#something about…something about journalists as Whumpees

[letitbehurt]

Struggling did no good. Whumpee was outnumbered in the alley, two large lackeys gripping their arms hard enough to bruise while Whumper stood pointedly between them and their only way out. Whumpee’s cell phone and camera were on the ground nearby, crushed beneath the deliberate weight of heavy boots.

“You shouldn’t follow people,” Whumper said mildly. “All sorts of danger in a bad habit like that.”

A retort itched on Whumpee’s tongue. They were helpless to the urge, even like this. “Try telling me that at a different angle,” they suggested, breathing hard around bruised ribs. “This really isn’t your good side.”

They didn’t know what they were expecting—anger, violence, another swift, painful beating—but to their shock, Whumper laughed. A soft, sudden sound, as if Whumpee had managed to surprise them. They came closer until their shadow swallowed the light at the end of the alley.

“You’re not the first reporter I’ve had to take care of,” they said, eyes glinting in the dark, “but you’re certainly the most fun.”

[pigeonwhumps]

Coming Home

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump @augustofwhump

Augustofwhump day 11: freedom / day 12: deal

A prisoner exchange deal is struck. Whumpee comes home.

655 words

CWs: Implied torture, past starvation, past dehumanisation, prison whump, institutionalised whump, insensitive journalists

It's dark by the time the plane lands.

There's been hours of delays, by politics and storms and who knows what else, so it's the middle of the night when the jet finally touches down on home soil for good.

Cameras are clicking before the door is even unlocked, bright flashes lighting up the scene unnecessarily. The whole airstrip looks washed out by the floodlights, including the reporter vans, the transport, the politicians fiddling awkwardly with their ties.

And Caretaker.

They'd sat in the back of all the negotiation meetings they were allowed in, read everything they could get their hands on. It wasn't much. It's all secret service, blacked-out reports, behind closed doors. And for good reason, they suppose. But they were there for the fierce debates over who to bring home. Whether a "mere civilian" was worth it.

Caretaker doesn't like to think about that. Like their sister's life was being measured and balanced, her future based on whether she was 'useful enough' to bring home.

Asset 4. That's what they called her during the discussions. Not Whumpee. Asset 4. Caretaker thinks they might punch someone, or maybe just break down and cry.

Finally, finally, the steps are slid into position and the plane door opens. People start to emerge. There's plane crew and officials, and four other released prisoners, but Caretaker only has eyes for one person.

They're watching closely, but it still takes them a bit to pinpoint Whumpee. They haven't seen her in five years but it's... it's more than that.

She's wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, hanging off her in a way they shouldn't given that Caretaker gave the mission co-ordinators her size. It fits with the hollowness of her face, her prominent cheekbones, and is it just the floodlights making her skin look so washed out? Her hair is shaved to within an inch of its life, something she'd never do voluntarily. She's just as tall as they remember, hunched as if to hide it, not wanting to draw attention to herself.

Caretaker runs towards Whumpee, unable to help themself. Five years...

Whumpee flinches as they come within arms reach and they skid to a halt.

"Sorry, sorry."

"Sorry."

Whumpee looks taken aback at the apology. Caretaker doesn't like it. Nor do they like the dark sunkenness of her darting eyes, the nightmares lurking in the back, lying in wait.

They knew Whumpee had been held captive by one of the world's most notorious regimes, and that they likely went through all manner of horrors, but knowing it intellectually is different from actually knowing it.

"Caretaker?"

Her voice is soft and scratchy, hesitant, and Caretaker nods. They watch her eyes light up hopefully, and she closes the rest of the distance between them.

Caretaker wraps their arms carefully around her and she sags. She's twitchy, eyes darting around everywhere, but her arms encircle Caretaker in return.

"It's you."

"Yeah."

A journalist asks something from behind them, Caretaker doesn't hear what, a bulb flashes, and Whumpee jumps violently out of their arms, eyes skittering, a swiftly-stifled yelp escaping them.

Caretaker shoots the journalist a dirty look before turning back to their sister, running a hand up and down her arm.

"It's okay, Whumpee. You're safe now. Let's step away for a bit, shall we?"

Whumpee nods, gripping Caretaker's hand and following them to the edge of the airstrip. There they stop, looking out into the dark, rippling grass.

"I should've– I shouldn't be– This is– Is that stars?"

The end of that frustrated sentence is filled with wonderment as Whumpee tips her head back to look up at the sky. The floodlights tint the sky a dim blue, but looking away from them the sky twinkles slightly. Only the brightest stars are visible, but they're still stars.

"Yeah. Look, there's Mars."

"Mars is a planet," whispers Whumpee. She doesn't look away from the sky, or let go of Caretaker's hand.

She just watches the sky like she's never seen it before.

[justplainwhump]

White

[Masterpost: Way over his head]

Tyler wakes up.

Content: BBU, facility whump, whumper turned whumpee; this is a short one.

Bright.

White.

Everything was white.

Of course.

Tyler came to in a tiled, white room. His body hurt, every bone, every muscle screaming in agony. Slowly, he tried to assess his situation.

Nothing was broken, he figured. The batons weren't meant to break bones. They were meant to inflict pain.

He knew.

He knew so much about this.

He knew how taut to pull the bindings around his wrists and ankles, in a way that didn't do permanent damage but still made it clear there was no use in fighting.

He knew what the slight pressure around his neck implied, he knew how they'd have fixed that collar, he knew where the electrode sat against his skin, he knew how the weight of the controller to it felt, laying in a handler's palm.

He knew how many cameras there were in this room, how many people fit into the room behind that mirror, and yet how little proof of what happened in here would ever make it outside.

He knew.

He knew every single fucking step of the very protocol that would make sure Tyler Parker ceased to exist.

What he hadn't known was how much the bright white light hurt his eyes, even with his lids closed.

How horrible it felt to have some hair caught in the collars buckle and no chance at even touching it.

How chilling the cold draft was, brushing over his bruised skin, when one couldn't move out of it.

How thirst could make his throat hurt, even after a few hours.

He hadn't known how just hard his stomach could clench just from hearing low laughter somewhere behind his head.

