#rescuer whump

[chaotic-orphan]

Guardian Angel

Whumpee blinked at Caretaker, owlish eyes wide as Caretaker opened their cell door with a key like it was nothing. They didn’t care about making noise or Whumper hearing them, they just swooped into Whumpee’s cell, that same toothy grin on their face that was both friendly and intimidating at once.

“You— you came.”

Caretaker leaned against the door of the cell, crossing their arms over their chest. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

Whumpee just stared. Caretaker nodded at them. “Now that your mistaken lack of faith in me has been rectified, let’s get moving.”

Whumpee nodded their head. Of course! In their stupor they probably looked like an idiot, staring at Caretaker like they were their guardian angel. Probably because they were.

Another voice piped in from across Whumpee’s cell. “Whumpee?” A voice called out and Whumpee’s heart raced in their chest. They ran out of the cell, straight past Caretaker and out the door, going to Other Whumpee’s cell.

They glanced at Caretaker over their shoulder who stepped out of the cell. Eyes pleading. Caretaker’s expression didn’t change. They just said: “no” flatly.

“Caretaker please! Other Whumpee kept me alive in here! We’ve been leaning on each other the whole time.”

Caretaker blinked. “I don’t care.”

Whumpee froze. “What?”

“I don’t care,” Caretaker repeated in the same tone. Whumpee turned to face them fully, mouth agape.

“You don’t understand—”

“I think I understand perfectly, Whumpee. It’s you who’s confused so let me clear it up for you.” Caretaker closed the distance between them, cupping Whumpee’s cheek in their hand so gentle. Oh so lovingly it made Whumpee’s heart stutter and stop, and restart again at Caretaker’s touch. They missed Caretaker, they realised with an ache in their chest.

Caretaker tilted Whumpee’s head up further, ensuring that Whumpee saw the seriousness in Caretaker’s eyes when they told them.

“I came back for you, to rescue you, Whumpee. Your little trauma bonded friend here could be the next Pope, or cure cancer, for all I care and it wouldn’t make a shred of difference, or change my mind, because I came here for you.”

“Whumper will torture them!” Whumpee said, covering Caretaker’s hand with their own. Caretaker’s smile grew softer around the edges.

“I don’t care, little dove,” they almost whispered. The truth of the statement rang home for Whumpee who pulled away in disgust.

“If you came here for me then why don’t you do this for me? Just this one thing, please!”

“Please,” Other Whumpee echoed. Caretaker straightened. There was no way they went through all of this trouble and effort just to come rescue Whumpee, sweep them off their feet, and have to compete for their affection with someone else. Someone they bonded with during the course of their captivity.

“You have the keys,” Whumpee said, voice pleading. Caretaker looked into the cell Whumpee was standing in front of. Assessing the damage. If they brought Other Whumpee and Whumper caught up to them, Caretaker could always throw Other Whumpee under the bus and kill two birds with one stone. “Please.”

Caretaker’s eyes slid to Other Whumpee’s and there was a spark there. Something threatening and belligerent. Caretaker stepped back, a shutter sharpening all their soft edges when it came to Whumpee and grabbed Whumpee’s wrist.

“Yeah. No can do.” Caretaker started dragging Whumpee away, kicking, screaming and cursing.

“Caretaker! Caretaker please!” Whumpee screamed, pulling at Caretaker’s fingers, but they might as well have tried to punch a hole in a block of concrete. They fell dead weight but Caretaker continued on like they weighed nothing.

Whumpee threw their head over their shoulder, tears streaming down their face when they saw Other Whumpee at the bars to their cell.

Whumpee was about to scream and tell them that they’d come back for them, that they’d rescue them, but Other Whumpee beat them to it.

“If you’re getting some fool-hardy notion of rescuing me right now, forget it. Live for me instead.”

“Other Whumpee,” Whumpee cried as Caretaker dragged them up the stairs. “I���m so sorry.”

Caretaker marched on, heart breaking at Whumpee’s cries. They had come too far to stop now. They’d free Whumpee, that was what they came here to do.

They could make a new mission to free Other Whumpee once Whumpee was safe. Maybe take down Whumper and get Whumpee to testify… Caretaker didn’t falter as their brain formed a secondary plan.

Whumpee first.

Always.

~*~*~*~*~*~

A.N for WRITERS BLOCK — if you’re trying to escape that dreadful writer’s block, imagine yourself as a Caretaker (Whumper//whumpee) and write the scene!!!

This is how I would act as a Caretaker — selfish, determined and detached🫶 no heroics from me😌 #sorrynotsorry whumpee, RIP your friend ig?

[whumpzone]

Whumpee was always kept naked by their captor. Caretaker knew they'd talk about it when they were ready. They'd only had Whumpee for a day or so, and so far they'd just let them sleep. Now, though, they really need to eat.

They knocked on the door to Whumpee's bedroom and immediately heard a gasp, and a thud. Then they heard frantic rustling. Caretaker slowly pushed the door open to see the duvet thrown to one side where Whumpee had scrambled out of bed and fallen to their knees. Whumpee themself was pulling off all of their new clothes with desperate, trembling fingers. Trying to look presentable before their strange new jailer.

"S-Sorry, I'm sorry, I'll be faster," they promised around uneven breaths. "I shouldn't have worn them, I'm sorry."

Caretaker stayed still, holding the tray of bread and soup in their hands, trying not to scare Whumpee any more while also having to watch them strip away their pyjamas in the freezing winter cold. Their body underneath was sickeningly frail and abused.

In just a few more seconds Whumpee was completely exposed and kneeling on the floor, shivering but docile. "Okay," they mumbled. "I'm ready now."

[gottawhump]

Rage Room

991

CW/TW: lady whump, BBU/WRU, pet whump, rescuer hurts whumpee

She tries to take a deep breath, before getting up off the floor. It hurts. So does walking, but she limps around the room, putting shards of broken crockery and glass and plastic into trash bags.

She puts the trash bags outside the door outside the room she is not allowed to leave. From hidden cupboards she pulls out replacements and places them where they belong, on tables and shelves. With swelling fingers, sometimes she drops them, breaking them again, and has to start over.

She puts fresh linens on the mattress, doing her best to make the corners sharp and neat.

She changes her stained and torn clothes for a set exactly the same, but clean and whole. The linens and the clothes go into a laundry bag, which also go outside the door. Someone will take them away.

She folds herself onto the mattress, and waits for the next customer.

Not the bat again. The customer comes in swinging, and 991 flinches. But the customer doesn’t notice her, smashing the bat down on the crockery and the furniture, sending shards flying.

The better days are when the customers don’t notice her, when she can rest and heal.

The better days are becoming fewer and fewer. But she tries to blend in, to be invisible, like a good Domestic.

She was a good Domestic, once.

“Jesus Christ,” the customer exclaims when he sees her. “They put a person in here?”

991 shakes her head, and holds out her left wrist, displaying the barcode.

“A Pet, of course. That’s fucked up.” The customer seems to notice the mattress 991 is sitting on. “So fucked up. I’ve gotta get you out of here. Think, think, think!”

She flinches away from the bat, terrifyingly close to her face. He starts to lower it, then changes his mind.

“This might work, but it’s going to hurt. I’m sorry.”

Then he brings it down, full force, on her knee. She cries out, seeing stars. When he smashes it down on her other knees, she blacks out.

“Sir, you can’t take that. That’s company property.”

“Your rules said I can take home one souvenir from something I broke. I choose-this.”

“There’s an additional charge for that particular item.”

“Put it on my card.”

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

this or that - captivity whump (20)

(character believes theyre being rescued but its not actually happening vs. theyre being rescued but don't think it's real)

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

Trope: Ignorant Traitor

In lieu of a previous ask, here's a little trope blurb that I love <3

Ah, yes. "The Ignorant Traitor," (which, honestly, could be considered a reversal of "used for bait") in which a character is bugged with a tracking device and unknowingly leads the enemy to their team/friends/family - to the place that was supposed to be a place of solitude and respite from everything. Maybe someone detects the bug in time for everyone to start bugging out, but it's too late, or perhaps they're all caught unawares?

