#school whump

[scrimblobimblowhump]

For the whump ask game:

A stuffed animal or a book :>

Stuffed animal: whumpee having a comfort stuffie that brings them joy and comfort amid the darkness of their abuse, but whumper one day deciding to punish them by taking it from them and throwing it in the fireplace in front of them (bonus points if whumpee is a kid and whumper is their abusive parent/caregives, and this experience haunts whumpee down the line, contributing to compulsive hoarding as an adult and having nightmares about losing their belongings

Book:

Same for the "comfort item getting taken and destroyed as punishment"!

Whumper beating whumpee with a heavy book

Whumper making whumpee write/rewrite a massive tome as punishment (or what if it's an admiration obsession like in Stephen King's Misery)

One we can all relate to: student whumpee sobbing over piles and piles of textbooks because tests are coming but they're burnt out and oh so unprepared and have zero idea what will they do

Related to previous: Whumpee's batshit insane parents tying them to a chair till they complete their homework/study enough for a straight A on the test

:33333

[silly-scroimblo-whump]

Anti-Bullying

augusnippets day 22: captivity/recapture/tearful goodbye

cw: child whumpee, animal cruelty, fighting, bullying, implied child abuse :( URGF marcie and teddy make me so emotional bro…. (note that teddy is ftm! he’s just… not aware that being trans is a thing yet. this is when he was like eight years old. i just feel awful misgendering him or deadnaming him EVER. the bullies here aren’t transphobic or anything dw i don’t like writing that stuff😭) masterlist! ————————— “Let it go! Hey—-” Teddy cries out, tears streaming down his face as the kids on the playground continue to giggle and tap on the lunchbox. In its transparent interior is a small lizard. Its tail has long since dropped off, and the children are squealing as they each try to pick it up, only for it to squirm out of their hands. “Let it—”

Another student — the eldest of the group — grins, pushing Teddy towards the lunchbox and into the circle of gleeful kids. “Look, look! It’s like her! Its tail is gone,” He points, “And.. and her eye is too!”

Teddy sniffles, batting his classmates’ hands away from the lunchbox as he hugs it close to his chest. “My sis’s gonna get really mad. She’s strong. She’s really strong, and she’s gonna… um..”

The boy who pushed him snickers, shaking his head. “Boys are stronger. Marcie smells yucky and looks ugly, and so do you. Us boys are betterer.” He beams, sticking his tongue out at Teddy.

… The boy then goes flying. Teddy watches as the bully shrieks shrilly, a blur of brown, black, and white sending him to the ground. Teddy checks that the lizard is still secure before frantically scooting away from the fight.

The teachers finally seem to notice the commotion, rushing over and pulling the feral creature off of Teddy’s nemesis. “Let me at him! I’ll fucking rip his throat out!” Marcie yells, swinging her fists rapidly at the teachers and ignoring their pleas to keep her language appropriate. “I’ll kill him if he ever says that shit again!” Teddy watches in mortified admiration, eventually being guided away by another teacher. ————————— taglist! let me know if u wanna be added! :3

[liketwoswansinbalance]

TLEA likely could've been darker in at least one way, if it had been more accurate to our real-world science:

If SGE’s magic didn’t work how it did, I bet Sophie’s ears could have popped, and maybe burst her eardrums. Plus, Rafal could have inadvertently killed her (and doomed himself!) once he’d reached some terminal velocity of mortals while flying with her.

Probably, he could stop her from bleeding out though (or would it be internal bleeding?), and the ring would save her, too, I think, as the immortality went "both ways."

Aside from some "recovery" or the potential ring fail-safe, just think of the angst and hurt/comfort potential!

[whumpderella]

High School Return of a Gangster (Episode 06)

[tsubaki94]

Counseling Session

Here's my half of the ectoimplosion2023.

[fuupan]

i had this in mind a few days ago while running on 2 hrs of sleep

decided to finally draw it lol

i have some more ideas in mind of them that i will hopefully get to get around drawing

[whumperer-86]

Fainted

Highschool return of Gangster ep4

[letitbehurt]

Evidently, there are drugs in production that attack the proteins in the brain responsible for storing memories. Short-term memory is essentially destroyed; long-term memory becomes malleable, subject to intense manipulation.