He wasn't alone. There was someone with him in the white room. Of course. He should've known that, too. He groaned, and the noise felt good, a vain attempt to cover up his dread with something else.

"Good morning, Parker." Someone stepped into his vision against the bright light, a tall man in a WRU uniform. Senior handler Jared Grimm, the facility's chief handler. It hadn't been him whose laugh Tyler had heard. It had been more than one. It meant that- No. He wouldn't think about it.

Grimm slowly spun a controller in his hand, while studying Tyler's face, awaiting a reply.

"Good..." Tyler swallowed against the dryness in his throat. "Good morning, handler."

"Playing the trainee part already, Parker? Won't do you much good. I'll use that thing on you anyways, and we both know it." Grimm chuckled. "But for now, I do like the attitude. Hope you keep it up when we ask you some questions later on."

He pulled in a chair. "Alex is in the hospital, within an inch of their life. A potential informant's memory fried under your watch. And some leftist journalist with a little too much knowledge is on the loose, who just so happened to be your girlfriend. There's quite a bit you'll have to answer for."

On the loose. Tara. Tyler exhaled slowly. The one thing he could've hoped for. His own fate was sealed anyway. Had been in the moment he'd first stepped into this place.

He just regretted this hadn't ended sooner. Before Suzy. Before 238... before Danielle.

'I don't think I signed up for this', she'd said. He'd punished her for it. Weeks, months, in the white rooms of WRU, until nothing of herself was left, while Tyler lived a good life off his WRU pay checks.

Tyler wondered, if the Drip was strong enough to erase guilt.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Gilded Cage - Choose Your Own Whump

Here it is! My first attempt at a choose your own adventure type of whump story. In this story, Villain is kept by the Heroes as a prop for the media-- but what will they do when a rare chance at contacting the outside world presents itself?

CW//Imprisonment, collars, shock collars, villain whumpee, implied torture, panic attacks

There was something about a gilded cage that made it worse than any other type of imprisonment.

Sure, it was comfortable. You were well provided for, fed and watered incredibly generously. But that, in and of itself, was one of the worst parts.

Being imprisoned, locked away in a cell somewhere with a big heavy padlock over the door, it meant that someone thought you were dangerous enough to require that kind of security. In the most minuscule way, it was a display of respect.

But a gilded cage of comfort and warmth? It meant that your captor believed you to be domesticated. Docile. Too soft and serenely mannered to even bother chaining up.

Of course, that didn’t make the lock on the door any less real. It just made it that much more humiliating.

Villain groaned as the sound of knocking echoed through the room. They pulled their plush duvet closer to themself, sinking deeper into their unbelievably soft mattress.

“Lunch is ready. Get up. And make yourself look presentable, we have visitors.”

They were too tired to tell which of the Heroes was speaking, but it didn’t matter all too much. Their voices all blended together, after a time. All characterized by overwhelming politeness and platitudes, with a subtle undertone of annoyance.

If anything, the way they spoke was worse than if they had just yelled. They hated Villain, that was clear and that was expected. If only they would just say it out loud, instead of letting their tone speak for them.

Again, Villain grumbled, sitting up in bed and blinking blearily a moment. The bright red digital clock on the wall mechanically informed them that it was almost noon.

They just wanted to go back to sleep.

Of course, that wasn’t an option. They’d tried that. Tried hiding under the blankets and pretending the outside world didn’t exist. But it did, even as they hated it.

They pushed the blankets aside and got up, knowing full well that they would return to a bed made with military precision. Wandering over to their wardrobe, they couldn’t help but wish that they’d been informed earlier that they were expecting visitors. But, of course, when did anyone ever tell them anything.

Eventually, they selected a nice suit top in a dark maroon hue, along with matching pants. A presentable outfit, and hopefully fancy enough for whatever guests were being expected. It was almost certainly a news crew, or a government agent-- they came at least three times a week.

Clothes folded over their arm, they shook their head to clear their vision of sleep and made their way to the bathroom.

As always, the mirror was immaculate, stretching the whole length of one wall and going all the way up to the ceiling. Looking at it made them want to smash it to pieces, but they quelled their own anger quickly. It served no purpose.

They didn’t have to look at it. They could have just as easily closed their eyes, changed their clothes and ran out of the room. But they couldn’t. Though they had no clue as to why, some horrible force compelled them to raise their head, and stare directly into the eyes of their reflection.

Villain wanted to cry. Had this been a few months ago, they would have. But they’d long since mastered the art of choking back tears.

The person in the mirror-- they didn’t recognize them.

Sure, they had the same facial structure as Villain, the same eyes, and the same, well, everything. That was except for the layers of makeup covering them, clearing any imperfection and turning it into a glowing highlight. Not to mention their hair-- every two weeks or so, they’d have it professionally styled. What had once been a head of long, curled locks had been cut short and ironed straight. Apparently, that was the style that was currently “in.” Not that they’d had any choice in the matter.

To look presentable.

They washed the makeup from their face as best they could, knowing that whatever artist the visitors had brought with would do it again, in whatever way they liked it. Putting down the washcloth, they moved to unbutton the front of their nightgown...

But their hand drifted instead to their neck.

It was an instinctive motion, almost. A ritual. They unfolded the collar of their nightgown, pulling down the neckline, until the device was fully visible.

That was what the Heroes always called it. A “control device.” As if it was some kind of scientific advancement, some amazing invention.

It was nothing like that.

The device was a simple loop of metal, going around their neck, tight enough nearly to choke them. To remind them that it was always there. On the outside, the metal was smooth, marred not even by any kind of mechanism that would allow it to be removed. On the inside, however, they could feel the tiny studs, pressing against their flesh.

They didn’t think of it as their collar. They tried not to think of it as their collar. They tried not to think about it at all, in fact. But, every second, every breath they took, they could feel it. Even if it weighed less than a pound in actuality, to them, it felt to be made of the heaviest lead.

Weighing them down, ready to strike at any moment. Each and every one of the Heroes had one of the collar’s remotes. A simple press of a button, a simple click, and Villain would be writhing on the floor in agony. Every time one of the Heroes gave them a side-eyed look, they felt their stomach flip, waiting for the shock. For the horrible, horrible pain.