Cue the self-satisfied smile of a victorious Enemy Leader as they stroll through the Team HQ, seeing that their plan had come to fruition after all. They even make a point of singling out the Ignorant Traitor by thanking them, standing taller as they take in everyone's horrified expressions. "Well done! I knew you couldn't be completely useless!" They praise, watching as the team is brought into custody with little resistance because - honestly - where can they run to?

And the whole time the Ignorant Traitor is desperately trying to convince their allies that they didn't know, I had no idea, no, why would you say that? You have to believe me!

Maybe they take the Ignorant Traitor prisoner too, forcing them endure the furious stares and betrayed shaking of heads and muttered resentments. Maybe it's even worse that, when the time comes for them to be separated from their team, nobody objects as they're dragged away.

That, or they're left behind because the Enemy Leader just shrugs, saying "you've served your purpose" or "you've done enough damage" or "do you honestly think I want you, after all the damage you've managed to cause?" or "please, you're more trouble than you're worth." Leaving the Ignorant Traitor, too injured to pursue right away, to shout after their captured team that they'll make this right.

And now the Ignorant Traitor is left to rely on themselves to set any breaks, suture any bleeds, and disinfect and bandage everything on their own. Maybe they're used to it, but it'd hurt even worse if they were accustomed to the whisper-soft touches of the dependable team Medic, of whom their last memory was a disappointed glower that turned away when they had tried to plea their case. It'd be even more gripping if they barely allow themselves time to recover before they're off to fix their mistake. Give me a limping, worn down, emotional wreck of a soldier. They look like hell. They feel like hell. And you could see hell burning in their eyes. Nothing was going to stop them from setting things right.

And the real kicker - after their team has shunned them? It just so happens that a different teammate was responsible for planting the bug on them in the first place - making them the True Traitor. Maybe the Enemy Leader separated them from the imprisoned team under the guise of leverage, to ensure that everyone behaved themselves, when in reality the True Traitor is thriving under the Enemy Leader's control. Now there's another layer of betrayal!

So, the Ignorant Traitor vows to make things right. They soon lose count of failed missions. After all, such a monumental task is nearly impossible when working solo. But even though they retreat with new scars each time, they doggedly continue to work at freeing their old team. Each time they are forced to retreat, the ire within their eyes burns darker. Do they manage to rescue their old team, regardless of their obvious hate? Are they tearfully forgiven or shunned? Are they killed in an attempt, which turned out to be the only successful one, and it is only then that the team discovers that the Ignorant Traitor was innocent after all? Or, my personal favorite, are they horrifically injured in a rescue attempt - during which the truth comes to light about the True Traitor? Can the old team rally amongst themselves and help the Ignorant Traitor? Does their old team manage to save them, or do they only manage to beg for forgiveness as the Ignorant Traitor dies in their arms? An ally turned martyr? Because, regardless... they succeeded. They managed to fulfill the promise they had made at the start of this whole mess - months or even years ago.

Idc if I just handed you a whole ass plot - take it! Take it apart and Frankenstein it back together and mold it to fit your own ideas and share it! I'd like to read more things like this please and thanks!! Even if they're rambling blurbs like this was! My TBR is sparse!! <3

[whumpy-bi]

Rescuer who calmly sits on the floor beside Whumpee in their cell, keeping themselves quiet and still and patiently waiting for the terrified Whumpee to understand they’re not a threat

“I know you’re afraid of me, but that’s alright. I’d be scared, too. We can go when you feel comfortable. I’m not gonna make you do anything, okay? I’m here to help, I’ll prove it to you. I won’t do anything.” Very slowly extending their hands, palms up.

“See? I don’t have anything, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

[purple-heart-x]

Nothing like a more experienced whumpee quieting a newer whumpee almost violently when Younger breaks and begins to cry with need for something completely natural to them (food, water, sleep). Older slapping a hand over Younger’s mouth hissing angrily- or, really, desperately- that they know it hurts, but they can’t.

Older shooting an apologetic glance, barely hiding their panic, at the rescuers. Unable to hold in stutters as they assure the rescuers that they’ll be good, Younger was just a little scared, he swears they’ll be good. Managing to keep their voice somewhat calm despite the stutters, muted panic in their tone as they try to defuse the situation. Subtly positioning themself between the rescuers and Younger, hoping and praying they’ll be spared and given another chance. 

Just something about Older being protective over Younger despite being just as or even more scared than Younger of anyone near them. Being forced to be rough with Younger to shut them up so they might survive.

[whumpfish]

Reading AJ Mullican's Wolves' Dominion, I finally can put into words the thing that pisses me off about "Caretaker's heart breaks" whump.

It's not that dehumanizing pity is not a typical, normal response. It is. That's the entire basis for sadporn and the springboard for inspiration porn. Inspiration porn wouldn't be "inspiring" to a certain bloc of normal people if they didn't already think the traumatized and disabled were broken and incapable of self-determination to the point of being subhuman.

The very phrase "triumph of the human spirit" suggests that the human spirit of anyone disabled/traumatized who doesn't rise to some level of not only normalcy but excellence by normal standards has been defeated by their circumstances, by the nature of their existence. Normal people's humanity doesn't triumph if they achieve a level of excellence by their own standards. Their ability might, or their character, but not their humanity. See the difference?

It's not that this kind of response to evidence of trauma isn't normal. It's not that "caretakers" don't get "heartbroken" over what a traumatized/disabled person has been reduced to. It's that this outlook--that a "whumpee" has been reduced to their current state--is being held up as true, and not only true, but noble and loving. Because trauma and dis/inability is not a reduction. It's an experience.

Have characters who respond this way, sure, it's a response an alarming amount of humanity has. Just don't pretend pity is love, or that heartbreak over perceived "brokenness" is care.

[nouseryetlol]

Cw// referenced medical whump and noncon medical treatment

Currently thinking about aftermath of medical whump.

A Whumpee that had a doctor Whumper, or maybe just a Whumper who didn’t actually have any idea what they’re doing, and just poked and prodded at Whumpee for their amusement. Either way, Whumpee is terrified of doctors, hospitals, and any kind of medical equipment. Even the sight of a syringe or a scalpel makes them nauseous.

Then they’re recused, and when they wake up they find themselves in a hospital. I love the idea of a Rescuer/Caretaker immediately being negatively associated with Whumper for bringing them there.

Bonus points if they have to help hold down/sedate Whumpee after resisting care they need. Caretaker has to remind themself it’s for Whimper’s own good even when they thrash against them, scream, cry, beg for them to stop.

[whump-n-comfort]

when you read a fic that gives you a hyper-specific whump scenario that you know would either A.) take forever to find in another story or B.) hasn't been written at all so the obvious conclusion is that you have to write it yourself

[chaotic-orphan]

June of Doom, Day Thirteen:

“Say something” : rescue // broken promise // weak

Cw: aversion to light, captivity Whump, isolated whumpee, rescue, touch starved Whumpee, fear of freedom, messed up mindset, thoroughly beaten Whumpee (mentally), emotional whump?, broken whumpee, forceful caretaker, forced caretaker, bad caretaker but not really?

Lucky number thirteen baby

*~*~*~*~*

The door opened and Whumpee despite their exhaustion, flinched. Light flooded the room and a shadow was coming quick towards them. Whumpee closed their eyes, shrinking back into the wall, unable to do anything but wince.

“Whumpee?”

Whumpee’s eyes flew open at the voice. The voice that wasn’t Whumper’s. Kind brown eyes found them and Whumpee whimpered despite themselves. Caretaker was there, standing in front of them. A screwdriver in their hand and Whumpee froze as they stared at the weapon.