With this in mind, I propose: Whumper subjecting Whumpee to such a drug—repetitively.

[whumble-beeee]

Just Relax (It's Not That Serious)

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 13

Content: drugging, noncon undressing, dissociation, (fear of) needles, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, flashbacks (ptsd), tied up/handcuffs, past captivity references, begging, fear, light unreality? (related to the ptsd)

* * * * * * * *

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

[The first 72 hours after a hero’s capture is also massively critical to you, villain, as your hero’s keeper! When planning on long-term hero-keeping, use this time to lie low, keep your hero firmly in your grasp, and really set the mood for the rest of their stay. Set non-negotiable expectations. Show your patience. For as much as your hero may fight you, curse and jeer and scorn and defy you, they will still be only human (with select power exceptions, of course). They will still need food, water, shelter. All of which must be obtained from you, their captor! You are the one ultimately in control, no matter how much the hero may scream otherwise. 

So why are these first 72 hours so important? Well, how long do experts generally agree that a person can survive without food or water? How long can they ignore you? How long before they have to rely on you for their every need?

72 hours.

Be patient.

Make them count.]

* * * * * * * *

“Finally, Christ,” Deeby muttered under his breath as Stan finished forcing the bar down his throat. It had taken him longer than he'd meant, what with the dehydration and the not wanting to be drugged and the weary pain that seeped into his every bone and the spinning of the room and the not wanting to be drugged. It was a surprisingly difficult task to knowingly poison himself. Who’d've thunk?

“Happy?” Stan finally spat with a heaving breath. There was the slightest taste of salt and battery acid twinging the back of his mouth. It made him nauseous.

Deeby absent-mindedly grabbed the used protein bar wrapper and tossed it into his plastic bag. “Yeah. Not done yet, though.”

 Stan whined. It was all he could do to not start crying on the spot. “Why can't you just let me fall into unconsciousness in peace? I ate your stupid protein bar! It's-it's never-ending with you!”

“Well, it feels less gross to have you undress now than when you're high off your ass.”

Stan blinked. It was like the world had been overlaid with TV static for a moment. But he was back. Violently. Because what? “Ah– Co-come again?” 

“Your uh– fuckin’... What's it called, your tank top? The transgender tank top, the one that squishes your ribs. Your… ‘tranksgender’ top.”

“My binder?”

Deeby snapped his fingers in triumph. “That's the bitch! We're taking that off now.”

“WHAT?!”

“I can help if you want. I don’t know how long it's gonna take the drug to start affecting you, considering you haven’t eaten in two days, so it might not–”

“I’m not taking my binder off!” Stan yelled, startling back from yet another all-consuming dip into the static. The worst part was, it wasn't even unpleasant. He almost would have enjoyed it, save for the predator six feet away stalking at him as if he were a wounded antelope, one hand resting on the ornate knife holstered right next to his gun. His eyes sparkled with that ever-dangerous red excitement that Stan had become painfully acquainted with again and again and again over the past two days, though there was something more serious underneath the child-like sadism. Tired eyes, deep breaths... 

“I know you're not supposed to wear it for this long, runt.” The mercenary brushed the still bright-red gash on his cheek from where Stan had whacked him with the handcuffs. “And besides, I still need to get you back for this. Please make me do it the hard way.”

Stan’s breath caught between a groan and a cry and his vision swam around him, only grounded by the sudden noxious pit in his stomach. “Dee-deeby…” he panted. “Stay away from me.”

Deeby continued to stalk closer, voice taking that dangerous low twang, the light bass growl snaking through the room and slithering around Stan’s throat, suffocating him more than a literal yank by his damn collar would. “Aw…” he tutted. “That's no fun, is it chiquito? I think you just need–”

“OKAY, OKAY!” Stan skittered back, pressing himself into the wall with racing heart and rabbit-fast breath. “I'll-I'll do it, I'll do it! You don't– You–... I'll take off my binder…”

That did, in fact, stop Deeby dead in his tracks. Stan swayed. Deeby looked at him expectantly. Stan stared into the distance. Deeby raised an eyebrow and made an impatient circular motion at Stan with his hands: get moving.

The static.