They tried to fit their finger between the device and their neck, though there was little avail. Still, even if it was only slight, they could feel on the tip of their finger their own charred skin.

Anxiety rose in their throat, twisting their stomach in knots. They shook their head. No. They had to get ready, and they were running out of time. The visitors were probably already waiting. In a practiced motion, they undid their nightgown and dressed in their far fancier outfit.

Even as they reached for the door handle, though, they could see their hand shaking.

It was just lunch. They’d been doing it every day for months. They could do it. They could do lunch.

It was just lunch.

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The dining table was a beast of wood and metal accents, stretching for the whole room, leaving only room for the dozen and a half chairs surrounding it.

Generally, the majority of these chairs would be empty. There were only so many Heroes, and generally their various sidekicks and assistants did not eat with them. Today, however, every last seat was filled.

They wore no identification, but Villain already knew who they were. A news crew. Journalists and cameramen and reporters. They hadn’t seen this particular crew before, but that didn’t mean much of anything. So many came through Headquarters that they all seemed to blend together.

As Villain emerged through the large, mahogany doors, every last one of the newspeople turned their heads. A few even appeared frightened. One among them gasped.

It was how they always reacted, the first time. They opened their mouth without speaking-- they had practiced their script so many times that it came to them as easily as breathing.

“Good afternoon, everyone. It’s nice to meet you.”

At the head of the table, Hero nodded in approval. Villain lowered their gaze and retreated to their seat, among the Heroes.

Even after so much time, it was hard to think of them as anything but hands, ready at any moment to press down on their remotes without so much as thinking.

That was the only good thing about having visitors. None of the Heroes would dare to use the collar when company was around. Each and every shirt that Villain owned was specifically chosen to hide the device-- no one else knew. A shared secret of dominance.

“Well, we’re so glad to have you here.” Hero smiled, looking out over the table. “Our food should be out in a moment. What all are you looking to be filming, today? Or photographing? I’m no expert on this type of thing, I must admit.”

It was a blatant lie. Hero knew everything there was to know about PR. They could wield the media better than they could wield their own powers.

“Well.” The person who seemed to be in charge of the news crew spoke up. “Did you receive the clothing shipment a few days ago?”

“We did, yes. I almost forgot, silly old Hero. Forgetful as ever.”

“No worries. We wanted to get some photos of you wearing them-- they were custom made, by an Italian designer. Supposedly the start of some kind of new line. They call it “Be Your Own Hero.” It’s a little cheesy, but that’s fashion for you.”

“I’m sure it is. Is that all, then?”

“Mostly, yes. Though...” They bit their lip. “In light of recent events, we were wondering if, perhaps to supplement another story, we would be able to interview Villain? If you’re okay with it, of course, Villain.”

“Of course.” Villain smiled. “That would be wonderful.”

Hero nodded their agreement, though their eyes betrayed their tentativeness.

“Just Villain? I don’t believe the rest of us are too busy today, we would have plenty of time to speak to you, as well.”

“I don’t want to be impolite, but I’m sure you understand that this matter concerns them specifically. Maybe we could incorporate some quotes from you?”

“Don’t worry, I understand completely. That should work out just fine.”

Villain couldn’t stop themself from nervously twirling the cuff of their shirt. Whatever this ‘event’ was, they had no clue, and they most certainly didn’t want to give an interview about it. They’d been trained to do interviews, but never alone, and most of the time they just gave a few cursory answers while the Heroes took the spotlight.

Still, they couldn’t refuse. If Hero said they were doing the interview, then they were doing it.

They were a prop. They knew that. At the very least, they could be a good one.

A tinny bell chimed as the door to the kitchen opened, and an array of staff brought out a series of plates. Villain feared that they wouldn’t have much of an appetite.

Their collar was choking them. They could hardly breathe.

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It was amazing just how quickly the news crew had turned the front hall into a full-blown studio. Lights and backdrops and all kinds of equipment that Villain didn’t recognize were set up in dazzlingly bright arrays, making any movement a tripping hazard on account of just how many cables snaked about the wood floor.

The makeup station had been set up against one wall, with five chairs and countless boxes of powders and creams. Villain gripped the arms of their chair, doing their very best not to flinch or sneeze as a stranger dabbed blush onto their cheeks. Even after so much time, it was one thing they could never quite get used to. A stranger touching their face, moving their head about. They hated it.

But they did not protest. They sat as best as they could, muttering desperate apologies any time they lost control and jerked their head away from the invading touch.

Next to them, they could hear as the Heroes, one by one, were finished as got up from their seats. Chatting with different news people, laughing at their stupid jokes. Metal wheels whirred as clothes racks were pushed about.

“There you go.” The makeup artist smiled, speaking in a disgustingly chipper tone. Villain fluttered their eyelids open, at least glad that it was over.

Still talking with the different photographers and the like, the Heroes began drifting away, towards where all the lights and cameras were set up. Villain could already feel themself growing anxious. Sure, they hated the Heroes as much as anything, but at least when they were nearby, they could ensure that Villain was acting right. Feed them their lines. Keep up the facade.

Unsure of just where to go, they waited in the makeup chair. They fought to keep their gaze away from the door, the massive swinging wooden panels that led right out onto the street. To freedom.

Their kept their eyes fixed firmly on their shoes.

They weren’t sure exactly how long they stayed like that. Staring. Listening. The cameras on the other side of the room had already begun to flash.

At some point, after at least 15 minutes of sitting and waiting, obedient and docile, someone came up to them. A simply-dressed reporter, sweater vest and all.

At the very least, they didn’t have that stupid smile on their face. The media smile. The smile of glowing PR.

“Hello.” They were nervous, it was clear. More than just a little nervous, for that matter. “Um- You’re Villain, right?”

They looked up.

“Yep, that’s me!”

It made them feel sick.

“O-Oh. Okay. Um, my name is Journalist. It’s nice to meet you...?”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Journalist!”

“Are you ready for the interview?”

“Sure am.”

“Okay. Uh- Oh, wait.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Your shirt is inside out, I think.”