“Whumpee? Whumpee, it’s okay. It’s okay, I—“ Caretaker broke off, following Whumpee’s line of sight to the screwdriver in their hand. “It’s… it’s just to free you…”

Whumpee blinked. Oh right. The manacles. Whumpee almost forgot about them they were sitting down in the basement for so long.

“I’m gonna undo the screws holding you up, okay?” Caretaker asked. Whumpee nodded, mute. Caretaker did just that. They started with Whumpee’s right hand. Unscrewing the metal pinning their hands to the wall. The screw clattered to the ground and Caretaker took Whumpee’s wrist in their hand, gently lowering it.

Pins and needles flared up at Caretaker’s hospitality, as they put it in Whumpee’s lap. Whumpee stared at the arm. It was as if it was someone else’s, it looked so… strange. Unfamiliar. The only real feeling was the feeling slowly returning to it.

Another screw popped out and clanged to the ground. Whumpee’s left hand was lowered to their lap again. Caretaker lowered to their knees in front of Whumpee, kind brown eyes looking down at their arms, then going to Whumpee’s face.

“I don’t want to rush you, Whumpee, but I want to get you out of here as soon as possible. Can I help you up?” Whumpee nodded. Caretaker got beside Whumpee and helped them to their feet. Whumpee swayed at how fast they stood, the world swirling and Whumpee rested their head back against the wall, screwing their eyes shut.

How many days had they been down here? Just sitting like that? Waiting for Whumper to come and… and…

“Whumpee. Whumpee? Are you okay?”

No. No I’m not okay, I’m not okay.

“Whumpee, look at me. Say something, please.”

Whumpee obeyed immediately in fear of getting hurt. When they opened their eyes they met brown where they should’ve seen green and that sent them down another spiral.

Say something? Say something? Could Whumpee even… even speak anymore? Or were they just always going to be exactly what Whumper said… weak, pathetic, useless.

A bang from above and Caretaker looked up the stairs, then urged Whumpee forward. Whumpee leaned heavy on Caretaker’s strong hands. A hand against the wall going up the stairs. To the light. How long had it been since Whumpee saw light? The sun, the sky? They couldn’t remember.

What was this kindness? This help they were offered. It was wrong. It was wrong! It was wrong! Whumper wouldn’t want this. They wouldn’t want Whumpee to see the light, the sky, the trees. They didn’t deserve a gift until they were perfect. Whumper told them that. Whumper promised to take Whumpee to see the sky if they were good and was Whumpee good? Were they being good right now? Escaping? With a ghost from their past life.

They wanted Whumpee to say something. Whumpee pushed against Caretaker’s hold and half fell onto the current step up from the basement.

“Whumpee?”

“No,” Whumpee croaked. Their voice a harsh, grating sound. They coughed and tried to wipe the cobwebs from their throat but it scratched when they spoke again. “Whumper promised.”

Caretaker bent low and asked: “whumper promised? Whumper promised what?”

“Break—“ Whumpee rasped. “Bre— breh…”

“Breaking? Did they break something? Are you okay?”

“No,” Whumpee cried. Their voice so torn. So raw. Wheezing and wrong. “No. I’m brea—“ a sharp inhale “—king a promise.”

Caretaker worried their bottom lip, frowning at Whumpee. “Did you promise Whumper to stay down here?”

Exhausted, Whumpee nodded yes.

Caretaker nodded. “Okay, Whumpee. Okay… but I have to get you out of here. Whumper might be on their way back and—“

“Stay… stay!” Whumpee pleaded and to their horror Caretaker shook their head.

“No. No. We’re going. We’re leaving. I’m taking you out of here. Taking you home.”

“Stay!” Whumpee cried, tears flooding their eyes and quickly flowing over their cheeks. “Stay! Stay! Stay! I promised—“ they pleaded, their voice cracking and breaking. “Stay! Stay!”

“Stay so Whumper can hurt you?! Stay so you can be locked in a basement?! No! No, Whumpee. You’re coming with me whether you like it or not. Please, don’t fight me. You’ll thank me in time.”

“No! No! No!” Whumpee cried, shaking their head side to side as Caretaker helped Whumpee to their struggling feet and half dragged half carried them up the stairs. “Stay! I stay! I promise…”

“Whumpee! Whumpee please! I’m doing this for you.”

Whumpee shook their head thrashing uselessly in Caretaker’s grip. Weak. Pathetic. Useless.

When Whumpee emerged into the light they had to shut their eyes. It blinded them. It hurt so bad. They threw out hands blind, wanting so bad to go back to the dark. Back to where they didn’t hurt so much. Whumper would be so mad and they’d hurt Whumpee again, or leave them alone again… but that’s what Whumpee deserved.

To be alone.

Not to have careful hands carrying them kicking and crying from their safe space. Their dark hole. Their isolation from society that didn’t need Whumpee. That didn’t want Whumpee.

Weak. Pathetic. Useless Whumpee.

Something covered their head and Whumpee flinched. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s for your eyes. So you adjust. You can open them now. It’s not as bright.”

Whumpee opened one eye as a test. Caretaker was right. It was less bright. More… muted. Brightness made bearable. Whumpee looked at Caretaker who smiled at them, happy.

“Better?”

Whumpee nodded.

“Will you keep fighting me?” Caretaker asked sadly.

Whumpee looked at Caretaker. Their eyes hopeful, their lips turned down to a frown. Too much emotion in their face it was hard for Whumpee to read. Whumper always had one emotion. Anger. Hatred. Contempt. It was easy to see, or if it wasn’t Whumper would tell Whumpee exactly how they were feeling. This was hard. Harder.

Whumpee looked down the basement steps to their room. The shackles on the ground where they once sat, silent. Quiet. Safe. Whumpee couldn’t hurt anyone there, but Caretaker… they were hurting Caretaker right now, Whumpee could see it.

They… they just didn’t want to be alone again… they were selfish and weak and pathetic. They just didn’t want to be quiet and alone.

Whumpee shook their head, and Caretaker smiled and put their arms around Whumpee again. Whumpee froze. They made Caretaker happy why were they doing this? What were they doing?

“It’s okay, Whumpee. It’ll be okay.”

[clickerflight]

Whump week: Do you trust me?

@week-of-whump

Masterlist

Part 5

If you're confused about how all these bits fit together, uhhhh, it would take too long to explain :) I got carried away with this one. It was super fun!

Content: Teen whumpee, character being called 'slow', caught, retrained, gun pointed at a minor, mentions of child abuse, immortal adult taking a gunshot to the throat, car crash, broken leg, road rash

...........................................

Ryan and Souka ran. Souka, despite his diminutive height, stayed ahead of Ryan because he was immune to glass and stones stabbing into the soles of his bare feet while Ryan was not. 

Ryan and Souka had been wading through a pond together, finally taking some time to properly get to know each other now that Ryan wasn’t sick anymore and while they were waiting for the case against Ryan’s mother to go through. Ryan had felt like a child again. Souka was quiet, but he seemed to know exactly what to do to show Ryan how to be young, to forget about the past for just a day. 

And then two men had showed up at the shore of the pond, watching them closely. Sure, it was a public pond, but the two had grown uncomfortable, especially since the two seemed to be guarding their shoes. 

Then Ryan had recognized one of the men as his uncle. His mother’s favorite brother. Souka seemed to pick up on the situation in an instant. The younger teen had grabbed Ryan’s arm and they ran. Ryan recognized the streets they ran on as they raced to get back to Souka’s house, the place Ryan had been staying at to get away from his mother’s house. 

Ryan looked back over his shoulder and yelped when he saw the men running after them. They were catching up quickly, though Souka didn’t seem to care as his eyes were set on the end of the street. 

Ryan picked up his pace, despite the pain in his feet and shins. He couldn’t breathe. His newly healthy lungs were trying to give out on him and the skin on his arms burned with memories and fear, the smell of cigarette smoke cloying the air around him. 

Souka dragged him to the side, dashing through a yard and the soft grass under Ryan’s feet brought him back to the present. 