“Runt, if you don’t–”

“I– jus– ju-just-just don't touch me–”

“Stan–” Deeby warned, taking a single step toward him. All the air sucked out of the room. “I'm done giving you chances. Off. Now, or I'll do it.”

Stan grit his teeth with an almost mewling whine. His cheeks burned a bright red embarrassment under near-invisible blue freckles, and his very lungs stuttered as they tried to figure out if he wanted to scream or just cry. He started to pulled the shirt over his head, slowly, as if he could go slow enough that the bounty hunter would just get bored and give up entirely.

Ha.

Then he lost his way. He searched. More fabric. Where did the holes go? Where was he? He was lost! He tangled his arms around, searching, growling with frustration as he unsuccessfully tried to free himself, genuinely trapped as time simultaneously moved way too fast and excruciatingly slow. Then a whoosh, and his cotton-polyester prison disappeared, pulled off over his head to reveal a very amused Deeby glinting back at him, eyes sparkling as always. 

It was so cold in here.

Stan shoved him away, thankfully braced against the wall or else he might have fallen over himself. The world was so… tilted.

“Turn-turn around,” Stan ordered, blinking hard to keep himself present.

“What, no ‘thank you?’”

“Turn around!”

“Not turning around, bud.”

“Please, I don-don’t– don’t want you to-to see– to–...Turn around!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Please! Deeby, I’m begging!”

“Not happenin’,” he sang, deadpan as ever.

“I thought you-you-you-ou said you weren't gugh-guh-gon-gonna–...” Stan shivered and took a deep breath. This stutter was driving him insane. “Tha-at you weren't a perv!”

“I'm not. I'm not gonna do anything except make sure you're not trying to pull some shit.”

“I won’t! I'm drugged! I-I can’t even take my shirt off!”

“All the more reason–”

“Declan!” Stan pleaded, pupils blown out and wide, tension at the top of his mouth so tight he was sure he was about to start bawling. “I care. I care-are-re. I don’t wan-want you–... Please…”

His voice turned high and quiet, tears burning to fall, pressure building up behind his eyes and ready to burst.

“Plea-ease…”

Declan closed his eyes and pinched at the bridge of his nose. Another tired deep breath.

“Turn yourself around if you care so much,” he muttered. The knife appeared in his hands, point pressed into the taut fabric on Stan's chest. “I'm done playing games. Stop stalling. Now.”

“I’m no-ot–”

The mercenary grabbed the strap of Stan’s binder and yanked him forward, barely pulling the knife out of the way in time for Stan to not fall on top of it and instead sending him hurtling into the man’s chest with a blood-curdling screech, then flailing and shoving off of the captor as hard as humanly possible. The push mixed with a sudden heavy fog bank engulfing his mind mixed with a painful misstep on his bad leg caused him to all but crumble to the freezing concrete floor in a heap, chin banged and bleeding and dripping and staining on the ground as his face pressing into scratchy dirt particles, as he laid there confused and scared and scrambling, just trying to figure out how to silence the roaring confusion of his mind as it blindly panicked in the pressing, buzzing fog that surrounded it. Threatened to swallow him whole.

Then a force grasped him by the back of his neck. Then a knee planted into the base of his spine. The full body weight of a man at least twice his size ground into his lower vertebrates, seemingly trying to press them straight through the soft flesh of his stomach into the unforgiving floor.

Stan screamed.

Was Deeby going back on his promise not to–

GET OFF!!

His binder, he couldn't let Declan take it off.

OWOWOWOWOW– NO NONONO–

The fog the fog the fog the fog the fog the fog buzzing buzzing buzzing buzzing BZZZZZZZZZZ–

A gloved hand pressed him into the floor by the back of his neck. Others in scratchy black tactical gear held his flailing limbs down. He strained. He cried. He screamed. He screamed so loud. So loud his throat was sore. They didn’t let up.

He wanted his mom. His dad. His sister. COME HELP!! Where were they? He cried out for them, heaving sobs. Unheeded.

“DEEBY!” He screeched, feet kicking out as if they could somehow free himself if he just kicked hard enough. “Get off! GET OFF! You're not taking my binder off–!”