Villain felt their heart jump to their throat. It was an honest, simple mistake. They hadn’t even noticed. Yet, if the Heroes were here, it was certain that there would be retribution. Would they find out? Were they listening, right now? Ready to shove Villain into some back room to push their stupid buttons? Footsteps- oh god, was that them? Oh god oh god oh god-

“Hey, uh, can you hear me?”

“Sorry. I think I spaced out a little, there.”

“It’s fine. It’s no big deal. There’s a bathroom over there, so we can just fix your shirt quick and get onto the interview.”

“Sounds good.” They shook their head, shaking themself back to wakefulness. Once they were sure that they could, they stood to their feet. “I’ll only be a moment.”

“Um... They told us not to leave you alone.”

“What?” It came out more like a whisper.

“Yeah. It’s okay, um, I won’t look or anything. It’s just a security thing, I think.”

“Oh. Okay.” Villain swallowed.

Their heartbeat firmly moved to their throat, now. They hoped the shaking in their legs could not be seen as they and Journalist moved to the small bathroom, right off the side of the hall.

Villain stood in the corner, with Journalist sitting on a chair that was sitting in the corner opposite.

It was just a simple fix. It was fine. Everything was fine, it was okay.

Hands trembling as though an earthquake raged below their feet, they reached for the hem of their shirt, pulling it up and the sleeves off their arms, slipping it off over their head and working to flip it.

It was only the feeling of being watched that led them to look up at the young journalist, sitting in the corner. Eyes fixed on them.

More specifically, on their neck.

“Um... What is that? Villain, are you okay?”

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What should our Whumpee do? It’s up to you to decide!

There are two options, each one leading to a separate story branch. Alongside each option is a question specifying what exactly will happen. Answering this question is completely optional, but it is great if you have any particular ideas! Otherwise, feel free to just put a letter.

To vote, feel free to use any means you would like to contact me. Replying or reblogging this post works just fine, as does PMing me directly or sending me an ask. I am unsure when I will be writing the next part, so as long as the next part hasn’t been posted yet, voting is still open!

I will choose the story path based on which option has more votes, and will choose whichever answer I find the most interesting to base the next part upon.

The choices and questions for this part are as follows:

A) Tell the truth - How much should Villain tell Journalist?

B) Lie - How should Villain explain away the collar?

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. This is my first time doing anything like this, so I apologize if it’s odd or confusing ^^

[whumblr]

Whumpmas in July - Day 1

(Re-)Introduce yourself and/or your creations!

Hiya! Call me Kirsten or just Whumblr. I'm a thirty something from the Netherlands and I started my blog almost two years ago now.

Most daydreams and whumpy thoughts are collected in drabbles with mostly nameless characters.

I love:

defiant whumpees

threats and intimidation 👏👏

fights and beatings

knifeplay and whipping

manhandling and power dynamics 👏

whumpees out of their league, unfair fights

whumpees scared shitless but putting up a brave front

mostly just the emotional fuckery before the torture starts

My first series ended last year, Custody, and is about a detective who got captured by a business man they were trying to arrest for drug dealing and other suspicious activities.

At the moment I'm writing Home is where the hurt is, which is about Jay, a journalist who is 'recaptured' but allowed the 'luxury' to live his life and go to work, only to be whumped in the evening hours and having to hide it all from the people around him.

Judging by these two series, I like whumping regular people who get in with the wrong crowd and in way over their head. But I also love a good old defiant weathered whumpee. I love my Whumpers to be levelheaded and fiercely in control, grinning at the defiance of their captives.

(I also like evil business men, preferably rich smug evil business men)

I'm always up for a chat, but I'm also a shy bean, so that nicely cancels each other out.

Fave blogs of which I love their writing, whumpers, art, everything: @sableflynn @card-games-and-pain, @undertheburrow @evermetnotforgotten @livingforthewhump @short-form-whump and I love pretty much everyone I've interacted with 'cause you're all amazing and sweet.

[whump-me-all-night-long]

The Scoop of a Lifetime - 2-2

Comfortember Day 2 - First Day/Night

Tagging @mnmlover2002, @cupcakes-and-pain, @lave-e, @appy-polly-loggies, @lovely-little-whump, @just-another-whumper, let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: broken/recovering whumpee, trauma response, referenced violence/injuries/trauma, let me know if I missed anything

Masterlist // Previous

---

Devin woke up to a knock on the door of their room. They’d fallen asleep late afternoon the day before and had woken every few hours when nurses came in to check on them. Each time they woke back up, their body seemed to hurt more.

By midmorning the next day, they felt like they’d been hit by a truck. So when the knock sounded, they let out a soundless groan and turned their head away. They heard the door creak open and footsteps pad against the hard floor.

There was a small sigh before a tentative voice said, “Devin? You awake?”

Their eyes flew open and they found themself staring at a familiar tilted face. Sitting up slightly, they ignored the pain it caused as they kept their gaze on the man sitting next to their bed.

Elliott Wright looked back at them, his stormy gray eyes narrowed in on them in concern. They felt it’s not him those aren’t his eyes their heart leap into their throat. They steadied their breath as they took in his appearance. His usual attire of a button up shirt, pullover sweater, and khakis was as spotless as ever, even his hair carefully tidied up. But the genuine worry in his normally cold eyes had Devin pausing.

Elliott was the nephew of the man who owned the Middleland Muse, the newspaper they worked at. At 26, he was a year younger than Devin, but he had worked there nearly as long as they had, which they had originally believed to be a clear sign of nepotism. However, within a few years of them working together, they’d both proven themselves to be the most skilled among a skilled team of writers. So Devin had been forced to admit that he was, unfortunately, quite the talented and hardworking journalist.

However, they had never gotten along. Elliott was always trying to outdo Devin, so they had to always be on guard around him. Sure, the two had begun to grow closer, but that was only out of necessity; with the increased amount of news spread online, the Muse had had to work twice as hard to stay afloat.

So the fact that he was here, in front of them, gave them pause. The question must have been evident in their eyes because he sighed, a weak smile on his face. “Hey, Dev. How are you feeling?”

