingly steady and familiar in its comfort.

Then, Hayko opens his eyes.

Nick’s face is close. Too close.

Close enough that Hayko feels each exhale fanning the space between them—soft and slow, like Nick is whispering without speaking. His mouth is tilted, that grin held in suspension, his arm still looped along the couch behind him like this is just another night.

Hayko’s voice is low, threadbare.

“What do you think’s going to happen now?” Not angry or bitter. Just... tired to his soul. “Do you really think I’d even consider it?”

Nick doesn’t move or blink.

“You haven’t moved away,” he says quietly. “And I wouldn’t stop you if you did.”

His eyes flick, just once, to Hayko’s hands—still resting where they were. Still clenched in residual rage and stress but still there, nonetheless. 

“But you don’t want to move away.”

Hayko inhales sharply, half-preparing a retort, but—

“Shh,” Nick interrupts, and it’s gentle, almost patronizing. “You can hate me and want me. I made it pretty easy for that to be the case, actually.”

Hayko closes his eyes again, a sigh bleeding out of him as Nick’s fingers brush across his temple once more.

“I don’t want you,” he says, low and choked by his own grief. “I’m just still too fucked up to want anything else.”

Nick hums, like he’s heard it before.

“That doesn’t stop the want, does it?”

Hayko’s stomach lurches. Something inside him coils forward, as if his heart’s trying to get out of his body. The melancholy hits a fever pitch—rising hot behind his eyes, rushing down his spine like static. His chin starts to tremble.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“I keep asking myself where I’d be if I hadn’t stopped to help him,” he says, the words falling too fast, too raw. “If I hadn’t been so fucking stupid—”

His voice wobbles, catches on a sob.

“If I hadn’t let myself get snatched up by the cartel and tossed into your orbit—”

Nick watches him spiral. Hayko feels the mockery coming, for his impulsivity. For being juvenile. For walking into his own demise, like a mouse in a trap, and having the gall to break down over it three years after the trap clamped down onto him.

Nick snorts. But it’s softer than it could be.

“You’d be happier, yeah.”

A pause.

“But if it helps, most people wouldn’t’ve helped. Not like you did. Not with that much... stupid nobility.”

He looks at Hayko sideways.

“If that makes you feel better about your character.”

Hayko lets out a small laugh—wet and bitter.

“It doesn’t. I’m just an idiot.”

But even as he says it, something in him catches because he hears it, clearly now:

Nick’s trying to make him feel better.

About the situation. About the past. About himself.

And, strangely, not through threats or baiting or twisted power plays, but in a way that’s unnervingly human. It reminds him too much of himself during those early months in captivity, when he was still bargaining in grief stages, still trying to moralize what was happening.

It’s offensive. Deeply offensive.

The realization guts him. That Nick would offer him tenderness and his own Frankenstein’s monster of understanding, now of all times. It’s laughably, unintentionally cruel on its own. 

Hayko jerks forward—impulsive, furious with himself before it’s even done—and swats away Nick’s hand. Then grabs him by the shoulders. Then kisses him. It’s rough, unsympathetic, ragged with all teeth and no lips. He sobs against Nick’s mouth, mouth moving without rhythm, fingers digging in hard like he’s anchoring himself.

Because this is a relapse, and he knows it.

He hates himself. He hates that Nick was right. That he would be the one to move first. That Nick wouldn’t push for it. That he’d wait—like he knew.

Nick doesn’t resist. He cradles the back of Hayko’s head with one hand, cups his spine with the other, rubbing slow circles like he’s comforting some terrified animal.

He doesn’t deepen the kiss or drive it, seemingly content letting Hayko take what he needs and, somehow, that’s even worse.

When Hayko pulls away, he’s gasping—air rattling through his lungs, trying to steady. His hands tremble as he shoves at Nick’s chest, scrambling to sit up, to get off the couch, to move before his grief turns lethal.

But Nick catches him by the wrist, voice maddeningly gentle.

“Hey. It’s alright.”

“Tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. That’s fine. You can have this. Just this one moment, before you go back to pretending I’m not in your blood.”

Hayko shakes his head, mouth open, eyes raw and leaking.

He wipes at his cheeks with the backs of his hands, unsteady and fast, like trying to hide evidence.

“I want to go home,” he mutters hoarsely. “If you’re done negotiating.” 

Nick’s eyes narrow, watching him.

“Of course.”

But Hayko can barely hear him over the sound of the thought that has finally crystallized, clean and sharp in his skull: He’s complicit. He keeps trying to survive on Nick’s terms.

Nick is a poison.

And for all the therapy and distance and soothing words in Vlad’s arms, for all the gardens and whispered assurances—he’s never really been clean.

—

It’s just after 2 a.m., and the city feels washed out. From under his blindfold, Hayko can see pale-orange street lights blur by the windows in rhythmic flashes as the car snakes through the roads. Harvey is behind the wheel, carrying on with Nick in his usual grating tone, asking about his weekend plans like they’re headed to brunch, not delivering a blindfolded hostage back to his home.

Hayko sits stiff beside Nick in the backseat, fists still balled tight at his waist like he’s holding himself together with sheer pressure. Nick’s arm is slung around his shoulders, the other resting easy on his knee. Hayko leans forward, just slightly, enough to keep from sinking into the crook of Nick’s body. He refuses to let himself touch, even now. Even tired as he is.