“Sorry,” he gasped, though Souka didn’t respond. He was too focused on finding a way out of the situation. 

Souka slowed as they reached a fence, sliding in through a gap with the same ease as an escaping cat, though when he pulled Ryan in to follow him, Ryan got caught on the wood, unable to fit through the same gap that Souka could. Souka turned, eyes wide with panic as he realized what happened. A large hand grabbed the back of Ryan’s shirt, pulling him out roughly enough that skin came off on the wood. Another hand darted through the gap, grabbing Souka’s wrist as the boy tried to pull Ryan back. 

Souka growled, a harsh whispery thing before he bit into the man’s hand. The attacker yelped, though the grip on Souka’s wrist didn’t loosen.

The man who had grabbed Ryan was Tyler, the other having to be Leon, his mum’s cousin in law. Tyler shook Ryan, making the teen wrap his arms around his head to protect himself as Tyler growled, “You’re mom raised you for 15 years, and this is how you repay her, huh? Runnin’ off and getting police involved!? You’re lucky she wants to deal with you herself.”

“No, please,” Ryan gasped, eyes closed and protected behind his arm. 

“Shuddup,” Leon said, rolling his eyes as he grabbed Souka in a headlock, the small teenager unable to free himself from it despite his scrambling. He sounded exactly like a trapped animal with nowhere else to turn. “Kids these days. Don’t any of you grow up with a backbone?”

“I’ll go with you,” Ryan said quickly. “Just let him go. He had nothing to do with this!”

“He bit me!”

Ryan looked at Souka, hoping his eyes got across the message he needed to convey. ‘Trust me. I’m not doing this to hurt you.’

“He’s not right in the head and he’s mute. He won’t tell and he’s not worth the trouble of keeping him.”

Tyler and Leon shared a look, before looking down at Souka, who was valiantly playing the part that Ryan knew would get him out of this. 

“Tch, fine.” Leon released Souka, kicking him in the back of the legs to send him to the ground. Souka scrambled up and ran through the fence, not even looking back. 

Ryan tugged at his shirt, hoping desperately that Souka was going to get help. 

"Now, as for you," Tyler said, tucking Ryan tightly under his arm. "You're gonna have a little chat with your mom and we're going to get the police off her back, and then you're gonna go back to work. I'm sure not gonna support her when she has a perfectly healthy kid to do that for her."

Ryan walked silently, his heart pounding. His mom was going to kill him. She was actually going to kill him. She had come so close last time. Last time when he set up a hidden camera  to capture his death so she wouldn’t be able to get away with it, like she had gotten away with everything else. 

He didn't die that night, but he had some spectacular footage of the beating he took. Maybe being dragged back to the house wouldn't be so bad. He could grab the card with the video on it and escape again. He'd find Souka and the Adventurers and could hand over the evidence and it would go against her in court too. 

Leon jogged on ahead, presumably to get whatever car they came in as Tyler walked with Ryan under his arm. 

"No need for the dramatics," Tyler said, rolling his eyes. "Your shivering isn't going to get any sympathy from me."

Ryan didn't reply, playing out the situation in his mind. He would be taken back to the house, deal with whatever verbal tirade his mom had planned, probably take a beating after he told the cops he'd 'lied,' then he'd be locked in his room where he'd grab the card and find some way to escape. His mom wanted him to work so she'd have money for drugs and cigarettes so it wasn't like she was planning on keeping him inside forever. He'd get to leave eventually, and he'd use that moment to strike. 

Or..... he could trust that Souka would bring help much sooner than that, but Ryan couldn't quite bring himself to dare to think that someone would care for him that much. Despite knowing that Matsu had never left his bedside, stroking his sweat soaked hair as his fever broke. 

A car drove down the road and stopped beside them. Tyler opened the back door and shoved Ryan in, following him in after. Ryan curled in on himself as Leon started driving down the roads. 

Ryan picked at his nails in silence when he felt something vibrating in his pocket. He stared at his lap for a moment, realizing that he was getting a call on the charm Matsu had given him. He shifted to look out the window, hoping his movement would keep Tyler from hearing the vibration. 

The vibration stopped quickly enough and Ryan continued staring out the window. There was a sound of a motorcycle and he twisted to see Matsu riding on Laurance’s motorcycle, focused on the car with the look of a hunter about him. 

Relief and fear exploded inside of him, and without thinking he rolled down the window, moving to dive out through the window. 

"MATSU!" he shrieked as Tyler yelled and grabbed his legs, dragging him back. "HELP!"

"I'm coming!" Matsu called, speeding up as Leon slammed his foot down on the gas to get away. 

Tyler dragged Ryan back into the car, pinning him to the seat as he reached over to roll up the window. 

"You got The Adventurers on us!?" Leon screamed back from the front. "I'm going to kill you myself when we get out of here!"

"No! Let me GO!" Ryan screamed, struggling to get away from Tyler. 

Tyler growled, scooping up a roll of duct tape from the floor and grabbing Ryan's wrists and forcing them together. 

Ryan fought and kicked, but Tyler duct taped his wrists with ease. 

"Tyler! We have cops on our tail!"

Tyler growled, pulling a gun and pressing it to Ryan's jaw. "They seem attached to the kid, we have leverage. Keep going, Leon."

Ryan could feel his pulse against the gun as Leon took the car hard around the corners. 

Ryan had no idea how this was supposed to end, his entire life sitting at the base of his jaw where gunmetal was warming up to his skin. 

There was the sound of something crashing outside and a thump on the roof. 

"No way," Leon muttered. "No way, there is no possible way."

There was. Matsu, who must have jumped onto the car, leaned down over the windshield, a small tool held between his fingers. He slapped his palm into the windshield and webbed cracks spread across the glass. Leon yelped as Matsu slammed his hand to the glass again, this time shattering a part of the window. 

"OI! STAY OUT OF THERE OR I'LL SHOOT!" Tyler yelled, but Matsu couldn't hear, reaching over, grabbing the wheel, and tugging it hard to the side. 

Ryan felt the shock through the car when they hit a barrier, and panicked when he felt the car start rolling. Tyler, who was screaming and distracted, loosened his grip enough for Ryan to roll to the floor of the car, curling up as he slid to the door, just barely avoiding getting crushed by Tyler. 

He was up as soon as the car was still, climbing over the driver's seat and past the airbags that pinned Leon down. 

Someone grabbed his foot and he slammed it back, catching Tyler in the side of his head. He threw himself through the fully shattered windshield and hit the ground, square bits of glass pressing into his arms where he caught himself. He looked around to see police getting out of their cars and rushing over and a form laying the pavement nearby, twitching. 

Matsu lifted his head, the road burn on his face healing as Ryan watched. He crawled over, dragging a broken leg behind himself. By the time he reached Ryan, the leg was nearly healed and he gathered Ryan into his arms, pressing a kiss to his head. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Matsu asked breathlessly as the police reached the car, trying to figure out how to get the men out of the car. 

Ryan just whined and pressed his face into Matsu’s chest, his bound hands clutching at Matsu’s shirt. 

“GET DOWN! HE HAS A GUN!” an officer yelled and Matsu whirled Ryan away, putting himself in between the car and Ryan as a gunshot rang through the air. 

Matsu grunted, but got up, carrying Ryan away. Blood dripped down from the gunshot wound in his throat, but it was already healing. 

Matsu got back on the ground when they were behind a police car and held Ryan close.

He finally peeled Ryan off himself to look him over. 

“Here, let’s get that off of you,” Matsu said, pulling a knife from his pocket and cutting carefully into the duct tape. Ryan sat and shivered. He was so relieved he could barely breathe. 

“Thank you. For coming to get me.”

“Of course,” Matsu said softly, getting a bottle from his bag and using water to loosen the adhesive to keep it from hurting as he peeled the tape away. “I’ll always come get you as long as you want me to.”

Ryan nodded and, for the first time in years, let himself cry like the child he was meant to be.