They rolled their eyes at the dumb nickname, wanting nothing more than to snap back just dandy, elli but their throat only allowed a hoarse huff of air through. He must’ve read their expression, though, because his smile faltered and he leaned forward, hiding his face in his hands. They heard him exhale, slow and heavy before he began to speak.

“I.. I was so worried about you, Dev.” Whatever they had expected him to say, it wasn’t that. Their mouth fell open, slightly, as they stared at him. The man who, since day one, had been trying to show them up and outdo them and be better than them, had been worried? Devin pushed away the thoughts of the last few weeks before they’d been taken been hurt been broken gone to that party. 

Sure, they’d admit that they had become less reluctant to talk to Elliott, but it was only because he was a good writer, regardless of their personal feelings towards him, so they knew they could go to him with their problems and he could go to them with his. But for him to have actually been worried about them? To have gone out of his way to look for them? Devin called bull.

He glanced up at them, leaving the safety of his hands, and something in their expression made him wilt, curl in on himself. “I know you probably don’t believe me,” he said softly, staring back down at his clasped hands. “But when you didn’t show up for work that Monday- I mean, I figured you were just upset about the Thursday before, that’s why you didn’t text me at all. But then you didn’t show up to work. You never take sick days.” His voice cracked and he dragged a tired hand over his face before daring another look at them. Now that they got a good view of his face, they were taken aback. His eyes were lidded heavily and he had dark circles under them. His face seemed more drawn and pale than usual. The corner of his bottom lip was red and slightly swollen, they noted with a frown. When did he pick that bad habit up again? They wondered idly.

He began to reach out but thought better of it and drew back before they could touch. “When I reported you missing, the cops- they laughed at me. I mean, not literally, but you could tell, they thought I was making it all up, like I’d been ghosted or something. Obviously, I made it clear that we were just coworkers,” he added hastily as he saw the utter shock on Devin’s face. But that wasn’t what they’d been stuck on.

It had been those five little words when i reported you missing that had stunned them so much. They’d never in a million years thought that anyone would actually bother to go looking for them. In fact, it had been one of the things they’d remained grateful for when Wil- when he had been hurting them. They had told themself over and over at least nobody else will get hurt looking for you. But someone had been looking for them.

And that person was their sworn enemy.

And the closest thing they had to a friend. 

Devin’s mind was spinning. They couldn’t quite believe or comprehend what they were hearing, and too many thoughts and  emotions were clamoring for their attention. Their breathing picked up, and they saw Elliott lean forward. They flinched back, instinctively closing their eyes and bracing for the hit, but when several long seconds passed, they slowly opened their eyes.

Elliott had recoiled in his chair, holding his hands close to his body, horror evident on his face. They saw the unspoken question what happened to you in his eyes that were just a couple shades darker than his, but he slowly stood, keeping his hands where they could see them. “I- I think I’m going to go now. I hope you-”

He was cut off as Devin’s hand darted out and latched onto his sleeve. They stared down at their arm, nearly as surprised as he was. They slowly raised their gaze to meet his stare and mouthed slowly, “Stay?” They didn’t know why they did it, only that, as obnoxious and arrogant and utterly awful Elliott was, he was familiar. And Devin just didn’t want to be alone right now.

He hesitated before nodding and sitting back down in the chair, their arms outstretched between the pair, grounding Devin as they fell back into a fitful sleep.

Next

[blood-and-lilacs]

Book Rec: Heartsick

fyi, this is the first time I’ve tried this and I’m perfectly open to KIND feedback on what you think about this format so I can change that on future ones-- whether there’s something important it doesn’t address, whether you want more or less of my commentary, whether you think it needs more bullet points so it’s easier to read, etc. 

Book: Heart Sick (Archie Sheridan & Gretchen Lowell, Book 1), by Chelsea Cain. Incidentally, the title of the series is super awkward, as you can see, so I just call it the Beauty Killer series.

Primary Whumpee(s): Archie Sheridan -- Police Detective, recovering physically and emotionally from ten days of torture at the hands of serial killer Gretchen Lowell. Around 40, separated from his wife and two kids, but unable to separate himself from his new Vicodin addiction or from his weekly visits to the prison to hear Gretchen’s confessions. Also, in my favorite line of description ever -- “He wasn’t pretty. But he wasn’t unhandsome if you liked sort of average-looking, depressed people” (pg. 30)

Secondary Whumpee(s): Gretchen Lowell (the serial killer, now in prison), Susan Ward (a journalist with ever changing hair color and a habit of getting kidnapped)

Whump Categories: Gods, what isn’t in here? Torture, paralysis, restraints, surgery, poison, forced drug use, kidnapping, drug addiction, PTSD, Stockholm Syndrome, gagging, mind games. . . .

Summary: So about two years ago Archie was kidnapped by the serial killer he was trying to catch, Gretchen Lowell. Scattered throughout the book are flashback scenes about what happened during the ten days she held him, before letting him go and turning herself in. In the current timeline, two years later, Archie is finally going back to work to head a task force looking for a new serial killer. He’s also invited a journalist, Susan Ward, to follow the investigation and work closely with him. And, every Sunday, as he has pretty much since he got out of the hospital, Archie heads to the federal prison where Gretchen is -- she has agreed to reveal details of her murders and locations of the bodies, but only to him. 

Opinions: I love this series so much you have no idea. I’ve rp-ed it, I’ve cosplayed it, I’ve written fic for it. Back when I had a paper copy, I literally had all the flashback scenes marked with tabs with little hearts on them (Gretchen’s calling card is carving a heart on her victims). I did find the first book a little hard to get into because I was totally invested in the Archie-Gretchen story but not at ALL interested in Susan or the mystery of the new serial killer. Susan gets developed much better in the later books and the mystery really isn’t a bad story, I was just TOO EXCITED about the whump to pay attention to it the first time through.