“Mhm, yeah, sure bud,” Deeby mumbled as Stan continued his tantrum. His fingers squeezed slightly at either side of Stan’s neck. Warning. Patient. Waiting. He was waiting him out. Stan's head spun as if filled with angry bees, cries becoming weaker, fighting more and more sluggish as Deeby just sat on top of him.

Where was his sister? Where was Chloe?! CHLOE!! He needed to protect her! That was his only task! Protect her! He’d failed, he’d failed, he needed to save her, save them, get away. Every time he raged and strained and screamed another hand just came to pin him to the dusty ground. He was an animal thrashing around in a cage, a trap that only tightened around his throat the more he struggled.

“DEEBY– Deeby… Declan, Deeb– please get off, please, I need to save her, I don't– I just– can't–... ple-ee-ea-ease…” 

Deeby didn't say anything. Was it the drug that made him feel like he was floating on air as a pressure chamber simultaneously caged in his skull, teasing it to shatter? Or maybe the hyperventilating as he realized there was no escape. Or maybe the gutting hunger, or the throat squeezing thirst, or the burning panic, or the bone-deep exhaustion, or the pain, the pain, make it stop, all-encompassing, never-ending, or the violent shaking from lack of oxygen, or any number of the many other things that were wrong with him. Maybe all of them. His limbs lay stiff, as if held down by lead weights. His protests devolved into barely a whimpering whisper. He couldn't breathe. Not with the bounty hunter on top of him pressing his stomach into the floor, not with the probably broken ribs, not with the binder pressing into the swelling of his ribs and making every intake of air a monumentally agonizing feat achieved less and less each time…

“God, shut her up, I’m not dealing with this in the transport.”

“Really? It’s just a kid.”

“Unless you’d rather I shut her up myself.”

NO NO NO ESCAPE ESCAPE HE NEEDED TO FIND HIS FAMILY–

A tiny little prick on his upper arm. He screamed. Screamed until he couldn’t anymore, screamed because he couldn’t do anything else, screamed until one of the gloved hands slapped over his mouth and stayed there until he quieted, and then he couldn’t even scream. It stayed there until tears soaked through the course fabric. The edges of his vision started to go dark. 

“That’s it kid, shut up, go to sleep. Don’t struggle. It’ll be easier if you just relax.”

His head fell limp against the dirty ground.

He was gonna die here, wasn't he?

Yeah.

Made sense. 

He let his head lie down on the floor.

He lurched with silent sobs.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He couldn't.

This was all pointless.

He was done.

And he went limp.

“There ya go. Attaboy.”

Deeby's voice came from above him. Slow, comforting, praising, as if he were speaking from a thousand miles away.

“Attagirl…” The last voice he heard. The last time he saw his childhood home. The last time he saw his parents. The end of his first fight for his life. Failed. 

The black consumed him. 

Stan let out something between a whine and a sob. The mercenary took just a moment to readjust, legs now caging him in and pushing inward on either side of Stan's hips. “Yeah okay, whatever runt. Let’s just get this done.” 

Deeby's fingers probed under the binder for a moment, causing Stan to squirm anew purely on instinct. Until he hit a particularly nasty bruise. An electrical storm webbed through his ribcage. A flash of white. Stan yelped a cut-off, strangled squeal, a sound he prayed he’d never have to hear again.

“Sorry…” muttered above him. His binder flipped upward and over itself, a brief squeeze, the fabric pulling lightly at his skin, his arms, his hair, then pressure relieved.

Breathe in…

Holy fuck, he was alive!

Stan gulped in the first deep breath he'd taken in what felt like years, gasping and desperate and a full, deep breath. His senses sharpened. Kinda. He still sat pinned within a sea of cotton, the static that blanketed the clouds, limbs heavy, mind slow. But he could breathe! He almost remembered that he only felt like this because Deeby forcibly stripped him. That bitch.

“Holy shit,” the bounty hunter whispered quietly, amazed, almost inaudible. A moment of breath-taking clarity as adrenaline shot through Stan’s system for one last, final hurrah. Holy shit?

“Wh-what, what–?” He tried unsuccessfully to turn around and see. He even managed to convince himself that he didn't care that his tits were basically out, right before he flopped face-first into the ground again. This drug worked miracles.