Part 7

@whumpsday

[darkthingshappen]

Can you please continue Famous Last Words? :)

I would LOVE to continue this, and I am considering it. I just have no idea when I might get to it as I have sooo many story tabs already open right now. (Linking so I can find it later)

Famous Last Words

[whumpyreader]

Oblitus Es

TW: NSFW (18+ please), torture, male whump, noncon nudity

You were all so kind to my first whump story - thank you all for your acceptance! I don’t know how to individually thank you all (I’m new here) so I’m putting in a huge thank you here - THANK YOU! I’m sorry to throw another one out there. I have four total stories that have been haunting my brain by day and my google docs by night for about four years. It was time to get them out. I do not mean to dump them on you.

…

It is not the eerie tendrils of mist that stalk them in the breaking morn. Nor is it the growls and hungry whines of coyotes. Rather, it is the stench that runs a shiver down Jax Montgomery’s back. The mare he rides prances with caution, already more aware than he is of what lay in front of them.

Jax dismounts, throwing a fist to the sky to warn his army to stand still. He pulls a dagger from his belt and, silently, he inches on his toes toward the mound that has coyotes and humans interested. It is not a hidden mound of human flesh. Rather, it is in the open. What makes it hidden is the forest–forbidden and haunted so the story goes. But it still strikes Jax odd that two dead soldiers are not hidden out of sight. Whoever did this must not be concerned for their reputation or of being doomed to the legendary dungeon. 

Jax drops to one knee, wrinkling his nose to prevent at least one sliver of stench coming from the bodies. It is cold and snow lay in a thick blanket on the ground, providing some refrigeration against decay. But the bodies have been here for a while and some chunks have already been stolen by beasts come to clean up the mess. Jax pulls back the collar on the dead soldier closest to him, confused to find what he assumed would not be there: identification. One soldier was only a foot soldier. The other was a commander, one Jax had vaguely heard of before. 

“Commander?”

Jax drops his knee and sits back on his heels, holding the identification close to himself. “Soldiers,” he informs. “Though I’m not sure why.” If these soldiers died in battle or on the road, their army would take them back to the kingdom. If they were murdered, they would be better hidden. “We’ll take what is left to their families and inform the queen. Hopefully they find whoever did this.”

The soldier standing stiffly behind him saluted. “Yes, sir.”

“Go on ahead and warn the officials.”

The soldier saluted again and ran to her horse, galloping away like Jax wished he could do. 

…

Seven years later

It is said there is a ghost–not a monster, not a beast, not a vampire–but a tangible, human-like ghost that treads the corridors of the dungeon. It is the ghost that hobbles to and fro, clanks the keys, holds the rope, and nods before the stool is kicked out from under a criminal. There is no blood in his eyes, no violence in his hands. Only scars that show the ghost has tasted more horror than any other criminal understands. In its eyes are unshed tears. On its tongue is silence. Is the ghost hated? No. Feared maybe, for the awful atrocities it must perform. But more than anything, the ghost is pitied. In a dungeon, pity is more dangerous than hate could ever be for it is pity that keeps him a ghost. No self, no love, no humanity. A human no more. Destined to be forgotten.

…

Kodi breathes heavily when the man called “Ghost” limps through her door. His outfit is different today. The color of bog water and tattered, he does not smell better than he looks. His stiff fingers drag the bucket of water toward her and she shrinks against the wall. He pauses, staring just to the side of her as if regarding her fear with his periphery. 

Is it the voice of her boss before she entered this dungeon that rings through her mind: It is not the queen you should fear down here. She is too fancy to muck up her shoes. Fear the ghost. He is so far beyond death that he will forget you are human too.

But he is why I am going.

Then you must get him to trust you.

“What is your plan today?” she growls, attempting the upper hand by using a gruff voice. But his ears must be just as empty as his eyes and mouth for he says nothing, only resumes dragging the bucket toward her. He sinks to his knees, leaning against them as he gasps in air. He wipes his brow with the back of one hand while reaching for a cloth with the other. He dunks it into the water and offers it to her. 

“Yesterday you were my torturer and now this? What are you doing?”

He begins to shake, pulling his twisted fingers back toward his body where the cloth begins to soak his pants. He keeps his eyes on the ground.

She shoots forward, threatening him with her presence–it was her greatest attribute as a reporter: her ability to bluff. He falls back just as quickly as she had shot forward, but only then he starts to cower, holding up an arm like some sort of protection. She hisses between her teeth at his patheticness. “Not as tough today or something?”

He is drawing his feet up, preparing to stand when she suddenly doesn’t want him to go–he can’t go. He has to be useful for some information. She blurts out the first thing she can see, hoping it keeps him from leaving. “Those scars!”

He pauses.

His tattered shirt hangs down, showing his left breast and collarbone littered with scars. “If you’ve been so mistreated here, why not fight it? What threat does the queen have on you to keep you so loyal to a bitch like her?”

His knees hit the floor again.

“Don’t tell me you did not know she was evil.”

The ghost blinks at the floor, raising his head toward her, but not his eyes. His neck twitches, his breath hitches, and then, he nods.

“Oh.” So he could understand. “Why do you not do something?”

His shoulders hunch closer to his body.

“I challenged her,” she suddenly says. Why not you? She had never understood a thing or two about laying low. “Before I challenged the bitch, I was a reporter. I never thought being a reporter would lead me down that path.”

He looks up at her in interest.

“I was just finishing school,” she decides to continue, “seven years ago, when I came across a cold case. Something about it drew me in. It was the case that propelled me into the world of reporting.”

He was breathing faster, watching her. 

“It was the death of two soldiers who had gone to the queen with complaints and who, not long after, disappeared.” She stopped to breath and assess his interest. For now, she would keep talking. “For a while, all I could find was the first was a commander and the other was a foot soldier. But the more I dug into it, I learned three more things: first, they were related and second, the commands they received from the queen did not add up. It appears they believed the queen was putting them in danger for what seemed like nothing. To protect the others, they marched to the capitol and faced her with their complaints. The third thing I learned was that the queen had commanded them to get out of the way.” She shrugged, regrettably understanding the logic of the queen. “Get half her army away from the capitol to bring in underground spies that would keep the people docile.” She chuckled. “The queen has always feared an uprising. That’s when I became a challenger.”

The Ghost had sat forward, resting on his palms and she let out another chuckle.

“Intriguing, huh? Well, that's not the end of the story. Something else did not add up. Records show there was one commander and one foot soldier. But I found someone else. In reality, there were two commanders. One body was never found.”

The Ghost looks as if he could cry.

“But you already know that, don’t you?”

…

Jax refuses.

It's not something he had ever dared try after the torture the queen put him through the first two years. But he had never solved the riddle when he returned to the capitol and was immediately arrested. He had assumed his soldier blamed the deaths on him. Now, he knows better. The queen wanted him out of the way too. And, now, he kneels before her, refusing to move. 

“Did you not hear me, Montgomery?” The queen drawls, staring at her image in the mirror as she combs through her hair. “You stink and I will not have you in my bed in that condition.”

Again, he stays still.

A grin appears on the queen's face and she jerks around to regard him with some sort of passion. “I noticed our newest political opponent was…treated rather kindly today. You did not obey my commands. Do you want them to think I am lenient? Maybe with taxpayers, but never with political uprisers.” She tsks, clicking her tongue and smiling all the more. “What happened to you?”

He keeps his head toward the ground until it is apparent she is actually looking for an answer. “You,” he mutters, unsure if he is foolish or if she will find it charming.

“You're right. You need more of me.” She stands, stiff and snaps her fingers. “Take him to the dungeon and wait for me.”

He intends to obey until it strikes him that, for the first time in years, she is not talking to him. The guards posted at her door turn on him. The guards he has talked to before and found comfort in. Now, they grip his arms with violence and firmness and he can't blame them. It isn't personal.