Favorite Whump Moment: (Reviewer’s choice, my favorite thing will probably not be your favorite thing! I’ll try to keep it spoiler-free.)      This time, he cannot swallow the poison. She pours water down his throat after it, but he chokes and vomits all the fluid up. His entire body spasms, sending a black wall of pain from his groin to his shoulders. He fights for oxygen, and in his alarm, his consciousness is forced back into his body and all of his senses come horribly alive. He screams.         Gretchen holds his head against the bed, her forehead pressed hard against his cheek. He lurches against her hand, screaming as loudly as he can, letting all of the pain and fear drive out of his body through his lungs. The effort tears at his throat and the screams turn into choking, and the choking into dry heaves. When his breathing returns to normal, Gretchen looks up, and slowly begins to wipe the sweat and blood and tears off his face.       “I’m sorry,” he gasps stupidly.

Bonus: (Something that’s not necessarily whump but makes me happy.) I always forget how great Archie’s relationship with his work partner, Henry, is. These books are sadly painfully heteronormative, but I ship them soooooo hard. They’re just delightful whether you ship it or not. Henry is so protective of Archie, he wants SO badly to help Archie but Archie is SO bad at being protected or helped. It’s tragic. Plus they just have excellent banter. My favorite thing is that even though Gretchen rarely considers Archie’s ex-wife or anyone he dates to be a threat to her power over him, she DOES consider Henry a threat. Like Susan, though, Henry doesn’t get really well developed in this book -- he has some good moments, but I didn’t really think of him as anything but a stock character till Book 2. BONUS Bonus: It takes place in my city, and the author lives here too. One time I met her and she gave me a severed hand.

Triggers: (If I’ve already listed it as a type of whump, it’s not gonna go here) Sexual assault of minors -- the new serial killer murders and rapes teenage girls, it is described briefly but not graphically a couple of times throughout. Use of the t-slur -- it happens once and I don’t freaking know why because it’s a totally unnecessary throw away line and never happens again in the whole series. Oh dammit, I was just flipping through and noticed d*ke too. Discussion of suicide -- Archie is not okay and there are a couple lines in which he contemplates suicide. Later books have a much bigger focus on both sexual assault and suicide, so if either of those is a big trigger for you, you definitely don’t want to get hooked on the series. 

[justplainwhump]

The journalist

Tara’s Story - I

New female whumpee just dropped. Made her for another world, but @whumping-newbie abducted her into her Hitman-based (military) whump story and it’s a match. This is a collaboration.

Tara witnesses a conversation she shouldn’t have.

Content (warnings): Mostly build-up, some notions of (military) police brutality, manhandling, a touch of self-sacrifice that will definitely be built upon later, abduction. Female protagonist.

Marrakech

"Don't." Rabia's voice is rough. Her hand settles on mine, just as I want to grab my camera and leave for the Swedish consulate.

"It's alright, love." I point at the orange vest. PRESS is written over its back in huge letters, both English and Arabic. "I'll be good. It's just a peaceful protest. They'll want the world to see."

"The world, huh? Last time I heard JBS had an audience of 25 thousand." 

I put a hand on my hip and give her a mild frown. "You know that I've sold to bigger stations before. If it's good enough a story, I'll make national."

"If it's good enough a story, some people won't want you to tell it." Gently, she takes the camera from my hand. "I appreciate the time you've spent in my country, but it's still not yours. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Trust me. You don't want to be caught up in this."

"I do!" I'm almost desperate. "Rabia, I've been waiting for the chance to do something political. I love all those 'human interest' cute little pieces, but I want to be taken seriously as a journalist. My story on Strandberg’s fraud was the perfect start! I’ve got a foot in the door, and now, these protests are happening right next door. Literally. So I beg you -" I reach out to take the camera back from her hands. "Don't keep that from me."

"The roof." Her grip around the camera is firm. "We can film the consulate from the roof. That's still good enough. You can get people on the street at another time."

"Rabia -" 

She stops me with a simple look from her dark eyes.

"Please," she whispers. "Please, my love, I beg you, too."

I sigh, before I lean in to press a kiss to her fingertips. "The roof, you say?"

She nods, relief flooding her face. I love her smile. I love being the reason for it. I've been insanely lucky to find someone like her in my life. She's right. It's her country, not mine. She's been my compass for so long. I should trust her now, more than ever.

"Let's go up there then. Lead the way."

-

The situation in front of the consulate is calm, despite the disproportionate amount of noise. Soldiers are monitoring the protesters, guns ready, but still relaxed. 

I bite my tongue to not comment on the chances I'd have, interviewing some of the people. I know the language well enough, I've learned to get people to open up to me, I - 

I shouldn't think this. Rabia is way more experienced than I am. If she feels something is off about this, she's probably right.

I take some more pans of the gathering crowd, zoom in on some of the signs. Mentally, I'm writing the off comments. I'll prepare a 30 second piece, just in case the station needs to fill a blank in their international news. Protestors, waiting soldiers, maybe something about the general mood in the city.

I nod to Rabia and point at the other side of the building, where an abandoned school has been turned into some sort of temporary army quarters. "Let me do a little moderation?"

She nods and takes the camera, carefully stepping back on the flat roof until she has me in a good angle. I flash her a smile, a private one, before I switch over to the professional one. "While protestors gather in front of the consulate, the military presence in the city is becoming more and more palpable. Provisional bases are emerging like in this abandoned school behind me-"

Rabia's eyes widen and she gestures for me to stop.

"What? I-"

"Shhh. Down," she hisses. "Look. Who's that? Is that -"

Soldiers are approaching the building, a blond foreigner between them. He's somewhat nervous, carefully glancing around. I can imagine why. It's him. The man all this is about. 

"Strandberg," I whisper, as I get to all fours, staring over the edge of the roof. "Keep the camera running."

"Bet." Rabia lays flat on the roof next to me, keeping the camera on them. 

On a hunch, I pull out my smartphone too and start filming. Always have backup. Whatever is going on here, it's going to be news worthy. 

"Why is he outside?" I whisper. "This doesn't look like an arrest, this looks like-"

A man steps out of the school building, another soldier, but with a more pompous uniform, causing the guards in the courtyard to straighten their backs and stand at attention.

"General Reza Zaydan," Rabia mumbles. "He shouldn't even be in Marrakech."

"They're talking. They're - what the hell are we seeing?"