Declan paused for a moment. Then: “Ah… Nothing, nothing, just, your ribs are much worse off than I thought. Bruised to shit…”

Stan laughed. Really? Bruised to shit? Who could have guessed? The burning anger and hatred and desperation he expected to feel, that he'd been fighting nonstop for two or three or however-the-hell many days straight? It was now buried under layers of static and sand and that lovely familiar darkness which pressed everything that made him himself to somewhere deep in the darkest recesses of his brain, unnoticed in the rolling fog. Though the knot in his throat that made him want to burst out crying still persisted. That was weird. What did he have to cry about? “Yeah… maybe you should… not… Aheh, uh, throw me… to–... walls anymore…” he giggled. He was pretty sure at least. That’s what his voice sounded like, right?

His limbs were so heavy. He might not be able to move them if he tried. Not that he wanted to. What if he just went to sleep right here?

Ah shit, he didn't have a shirt on still.

But like, who even cared anymore? The mercenary would take what he wanted, including Stan’s shirt, including his binder. He could take everything from him. Take his freedom, take his personhood, take any slight chance at happiness or have a normal family that wasn’t shattered to pieces. Shoot him with that pretty old gun, take his life entirely. Come back again and again just to make sure Stan never saw the light of day again. Who even cared if he saw Stan’s chest? Who even cared if this was one of the most humiliating things to ever happen to him? He shouldn’t fight so hard. He wouldn't be pinned face down to the floor and chained up and drugged if he just stopped fighting. This was fine. He felt fine. He liked this.

Keep fighting, rage, rage, escape.

Oh, shut up.

He felt the white overly large shirt being pulled back on over his head a million miles away, something with Eeby-Deeby getting frustrated again and his arms getting roughly shoved through the armholes before Stan could even try to lift his leaden limbs.

Chill out, man. It's fine. It's not that serious.

The way the world swirled around him was almost a comfort now. He was drugged. He knew it, it was just a fact now. The fog and the static and the way he could barely think and the way it was kinda hard to move and the way it took a second to move even if he did actually want to move… That wasn’t really Stan. That was some other guy. He was just drugged. Drugged Stan.

It was nice. Normal Stan was always so wound up about everything. Normal Stan fought so hard to change what couldn’t be changed, made everything so much worse for himself. And for what? He’d always be captured again, always chained up, always poked and prodded and beholden to the will of others, always treated like a petulant, whiny animal that needs to be tamed. Normal Stan couldn’t seem to get that. Normal Stan was those bad thoughts at the edges of his mind, the ones that kept him screaming, running, fighting even when Deeby got up off of him and gave him water which he desperately needed, sweet, sweet, water that relieved the pain and carried all his troubles away like a gently rushing river, cooled his insides of the burning heat and anger. GOD, he forgot how nice water tasted.

It was weird. Eeber-Deeber was almost thoughtful, in his own special way. When you looked past the violence. Stan should be nicer to him, make him not have to violence so much. Maybe then Stan go home! No fight, just go home and see his family… he didn’t really have a home, did he? No… But that was okay, because he still had Marcus and Chloe! He could see them again! That would be nice. Marcus, Chloe. He loved them so much. He needed to protect them. Why was he still here? His Mom and Dad couldn’t protect them, it was his job because they were…

Dead?

Dead.

It was for the best that they were.

It was fine though. It wasn’t that serious. 

…

He missed them.

* * * * * * * *

Next

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

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

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

[roxygen22]

Still Here

Chapter 1

Summary: After the life and home you built falls apart, you serendipitously bump into your old high school sweetheart, Timothée.

C/W: Divorce, mention of complicated pregnancy (nothing graphic)

<><><><><>

"I thought you were too good for this place, [Y/N]."

You spun around in the grocery store aisle to see your high school sweetheart, Timothée, holding a box of cereal in one hand, a shopping basket in the other, and a smirk on his face. His still very handsome face. He seemed to take great pleasure in the look of shock on yours.

"Timmy," you breathed.

"You came back."

<three weeks earlier>

The road ahead of you seemed to go on and on and on. You hadn't seen another car in at least an hour as you drove across the plains of Kansas. Your nine year old daughter, Madison, was asleep in the back seat, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Alone. That word didn't sit well with you.