But it feels personal when they drag him down the steps, banging his shins against steps, then tie him up in the torture room. His definition of tying is to hold someone down, keep them from moving. But this, this is different. His arms are tied behind his back and lifted until his toes barely touch the floor. This is meant to hurt. His clothes are stripped off and he knows he is going to suffer.

The queen strolls in, lazily as if this is a stroll in the park. She's observing him and his body, finally settling on raising his arms higher. 

He gasps, clenching his face as if it will do something against the incredible pressure in his left shoulder. He cries out just before the room is filled with a “pop” and he slumps, blacking out.

Water flicks onto his face and the enormous blanket of pain is still on him. He can't lift his head but he can shake it.

“Please, give me another chance. I've served you well for years now.” It is not himself speaking, rather the survivor in him. He does not want another chance with this woman.

“I'll give you another chance. Once I'm done.”

He can see her feet and the whip that falls at her feet. It is the kind that bruises and welts your skin until it feels like it will explode. “Something to warm you up with.”

He can't remember the last time he felt this but his body can. She starts with the front of his thighs, working her way toward the back. The moisture in her mouth pops after every lash. She is smiling, enjoying this. He groans as she starts on his buttocks and works down to the back of his knees. 

By the time she declares twenty lashes, he is sobbing and he fears his shoulder will tear apart from his body. But this was only the warm-up.

His arms are released and he lands on his knees, his nose slamming into the stone beneath him. His left shoulder falls forward and he screams. With a dislocated shoulder, he is mostly immobile but she grabs both of his wrists and forces them into metal cuffs, locking them to the floor in between his knees.

“You'll stay upright or else I'll have to start all over,” she states. “We'll use the real whip.”

The one with glass woven into it. He has seen prisoners die of blood loss from this whip. A knife would be mercy. But the whip, on its way to slice you open, will bruise and even break bones.

She swishes it through the air and lands it exactly where he was expecting. His back arches, and he screams. Blood is already trickling down his back. Two more land on his back and, distantly, he can hear her demanding that he get on his hands and knees. It means his thighs and buttocks will be exposed. He obeys and there is no time wasted before he is on his nose again, screaming as blood dribbles down his thighs.

“Up.”

He pushes himself up with his right arm. Another lash lands along his buttocks and he jerks forward, barely managing to stay up with one arm.

“Beautiful.”

He does not know what is worse: buttocks or thighs. But his thighs alight in pain and three more land across them 

“Lastly, lay on your back.”

He gives himself no time to think about it and pushes himself to the side, making sure it's his right arm that must stretch more to accommodate the position. He lays on his back and cries in pain. She adjusts him so he is straight. The whip lands against his groin and the world darkens. The last lash, inches below, sends him into darkness.

…

It is odd to see the queen, her actual flesh, in the dungeon. She does not speak, only stands in the shadows with a grin as two ruffians throw the Ghost into Kodi’s cell. The Ghost lands feet away from Kodi, rolling only once until he lies still and face down. The door slams shut, leaving Kodi guessing at what this could mean. Either the queen is baiting her or the queen got her message.

The overwhelming scent of iron fills her nose. She gasps, inching closer, but not close enough to touch, looking for any movement but, on his stomach, it is harder to see movement. She would have to touch him then.

She places two fingers just under his jaw, preparing to jump back if he wakes. Luckily, she is prepared when his eyes open wide and he cries out while getting to his hands and knees. Once up, he crawls away from her, backing up until his back hits the other wall. His face lights up in agony and he doubles over, retching in his lap.

Kodi only watches, waiting for him to make the first acknowledgment of her. But he wipes his mouth and curls up against the wall.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, too aware of the iron smell.

He covers his face with his right arm and cradles his other arm and knees to his chest.

“I'm surprised to see the queen treat you this way. Aren't you her right-hand guy?” She waits for something--anything from him. But he must have passed out because he is once again still. It isn't until the middle of the night that she hears from him again. 

The wind is frigid tonight, blowing through her window without mercy. The Ghost whimpers and gasps, still curled up against the wall. It isn't until he begins to sob that Kodi cannot live with herself anymore. The queen may use this against her but the Ghost’s suffering is too much to tolerate.

“Ghost,” she whispers, moving to crouch next to him. “I'm going to touch you so don't…torture me or anything.”

He is awake. His eyes track her and all he does is tighten into a smaller ball. She places her hand on his forehead, whistling at the heat there. 

“What happened to you?” She keeps her voice objective. At his silence, she probes more. “Then I'm going to take your clothes off to check you. You have a fever for a reason.”

He whimpers, pushing himself up on an elbow, then upright, curling up against the wall. In this position, she can now see it. The dark stains of wet blood blossom on his clothes, staining his abdomen, back, and legs. “She knows,” he moans.

“The queen? What does she know?”

“It's-s best’a jus’ leav-ve m-me.”

“You're sick,” she points out. “Maybe if it was a cough I'd leave you alone but you've got blood dripping down your clothes. At least tell me what she did to you.”

“Com--” His eyes squeeze shut in pain and he lets out a guttural moan, dropping his chin to his chest. “Command-der Montgom-mery.”

Her eyes widen. The name of the commander they could never find. “How do you know?”

“That's m-me.”

It couldn't be. Commander Montgomery was an honest human, full of integrity. He was a hero. A national holiday was named for him. Surely… “She arrested you? Because you…” But it all made sense. “You got too close. You knew what she was up to. So she hid you, made up a story so no one would know.” His face was pressed against the wall, watching her in so much fear. “Why not kill you?”

He cheeks flushed red.

Oh. “Let me help you.”

He shook his head. “She knows. Next, she will try to hide you.”

She smiles at his attempt to protect her. “Well, I'm more protected than you might think. Besides, Commander, I'm going to need to keep you alive if I'm going to cause an uprising. Don't you think?” 

He returns her gaze, incredulous. “I don’t know.”

“I came down here to investigate Commander Montgomery’s death. I just found out he’s alive. I need to keep him that way.”

He drops his gaze.

“Now, it will be colder but I need you right here.” She points to the center of the room where the metal drain is and where the moon shines the brightest. “I have to be able to see what I'm dealing with. Any information you can give me will help.”

When he begins to shuffle toward the center, she holds onto his ribcage, lifting him and, suddenly, he is sobbing, holding his head in his hands.

“I'm sorry!” she whispers, afraid she hurt him further. But he's shaking his head and she finally understands when fingertips touch her hand. Without asking, she pulls him against her chest, holding him behind his arms to keep him pressed against her. His warm face presses against her shoulder and his tears spill down her arms.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he gasps, gripping her bicep weakly.

“Take your time,” is all she can think to say.

He continues to sob, dropping his face to her lap. He begins to shiver from the cold and she knows she has to get him fixed up but he has to trust her too. He begins to calm and, for fear of him passing out, she gently shakes his shoulder. 

“I've got to look at your injuries.”

He’s up, frantic, half awake, but manages to shuffle the rest of the way to the drain before collapsing onto his right side.

“I'm going to get your clothes off. It's cold but I'll warm you up when I'm done.”

He nods, letting his eyes fall shut.

She starts with his arms, maneuvering them out of the sleeves. Something is not right with his left arm. She pulls the shirt over his head before she pulls it off his left arm. She does not know how to fix a dislocated shoulder and maybe it's best to leave it be. From the moonlight, there is not one inch of skin that isn't bruised or welted but some lashes were used with something sharp, something meant to draw blood. His back has been used with such a tool, bleeding and split. “With me still?”

He groans, lifting his head as if she had woken him. He's staring at her in fear.

“You're okay. I just wondered if you know what they did to you.”

“Oh.” He lays back down, watching her warily as she unbuttons his pants and pulls them down his legs. He whimpers and she understands why when she sees his groin and the back of his thighs dripping blood just like his back. She sets his pants to the side. What did the queen want? Him to bleed to death?

“Does she want you dead?”

His eyes are pinched shut but he breaths out a “N-no. Just warning.”