He hadn’t even told Nick the address. Didn’t have to, obviously.

Harvey, voice oozing false cheer, throws it over his shoulder:

“You have a good visit, sweetheart?”

Hayko doesn’t answer right away. His lip curls. He inhales slowly, like he’s smelling something foul—and he is.

“Wash your hair,” he mutters.

A beat of silence.

“I can smell your greasy-ass wannabe gangster slickback from the backseat. And no, it doesn’t suit your face.”

A pause. Then Nick breaks into quiet, shoulder-shaking laughter. He presses a kiss to Hayko’s cheek, and Hayko stiffens all over again—but a flicker of vindication sparks in his chest when Harvey goes sourly silent.

God, he wishes he could see his face.

“He’s not wrong,” Nick adds, audibly grinning. “Seriously, Harvey. I keep telling you, get another barber. This one’s doing you dirty.”

Hayko can’t help it. His mouth twitches into a mean little smile but it’s there, and he’s sure Nick sees it in the dark. He hopes Harvey does, too.

The ride goes on.

Forty more minutes. Hayko drifts in and out of micro-sleeps, head dipping forward only to jolt upright again. Every time he loses the thread, he imagines Vlad’s voice pulling him back, but it’s never real.

They roll to a stop on an incline. Tires grind softly against loose gravel. The engine hums and clicks as Harvey kills the ignition.

Nick reaches over, fingers gentle now, and pulls off the blindfold.

Hayko flinches at the sudden shift from dark to streetlight-washed dimness. His vision adjusts slow, grainy. The first thing he sees is Harvey’s eyes in the rearview mirror—cold, speckled orange by street lights, and fixed on him like a dare.

Hayko meets his stare dead-on. Lets his mouth lift just a little. He hopes it looks smug. Then he looks away and opens the door.

The air outside is damp and familiar. Familiar in the way something becomes sacred after enough trauma. The kind of air that reminds you you survived something.

Nick joins him outside. They stand together in the dark for a moment. The sky overhead is thick with clouds. A breeze stirs. Hayko stares down at the quiet slope of the street, his little apartment complex barely three blocks off, just past a corner store and a chain café.

He knows Vlad is awake. Pacing. Maybe gripping his phone with white knuckles. Trying not to call someone. Trying to keep the worst-case scenarios out of his head.

Hayko swallows.

He thinks about what happened earlier.

The kiss. The way he lunged for it. 

He wonders if Vlad will know or see it on him, smell the guilt like smoke. If he’ll ask. Or worse—if he’ll try to understand.

Would he look at Hayko with that slow, careful sympathy he reserves for Hayko’s rare instances of revealing trauma? Would he chalk it up to coercion? Say it’s just mind games? That Nick conditioned him, that it doesn’t mean he’s undone all his healing?

Hayko decides, right then, he’s going to tell him. Secrets would rot between them. They already had. And Nick would want that.

“You waiting for me to walk you to your door?” Nick’s voice cuts into the stillness.

Hayko shakes his head slowly, then reaches into his hoodie pocket. Pulls out a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds, thumbs out a cigarette, and lights it with a small black Bic. He sticks it between his teeth and inhales deep, like it might push all the noise in his head out through his lungs.

The relief is immediate, like exhaling all the little barbs that have been grating on his nerves.

Nick gives him a sidelong glance, faintly judgmental.

Hayko narrows his eyes.

“Give me a break.”

Nick raises his brows, lips pursed.

“Didn’t say anything.”

Hayko takes another drag. Holds. Exhales slow. He can feel the bite of the smoke in the back of his throat, grounding him.

“You used to do coke,” he says. “In case you forgot.”

He keeps his eyes forward, on the apartment, tone flat.

“I was there for that shitshow. Especially the detox. You’re welcome, by the way. For letting you tie me up so you wouldn’t claw your fucking face off.”

He mutters the last part.

Nick raises both hands in mock surrender, still smiling.

“Not judging. And I’ve been clean ever since.”

“Good for you,” Hayko mutters, voice dry and unimpressed.

The silence after stretches. Hayko watches the building. Watches the fourth-story light flicker off, then on again. Vlad’s still pacing.

Nick shifts beside him.

“You using anything else?”

Hayko’s head turns. His voice is sharp, immediate. “No.” A pause. “And if I was, it wouldn’t be your business. We agreed on phone calls and check-ins. Not therapy sessions.”

Nick doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even smirk at his frostiness.

Something in Hayko shifts, not trust but suspicion of Nick’s sheer restraint.

He doesn’t think Nick will hurt him again. Not like before. Not the zip-tie and knives kind of hurt. If Nick hurts him now, it’ll be because Hayko asked for it. Because Hayko cracked and begged for something sharp to remind him he’s still alive or because he’s a stupid masochist. He’s no less of an addict than Nick is, he’s just better at dressing it up as survival.

Nick won’t apologize. Hayko knows that. He’s not going to play contrite.

The cigarette’s burned down to the filter. Hayko flicks it to the ground, grinds it under his shoe, then kicks it into the gutter with a small grunt.

“Goodnight,” Nick says behind him, tone weirdly genuine.

Hayko doesn’t look back. Just starts walking.

By the time he reaches the front door, he already wants another one.

—

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