There’s an order for an arrest out on Strandberg, he’s an escaped prisoner, all but under siege at the Swedish consulate. Just the fact that he made it out to the street is remarkable, but talking to a high ranking general of the Moroccan army, who doesn’t make any effort to arrest him? There’s a story behind it, and I need to be the one to report it.

"I don't know. I..." Rabia crawls backwards from the edge of the roof and looks over at me. "Love, let's leave, alright? Right now. I... They... This is bad."

I’m still peeking down at the schoolyard, the familiarity between them, the-

Yeah. We certainly should take this material somewhere else for now. 

Rabia pulls back the camera, and suddenly, on the schoolyard, the general freezes. He's looking at us. Straight at us, as he yells "Sniper!"

Fuck.

"Run," I stagger back and try to pull Rabia back with me. She doesn't move, just rolls onto her back and looks at me. "No use," she whispers flatly. "Too late. We're dead. We're dead and it's my fault. Forgive me."

"We're not. We're not dead, we have to run, we need to-" 

Shouts and footsteps sound from downstairs, still on the other side of the street. They're coming. They're looking for a shooter. They'll be cautious, but they'll be brutal.

"Hide," I hiss. "Take the camera and hide, they don't know there's two of us."

"Forgive me," she whispers again.

I can't help it. I slap her across the face, hard, and she finally blinks, staring at me in confusion. "The water tank. Now."

Somehow, she manages to get on all fours, grabbing the camera. "But-"

"I'm American. They won't let foreigners vanish." Unlike her. I don't say it. We both know it. "It's okay. I've got you."

She opens her mouth, freezes, before she nods and crawls over to the tank, pulls herself up the ladder and vanishes inside.

Steps are coming closer.

"Don't shoot!" I yell, in English, then French. "Please, I'm unarmed."

The phone is still in my hand. The phone, with the video, with Rabia's voice, with her contacts, with -

Oh, fuck.

"Hands up," someone yells and I hear them climb the metal stairs.

Without thought, I stuff the phone between the slats of one of the AC units next to me, before I sink to my knees and lift my hands. "I'm a journalist! Press! Don't shoot!"

-

They don't have Rabia. That's the only thing that matters. She's safe. My love is safe.

I tell myself that, repeat it over and over, while I'm thrown to the ground, hands in my hair, a knee pressing into my back. 

She's safe.

All will be well.

They force me down the ladder, drag me down the stairs. Nobody stays back on the roof. 

They do believe me, me and my ID card. That I'm a journalist, not a sniper. 

I'm not sure if that's entirely a good thing. 

Behind me, a group of soldiers stays back on the first floor to search the tiny two room office I've rented. I, however, am not needed here. They sling a shawl around my hair, before drag me across the street towards the school. To hide my hair, a part of me realises. To hide the fact they're arresting a foreigner.

Arresting, or abducting.

Arresting. I tell myself. It's an arrest. It'll be okay. Even though I've witnessed some shady things going on. Even though they're dragging me into some empty school room, tying me to the single chair standing in the middle. 

It'll be okay. It always turned out okay.

"Stay." A soldier says in broken English. 

I don't comment that I don't actually seem to have a choice.

It'll be okay.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Gilded Cage - Part 5

I really need to get better at writing the choices, as once again a single choice got every vote. I suppose we all want the same thing for our poor whumpee ^^. Based on the votes, Villain will trust Sidekick.

Thanks to everyone so much for reading, once again!

CW// Imprisonment, collars, shock collars, villain whumpee, (fantasy) steroids, pills, syringes, medical talk, extensive discussion of fire, not caring if one lives or dies, public events, restraints, comparing oneself to a doll/dog, endangerment of the public

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Villain felt their mouth grow horribly dry as they stared at the offered hand.

It would have been terribly simple to raise their hand. To accept. To go along. That warmth in their veins, it was begging them to do so.

But... It wasn’t what the Heroes would want.

They’d spent so long placidly following their will like a dog. Yet no matter how long their leash became, the very idea of going against the Heroes’ will felt utterly alien.

They weren’t stupid. This was a life or death decision, certainly. The question being, which choice would lead to which outcome. To that, they did not know the answer.

But it had been so long since they had said no, they were unsure if their lips could still produce the word.

And, somewhere, in a part of them long since beaten into submission, they knew they wanted to fight back. Even if they were going to die, they didn’t want to go quietly. It was a petty move, a pathetic death throe, but it did not matter.

Villain shook Sidekick’s hand. Yet, at the end of the gesture, they did not release their grip. Their gaze lifted, meeting that of their visitor.

“I trust you. But... But I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

Villain flinched.

“Uh, sorry. It means go ahead.”

“O-ok. I just wanted to know... who hurt me?” Their lips shook even as they spoke.

Sidekick frowned, hesitating a moment. Villain felt their palm grow clammy.

“I don’t know.” They finally shook their head. “We don’t know who hurt you.”

“It wasn’t Journalist?”

“I don’t... I don’t have any way to know that for sure.”

“Okay.”

“We can try to find that out but, there’s bigger problems, right now. We don’t have a lot of time. Do you remember the signal? What you need to look for?”

“When the sun disappears.”

“Exactly. Before you go on stage, also, um, take these.”

Sidekick moved their arm so quickly that Villain nearly startled. They dug in their pocket for a moment, removing a tiny plastic box, smaller than a thumbnail. They held it forth, offering it to Villain, who took it. It was awfully difficult to hold in trembling fingers.

“Can I open it?”

“Mhm.”

They did so, though it took considerable effort. Contained within were two small pills, each circular and vaguely peach in color.

“Pills.”

“Yeah. Don’t tell anyone, okay? They’re going to help.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. They’ll help.”

“Okay.”

“I need to get going now, okay? I am really not supposed to be in here in the first place. Don’t tell anyone I was here. This conversation didn’t happen, got it?”

“Got it.”

Sidekick nodded in approval, getting up from the bed as Villain tucked the pillbox below their pillow. The former reached the door, grasping the knob, before frowning again and turning back to the bed.

“Villain?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you don’t like Hero. And I know they’ve done some... not great things. To you and to others. But they’re not a bad person. They just want to do what’s best for everyone. I promise that they’re not as bad as you think.”