“Warning, huh? A warning that she could easily kill you?” It's meant as sarcasm but he nods. “These are deep. Whatever they hit you with was meant to slice. I only have your clothes and a blanket but we have to save the blanket for warmth. I'll tie the worst of your cuts to prevent you from bleeding out.”

…

There is something cold under his jaw, probably the gag because the queen had commanded him to speak and all he did was pass out. He pushes himself away, opening his mouth to explain himself, to prevent more punishment, but only his cries come out. He's not even aware of himself moving until something huge and cold hits him in the back. He's ready to submit! He doesn't need any more. The pain awakens the nausea and he's vomiting on himself. No one is coming after him so he waits. The cold is eating him alive and he moves slowly to curl in a ball for warmth.

“Are you hurt?” The voice is feet away and it is not the queen's voice. It is that upriser. He is surprised she is with him but he should have known this was how the queen would test him. He pulls his arm over his face to hide. 

Suddenly, the queen is back with her whip. She kicks him in the ribs, further shattering what is already broken.

“I knew you'd go find the reporter. Well, she won't think any better of you than I do.”

He doesn't care. He never went crawling to the reporter. He knows he'll never be saved. But he cries all the same.

“Ghost.”

The queen never calls him Ghost. 

“I'm going to touch you so don't…torture me or anything.”

Torture the queen? He peels his eyes open, landing on the reporter prisoner. Had he gone crawling to her? He couldn't remember. He tightens into himself, pleading with his body for the queen to believe he is innocent. 

Gentle touch grazes across his forehead, giving him some coldness against the heat.

“What happened to you?” The gentle voice snaps him out of his stupor. “Then I'm going to take your clothes off to check you. You have a fever for a reason.”

He already knows why he has a fever and he doesn't need a prisoner getting him into any more trouble with the queen. He whimpers, getting himself upright, with the help of a wall that is suddenly behind him.  “She knows,” he tells the prisoner.

“The queen? What does she know?”

Isn't it obvious? If he hadn’t mistaken the prisoner, she knew he was the commander. And the queen knew the prisoner knew. Why else would he be in her cell? “It's-s best’a jus’ leav-ve m-me.”

“You're sick,” she says, clicking her tongue. “Maybe if it was a cough I'd leave you alone but you've got blood dripping down your clothes. At least tell me what she did to you.”

So the prisoner doesn't know. “Com--” His back protests at his position and the warmth trickles down just slightly faster. He sucks in a breath. “Command-der Montgom-mery.”

Her eyes show a terror he had not expected. “How do you know?”

“That's m-me.”

Her brow went up, considering it. He could tell she thought he was lying. “She arrested you? Because you…” Her eyes widened. “You got too close. You knew what she was up to. So she hid you, made up a story, so no one would know. Why not kill you?”

There are things worse than death.

”Let me help you.”

That was the last thing that would help him. “She knows. Next, she will try to hide you.”

She smiles…she was smiling! Did she not understand the gravity? 

“Well, I'm more protected than you might think. Besides, Commander, I'm going to need to keep you alive if I'm going to cause an uprising. Don't you think?” 

She was going to help him? “I don’t know.”

“I came down here to investigate Commander Montgomery’s death. I just found out he’s alive. I need to keep him that way.”

If she had not known who she was, maybe the queen did not know about the prisoner’s goals. He did not expect these words. He did not expect protection. His wounds were draining whatever thinking ability he had once possessed so he could not question her sanity.

“Now, it will be colder but I need you right here.” He follows her pointed finger, at the center of the cell. Where the wind blows through the window the hardest. “I have to be able to see what I'm dealing with. Any information you can give me will help.”

It is everything he can do to move his body with only one arm. The traitorous thing has already stiffened and moving makes his vision swim. Two cold hands wrap under his ribcage, lifting up slightly, enough that he manages to move without as much pain. It is too much for his senses. The pain, the lack of nutrition, the touch. He just wants the pain to stop.

“I'm sorry!” she says, worry filling her voice. But nothing is wrong and he has no way to tell her as he keeps in front of her. Warmth explodes along his front and he realizes she has shifted him against her. It's more touch--comforting touch than he has felt in…years.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he gasps, hoping she will not pull away or despise him.

“Take your time.”

So he does. And the comfort must have been enough to send him to sleep. He can't remember when falling asleep was so easy. When she shakes his shoulder, he bolts upright and remembers immediately the task at hand.

“I've got to look at your injuries.”

He can't give her a reason to hurt him…besides everything else already stacked against him. He hurries toward the drain, regretting it when it saps all his strength and he collapses. But he made it to the drain anyway.

“I'm going to get your clothes off. It's cold but I'll warm you up when I'm done.”

He knows where this usually leads. But his strength is gone so he can only agree. His shirt is pulled from him. Usually she does not care to take off his shirt.

“With me still?” the queen asks.

His eyes shoot open.

“You're okay,” the prisoner hushes. “I just wondered if you know what they did to you.”

“Oh.” It's blessed relief and a useless question to answer. But the relief fades once she's at his hips, loosening his pants. It takes everything in him to concentrate on her face, to hold onto the fact that this is not the queen. This is not the queen. He loses concentration when his pants are pulled over the slices in his groin, pulling the flaps of the gashes with them.

“Does she want you dead?” Her voice is full of anger.

“N-no. Just warning.”

“Warning, huh? A warning that she could easily kill you? These are deep. Whatever they hit you with was meant to slice. I only have your clothes and a blanket but we have to save the blanket for warmth. I'll tie the worst of your cuts to prevent you from bleeding out.”

His world erupts in pain as she tightens his pants around his torso and his split shirt around his thighs. He gags again, vomiting into the drain.

“Done.” The prisoner places a hand on his forehead. “It's filthy in here. You're going to get worse if they don't come back to clean you up. But, in the meantime, I can give you warmth.”

He is spent but she drags him to her cot and throws the blanket over him. Moments later, she slips under with him and pulls him to her. He doesn't even have time to be concerned about how fast he passes out.

…

Jax had always been gifted with keeping track of time. It was near midnight when the queen tortured him. The glow of the sun and the crispness in the air tells him it is almost seven in the morning, when the sun is usually ready to rise. A gentle but frigid breeze blows through the window but he barely feels it against the heat of his own fever and the prisoner that lays next to him.

“You're awake,” she points out.

He gathers himself, piece by piece, and it's her shoulder he is lying on, his arms cradled against both of their chests.

He goes to talk or breathe, he can't think straight, but it comes out a thick cough. He ducks his head back in the nest of their bodies to cough then peeks back out into his world.

“Sorry,” he moans. 

She watches him with pity. “I would get you something but breakfast in bed has not yet been served. That's when they usually bring water.”

“I'm okay.”

“You've been through shit. Your time in the army was harsh but this is something worse.”

“I feel like shit,” he says. He knows he's playing with fire.

“Just rest.”

He settles back down onto her shoulder. He can hear the footsteps before they are meters away and he stiffens, igniting the fire in his shoulder. He bites down on the pain, releasing a moan from deep in his throat rather than a scream.

“You okay?”

“Someone is coming.”

“How can you hear--” She is cut off when the door is yanked open and he is sobbing silently in fear. “Only breakfast. Stay put. I'll bring it over.”

Her heat leaves and he nestles even more into the blanket but it is pulled back immediately. “You need to drink.”

A ladle is brought to his lips and the instincts still burning through his arm has him lurching toward it, gulping down the cool water. He is worried he drank half the bucket before he lays back down, satisfied.

“Food?”

He shakes his head then peels his eyes open at her silence. She is watching with worry. “No food, please,” he tries again. “I'll be okay. You're in worse shape. You shouldn't have to help me.”

“You can have the porridge. I'll take the fruit and meat.”

She spoon-feeds him despite his attempt at turning away. The food burns the hunger more fiercely in his stomach before it calms, then threatens to send him back to sleep.

“You know, I wrote a dissertation on you.”

He keeps his eyes closed, alarmed by how unnatural it feels now to hear about his reputation. Once, he had been cocky about his reputation.