A nasty divorce left you with nothing but what you could pack in your car. You had nowhere to go except back to your tiny hometown across the country in rural Tennessee to move back in with your parents. You hadn't been back since you graduated from high school 12 years ago.

You were valedictorian and had your pick of schools. Much to your parents' chagrin, you were itching to get as far away from the "sticks" as possible, so you applied to universities all along the West Coast. You were over the moon when you received a full ride to UCLA to study biomedical engineering, where you met...him. Your now ex-husband. The two of you met during convocation festivities your freshman, his junior year. You had just left your friends behind in Tennessee and had not yet built a local support network, so you latched onto this cute, kind man who picked up the book you dropped.

The kind man who later left you and your daughter to live with a younger woman who "gets" him better.

You and he dated for a little over a year before he asked you to marry him. Not one for big productions, you decided for a courthouse ceremony a few days later because you just couldn't wait to be joined with the love of your life in marriage forever. You were soon pregnant. Unfortunately, the pregnancy was not an easy one. Severe morning (more like morning, noon, and night) sickness led to multiple hospitalizations, forcing you to miss classes. You eventually reached a point of no return and had to drop out.

Your husband was still able to finish university, though, and was luckily able to quickly secure stable employment, which allowed you to stay home to care for your newborn baby. As the years passed, he became increasingly distant, staying late at work or making excuses to leave again once he was home. You weren't surprised when, after ten years of marriage, he told you he wanted a divorce, because you did, too. But you had no way to support yourself and a child. You hadn't held down a job since before Madison was born. Your work history prior to that was limited because you were so young. You had no collateral or credit history, either. Everything had been in his name.

You had to start over. You had to go back to the beginning.

<present>

Tennessee.

"You came back."

"Yes, I just recently moved back in with my parents. I-"

"Mom, can we get some chips? Nana doesn't have any good snacks," Madison complained behind you as she came back to the same aisle. Timothée went wide-eyed as he looked at the girl and then back at you. She leaned around you to stare back at him. "Who's he?"

"This is my- uh- friend from high school, Timothée. Timothée, this is my daughter, Madison."

"Whoa. She looks just like you did at that age." He shook his head as if to clear a fog. "Where are my manners?" he quipped as he stepped around you and held out his hand to her. "It's nice to meet you, Madison. Your mother and I go way back."

"You knew my mom when she was my age?"

"Before that, even. We went to school together all the way from kindergarten to senior year until she moved to California for college," Timothée replied before locking eyes with you. "She was very eager to get out of here, so I am rather surprised to run into her today."

"It's a long story." You cleared the lump forming in your throat and looked down at Madison. "We should get going. We need to get these groceries home and refrigerated again."

"Right, well, maybe I'll see you around again now that you are back in town." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"I'm sure we will bump into each other." Hopefully, you thought to yourself. "It's a small town - that's practically inevitable."

<><><><><>

Chapter 2

MASTERLIST

<><><><><>

Tag List: @croatianprincess

[scrimblobimblowhump]

Got the ask game - a pen

~ @snaillamp :) 🐌

Ohhooooo *rubs hands together*

Whumper stabbing whumpee with a pen (school bullies??)

Hospitalised whumpee having doctors make markings on their body for medical purposes with a pen (surgery? allergy test? x-ray for Broken Bones?? the world is your oyster)

Overwhelmed whumpee clicking a pen to calm themselves

Student whumpee absolutely overwhelmed and furious with schoolwork aggressivelly stabbing their notebooks and textbooks with a pen in rage (I have done that on multiple occasions, I'm afraid

Whumper heating up a metal pen and pressing it against whumpee's skin

[wisteria-whump]

gimme a whumpee who was wearing a hoodie/other article of clothing of caretaker's when they were captured and when the hoodie finally loses caretaker's scent it destroys whumpee more than anything whumper does to them 🫶

[liketwoswansinbalance]

Insane thought about dismemberment incoming—

"Removing the pinion joint of a bird stops the growth of the primary feathers, preventing the acceleration required for flight and is analogous to amputating a human hand at the wrist" (Source).

If Rafal's hands were cut off, would he be able to fly? Or rather, would he be able to balance properly whilst in flight? I know his flight relies on magic, but logistically, this could be interesting...