“March ninth is the national holiday, created six years ago after…you disappeared. I never thought I'd meet you in person let alone like…this.”

“Does the queen know about you?”

“Of course,” Kodi says, as is it's obvious.

“I mean much about you. Does she know about your dissertation, you researching the dead soldiers?”

Kodi smiles with a hint of pride and he can only imagine what she is thinking. However, what she says is not what he expected.

“I'm not in here because I'm an upriser. I mean, technically but…you shouldn't be worried that the queen is on to you or me.”

Her words make no sense but he blames his rising fever. “She's never done this before…locked me in with a prisoner.”

“She's not in complete control, you know.”

He decides to shut his eyes. No words run smoothly through his brain and it's only causing a headache to figure out her words.

“I'm Kodi, by the way.”

He grunts. “Jax.”

“Jax Montgomery.” She grunts back. “Back from the dead.”

…

When Jax is awake again, something troubles him.

Kodi is sitting near his feet, leaning against the wall, apparently asleep with how her head hangs in an awkward position from her neck.

“Mhm?”

Her hum startles him and he gasps. His hands are shaking uncontrollably and he is colder than any ice he had ever known. Blood loss was getting to him. “It’s just something you said,” he croaks.

“What might that be?”

“You said…the queen is not in complete control.”

Kodi straightens her neck and smirks at him. “I thought you’d forgotten.” Her eyes are bloodshot.

He frowns at her.

“I do not think the queen cares whether you live or die,” Kodi says. “Which is good news for you, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“Only a few more hours. Then you will see the full light of…the moon again. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see the light of day.”

His body cannot move and yet he is desperately pushing with all his might to raise himself against the wall. He grits his teeth and whimpers as he lands on his buttocks. He lands against the harsh stone wall, falling to his side to avoid his gashes. “What are you talking about?”

“You are still bleeding,” Kodi points out, eyeing the puddle of blood he left on the floor. “It is best you know as little as possible. You barely understood a word I said before you passed out this morning.”

“Please…” His voice breaks around his desperation. And then he recognizes the darkness in the room. “This morning?” He cannot fathom what this must mean. “How long was I out?”

“The entire day.”

“The queen did not send for me?”

Kodi shrugs. “I cannot say I was here the entire time but I do not think she did. I honestly think she wants you to disappear.”

“Why?”

“Your father. I believe he is beginning to regret his decision.”

Her words are, once again, not making sense.

“Is there anything that looks…off in this cell?”

Jax had noticed it weeks before. But he had not told the queen. “You have three stones loose in the corner of your cell.”

“I work for a reporter. He tells me the queen needs you to disappear. Maybe she assumed I would kill you in your vulnerable state.”

He opened his mouth to question her.

“What?”

“Why would she assume you would kill me?”

“A message was sent to her. That I was bloodthirsty. Better to let a prisoner murder than have to hide the murder yourself, right?”

“And this reporter?”

“I meet him underneath the dungeon three times a week to learn more about you. Where is your father to this day?”

“I haven’t seen my father since I was sixteen.”

“Well, he hasn’t forgotten you during these last twenty years. He sold you to the queen seven years ago because he lost a bet to her and had nothing to his name.”

“I was turned in for getting too close.”

“The queen already had her eyes on you. You were sent to that forest for a reason. This reporter I work for will meet us tonight. Whether you’re ready or not, you are escaping with me tonight.”

…

Jax sits with his back to the wall, barely aware of the pain. He draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his shins. Kodi is pounding at the stones and he watches her, half interested, half worried, and too drowsy to understand. In his mind, where a mix of not enough blood and too much fever washes away his logic, it's his instincts that step in. Kodi will turn him in. She'll blame escaping on him. He shudders, lowering his chin to his knees.

“You alright?”

He hears the words of course but it does not dawn on him to respond. 

Kodi’s brow rises then she gets back to her task, pulling the last stone out with a huff. “Think you can crawl over here?”

The cell door screeching open does not surprise him. Sooner or later, the queen was bound to check on him but he still did not know why he was in the upriser’s cell. Without him noticing, Kodi had already sat on the hole, hiding the loose stones behind her.

But the guards weren't interested in Kodi. They ripped him upward and he fell forward in shock at his shoulder nearly ripping from him. It was shoved back into place and he gasped between their arms as he was pulled from the cell and down the hallway.

“Wh…wha…?”

“The prisoner did not kill you,” a guard stated. “So the queen will sell you. The buyer is waiting.”

If only the prisoner had killed him. Jax would rather be dead. He is hoisted upward, then pushed down. Something hard enters his hole and he yelps.

“All the way down,” a guard barks.

He is pushed down, the rod filling him completely. Then his arms are secured upwards and his ankles tied together. He cannot move, nor does he want to with the pain the rod brings. He is panicking, keening as his head hangs forward, drool falling from his open mouth. He is too in shock to scream.

“Anyone want revenge on the Ghost, before he is sold?”

He raises his head only enough to see the room full of prisoners. They line up, the first taking a stick from the guard. His side lights up when the prisoner hits him. The pain goes as deep as his organs and he sobs.

His buyer only shows up after the line is gone and he is doubled over, bleeding from the welts that scatter his front and face.

“Such a sight. Though I had hoped he could stand. Well, never mind. Take him to the wagon. I will be there in but a moment.”

His world blackens as he is pulled from the rod and his body convulses at how wrong he feels. Ribs are shattered. A tooth is gone. He can hardly see from two black eyes. His world shifts from a dungeon to light then night air. The moon is full and stares down at him as if it knows how pitiful he is.

He is laid, too gently, on pillows and it does not fit in his mind against the knowledge that someone has bought him. But he cannot piece together a thought, let alone solve the issue at hand. He is at the mercy of whoever holds his hand and shushes him.

…

Commander Montgomery comes back in waves. His eyes dart open and he frowns at her before passing out again. An hour later, she is awoken by his scream but he is not yet awake. He grits his teeth, breathing heavily through his nostrils as he puts himself back together. She watches as he shifts his body parts, one by one, assessing and deciding he is too sick to fight her. Tears run down his lumpy cheeks. Then she realizes he cannot open his eyes and must assume she is there to hurt him.

“Commander, you're safe.”

She must be a dream to him for he sobs again and turns his head away. 

The doctor had spent every last sun ray piecing him back together. Stitches line his back and chest. His face is bandaged.

“The reporter bought you…but you are free. He does not own you. Just rest and when you wake, I have a story to tell you about a Ghost that was never forgotten.”

He grunts weakly, maybe understanding her.

“Yes, it was the plan all along…once I found out you were still alive. To get you out no matter what.”

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

controversial whump opinion:

I really, really dislike using and reading "whumpee" and "whumper"

Like, yeah I get that it makes things easier to post and interpret and all that jazz. It's probably easier on our consciences instead of using actual, real-world terms like "victim" and "attacker" - and that's a very valid reason. It's another way to distance whump media from real-world scenarios because we don't actually want bad things to happen to real people (just our fictional blorbos pls n thx)

but, regardless, a tiny part of me just has an ick when whumpee and whumper is used.

[whumpy-bi]

Two rescuers arguing after finding Whumpee, while Whumpee cringes back into the corner with their hands still tied.

“I don’t know, man, she’s freaking out!” Rescuer 1 with their hands up, defensive.

Rescuer 2 keeping their volume low, even though the annoyance in their voice is audible.

“Of course she’s freaking out, Whumper’s held her here for months, we’re strangers, and you just ran in here guns blazing and screaming! And—wait, did you try to touch her?”

“To get the ropes off!”

“You can’t just grab these people without asking! I’d be scared, too. Listen—can you go handle the cleanup outside? I’ll talk to her.”

Whumpee still curled up in the corner, wishing she could fuse into the wall itself.

“Hey…hey. Sorry about my friend, they’re new to this. They didn’t mean to scare you, but…they did. But we’re friendly, I swear.”