[whumpderella]

High School Return of a Gangster (Episode 3)

[allyriadayne]

In a world where alicent is a nun and larys the priest confessor for the convent, he would 100% enjoy torturing her by making her feel like her petty sins are worse than they are just to make her even more dependant on his absolution. He tells her to flagellate herself ten times just for thinking she would be a better mother superior than sister rhaenyra (he makes her show him her back) and another time he tells her she must pray on her knees all night because she didn't confess the day before (so now she will confess in his rooms where he can truly see her). she's wrecked with guilt and anxiety and thinks she's going to hell if she doesn't beg for father larys' forgiveness every day at 4 pm sharp. all this because lyonel pledged larys' life to the church if god saved his wife but when she died, he sent larys anyway

[echo-goes-mmm]

Ambrose and Elliot #29

Masterpost

Previous

Next

Warnings: implied past non-con

Elliot tucked another shirt into his bag. Master Ambrose had told him to pack enough for two days, but Elliot added an extra set of clothes just in case.

He hefted the luggage bag off his bed; and truthfully it wasn’t that heavy. Months ago he would have struggled with it, but not now.

He glanced out his window, down at Ambrose hitching the horse to the cart.

It wasn’t Ambrose’s horse; instead borrowed from Mr. Michael Tallow (who owned a wheat farm).

Ambrose looked to be nearly finished, which meant it was time to go. 

Elliot picked up his coin-pouch. Ambrose had said he should make a bank account to keep his money safe, and Elliot wasn’t going to argue. 

It was cold out, but the snow on the ground was gone. Instead, icy mud made the ground soft and wet. His boots made the mud squelch with every step.

Mr. Tallow’s horse looked at him with big brown eyes as he approached, and Elliot avoided the animal to put his bag in the cart.

Elliot didn’t know much about horses; just that they were big and kind of scary.

“Elliot, this is Billy,” said Ambrose, petting the horse’s face. “She’ll be taking us to Sunside, and then to Lakeview.”

Billy snorted suddenly, and Elliot flinched. 

“Technically her name is Willamina, but I like Billy for short. What do you think?”

“It’s nice.”

Ambrose must have sensed his discomfort. “She’s really gentle, if you want to pet her,” he said, voice soft and calm.

Elliot liked it when Master’s voice went all gentle and steady, like Elliot was a cat and Ambrose was coaxing him.

He might find it condescending, if he were a person. Like in the Before Time.

But it was Ambrose, and he loved Elliot. Even though he wasn’t really a person anymore. There was only kindness in his voice, not derision.

“Okay,” he said. Elliot stepped around the cart to Billy, and she flicked her ears.

He hesitated. 

Ambrose gently took his hand and guided him to Billy’s neck.

Her brown coat was rough, and dirty, and very warm.

“See? Nothing to worry about.” 

___________________

The weather was chilly, but Elliot’s winter clothes kept him safe. He worried about Billy for a while, until Ambrose told him she would be warm from pulling the cart, and her breed was hardy.

Still, he was glad to see the looming white mountains brimming with snow pass further and further behind them. 

They ate a packed lunch on the way; sandwiches and a mix of dried fruit and nuts.

The sun came out behind the clouds after a few hours, and Elliot enjoyed the fresh air and sunshine on his face.

Ambrose showed him how to steer, and handed the reins to him. He only managed it for a few minutes before he got too jittery, but Ambrose seemed pleased that he tried.

___________________

It was evening when they got to the inn. It wasn’t one he recognized, but he still shook when they pulled up to the attached stable.

Ambrose and the stablehand talked as Elliot grabbed the luggage.

“Oh, thanks,” said Ambrose as Elliot handed him his bag. 

Elliot didn’t say anything, trailing behind Master on the way inside. 

The inn was busy, which helped soothe his anxiety. A busy innkeeper wouldn't have the time to be cruel.

“Name?” asked the woman at the stand.

“Ambrose, one night, please.”

She nodded, jotting it down. “Double bed, or two singles?”

“Two singles.”

She turned around and took two keys off a hook labeled, ‘six’.

“Here you go,” she said, “room six is on the second floor, and the bar and dining room is that way.”

“Thanks.”

Ambrose handed Elliot one of the keys.

They headed upstairs, and Elliot picked the bed furthest from the door.

“I’m going downstairs to get a drink and some dinner,” said Ambrose. “Do you want to come?”

Elliot shook his head.

“Alright. I could have someone send a plate up for you; is that okay?”

“Oh, um, sure. Thank you.”

Ambrose smiled, and ruffled his hair on his way out. “Of course, sweetheart.”

___________________

Ambrose settled down at the bar. It had been a while since he’d gone out, and he was looking forward to a drink.

“Daiquiri, please.”

The bartender made it quickly, and Ambrose tipped him well as a thank you.

He took his time with his meal, and made sure one was sent up to Ellie.

Ambrose hoped Elliot was alright. He always hoped he was alright.

A woman slid into the seat next him, tall with dark hair.

“Hi,” she said, “far from home?”

“In a way,” he replied, nearing a smile. “How about you?”

“Definitely. Hey, can I buy you a drink?” she asked, tapping the bar next to his almost-empty glass. “I’m Amy, by the way.”

“Ambrose. I’m really flattered, but I’m married.”

“I don’t see a ring,” she smiled. “Are you sure?” 

“I left it at home,” he said truthfully, side-stepping the fact he hadn’t worn his ring in decades. “Can’t be too careful on the road.”

“Mm,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “I see.”

“I don’t think my husband would appreciate infidelity, and considering my assistant and I are sharing a room for a business trip, I’ll really have to pass.”

“Ah, well,” she sighed, “maybe the lady in the corner booth is single.”

Ambrose glanced over at the booth. A redheaded woman sat alone, sipping on a pint.

“I wish you luck, Amy,” he toasted her, with the remains of his daiquiri. He finished his glass, and ordered another as Amy left the bar.

___________________

He swayed upstairs into the room. Ambrose unlocked it in a smooth motion, which told him he wasn’t as tipsy as he felt.

Curse being a lightweight.

He could see the outline of Elliot on his bed, bathed in the moonlight of the window.

“Are you drunk?” asked Ellie, quiet as a mouse.

“No, love. Just tipsy.” His brain was running a little slow, but it caught up to Elliot’s quickly enough.

“I’m not gonna touch you,” he said, sitting on his own assigned bed. He began to toe off his shoes.

“Okay,” said Elliot, and something was wrong.

Something was always wrong, but Ambrose didn’t mind.

Well, he hated that Elliot was suffering, but Elliot was his closest friend, and Ambrose would do anything for him.

“Have you been scared up in the room this whole time, sweetheart?”

“...no,” he said, “Just when you came in.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Elliot huddled smaller on the bed, but didn’t say anything.

Ambrose couldn’t see his face in the dark, but he knew what Elliot looked like when he was scared.

“Could… could I ask why you’re scared of me here, instead of at home?” He didn’t understand why Elliot was so frightened. They shared a bed at home, sometimes, what made sharing a room for a night scarier?

Elliot turned, and Ambrose could see part of his face in the moonbeams.

“I’ve done a lot of things in inns,” he said, shame in his voice. “For food. And sleep. It wasn’t… nice things.”

“People hurt you, and you let them because otherwise you would starve,” Ambrose guessed, and Elliot flinched, burrowing his face into his knees.

“Yeah,” he said, choked up.

“That’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. It’s their fault for hurting you. They didn’t need to do that. They could have just helped.”

“I dunno.”

Ambrose swallowed thickly. He wasn’t sober enough for this conversation, but he’d do his best.

“Well. I know it isn’t your fault. Can that be enough, for now?”

“Mm,” sniffed Elliot. “I- I think s-so.”

Ambrose hesitated. “Do you want me to come over?”

“No, no, I- could you stay over there? Please? I don’t… I don’t think I want to- to be touched.”

“Okay. That’s fine. I’ll be here, if you need me.”

“...maybe just a hug?”

Ambrose slowly walked over, as not to spook him, and Elliot wrapped his arms around him.

Ambrose gave him a tight squeeze, and Elliot let out a shuddering breath.

“Thank you,” said Ellie, pressing into him. “For not… for not hurting me.”

“Of course, love,” he said, “Of course.”

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