The next words were quiet, muttered so lowly that they could have been mistaken as a breath. But Villain heard them. They know they did, as they shivered upon hearing them.

“At least, I don’t want them to be.”

Sidekick shook their head, raising it and their voice in equal turn.

“So, just, please try not to hurt them. Please?”

“I- I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Okay.” Their shoulders slumped. “Don’t try to contact me. Everything will be okay.”

With that, the door opened and closed, and again, Villain was alone.

In the absence of pain, doubt welled in, filling the pit in their stomach where a personality once resided.

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The syringe did not hurt going in.

That was the most worrying part about it. It wasn’t that Villain was unused to the presence of needles-- every other week, they saw the in-house physicians at the base. Ensuring that they were strong enough. It was excessive, certainly, but Hero did not allow for surprises, especially not in any form that would show on-camera.

Thus, they had long since learned to stop their instinctive flinching away from the sharp prick. It wasn’t that. They felt the prick, yes, but it did not hurt. It was simply an emotionless report. Something had breached their flesh-- there was nothing more to it than that.

Maybe that was the whole point of the thing, they supposed.

Doctor, who seemed to have unofficially taken up the case, turned away to fuss over tools on a countertop. There was an awfully sorrowful air about them. They didn’t want to meet Villain’s eyes.

“How have you been feeling?” They muttered, seemingly paying only a cursory amount of attention.

“Fine.”

“Any pain?”

“No.”

“Numbness?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“That’s good.”

The physician turned, placing the buds of a stethoscope in their ears.

“Can you breathe?”

“I hope so.”

“Don’t joke.”

They kneeled down, in front of the uncomfortable plastic chair on which Villain was seated. The chill of the stethoscope’s bell could be felt even through their clothes; a soothing cold against an overwhelming warmth.

Villain hated the silence. The observations, the readings, all of it. People looking at them, examining every inch of them, yet not finding it important to tell them so much as what they were looking for.

They wondered, for a single humorous moment, in the Heroes had assigned a veterinarian to take care of them. One final joke.

Doctor stood back to their full height, removing the buds from their ears. Their lips pursed into a fine line.

“You’re terribly lucky, you know.”

“I know.”

“Your breathing sounds okay. It’s a miracle, by all accounts.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah...”

Villain placed their hands upon their knees, letting themself slump forward in the rigid seat. They cast their gaze downwards.

The warmth had been fading over the past few hours, if only slightly, but now, it had been refreshed to its full strength. Just another thing to fill in the spaces left behind by all the things they had lost. They hated the thought, and though it made them bite their tongue, they could not help but sometimes feel that the only things they had left were their name and their body. Both things that could so easily be taken.

“Doctor?”

Again, the physician had turned, determined not to gaze upon their patient.

“Yes?”

“Who hurt me?”

“That’s a very vague question.”

“Who shattered all my ribs? Who broke my leg? Who-”

“Okay. I get your point.”

“Do you know?”

“I-” Doctor bit their lip. “Yes.”

“Please. I want to know.”

“That’s classified. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”

“I can’t even know who’s killing me?”

An exasperated sigh, followed by the clicking of metal as Doctor put down their instruments, one by one. They turned, countenance downcast in despair. Villain sat up, leaning back, ready for all the world to be screamed at and shook. But the only noise was that of Doctor’s quiet tone:

“Hold out your hand, please.”

Villain did so. Doctor gripped it, interlacing their fingers in a way that sent a dulled shiver along their spine. It was a firm grasp, but not in a hostile sense.

“Warm it now, please.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Your hand. Make it warm.”

For a moment, they were struck by the absurdity of the request. No one could simply will a body part to heat or cool. When they realized that that assumption was wrong, they felt suddenly nauseous.

Their powers. They still had them, somewhere. Buried and long forgotten. A warmth not produced by syringes and injections, but by will itself.

“I don’t- I don’t have permission to do that. My powers are not to be used. I don’t even know if I can-”

“I have all the permissions. All the papers and whatever, I have authorization. It’s for medical reasons. For your health.”

“Are you sure?”

“Certain.”

Villain nodded hesitantly.

Digging for their powers felt like searching for the name of a childhood friend. A fact once comically simple rendered obscure. It was not where they had left it, not in the place that had once housed a fiery personality and sharp tongue. Instead, they found it buried, among memories and tears and pains long repressed. Among the images of what their face had once looked like, neck unmarred.

From the depths, they retrieved them. The flame struggled to find itself, at first. Flickering and sputtering. But, at last, it steadied itself, and its warmth crept outwards. Flowing into Villain’s palm, to the ends of their fingers.

Though slight, Doctor smiled.

“You make fire. That was all you were, once. Before they knew your name. The pyrokinetic. The arsonist. But you have not been that for a long time. And you are afraid of becoming it, ever again.

You are afraid of destruction. Of burning the foundations of the world until its roof collapses upon you. I know you are. Do not forget that I know you as well as they do.

Flame, it requires three things to be produced. Fuel, heat, and oxygen. You only supply the heat. Do you truly think warmth to be evil? Is goodness epitomized by living in frigid cold?”

It took Villain a moment to realize that they were being asked a question. They blinked, replying:

“I- No. It isn’t.”

“So, if warmth is not evil, then why are you?”

“I make fire-”

“You make warmth. Heat. The mother of all life.”

The grip on Villain’s hand grew stronger, firmer.

“I do not think that you are evil. Even if my opinion means nothing, I thought that you deserved to understand that. Do you understand?”

“I don’t know.”

“You will, I think. When it’s time.”

With that, whatever smile Doctor had managed to produce fell back to its frown. They turned, again.

“Doctor?”

“Yes, Villain?”

They hesitated a moment, their next words catching on the scales of their desert-dry tongue.

“Am I going to die?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I... I don’t know. Hero hasn’t told me yet.”

Doctor stiffened, but did not say anything. For a few moments, they sat once more in silence as the doctor shifted among their equipment. It was Villain who at last spoke up, tone quieter than the buzzing machines around.

“What was the reason, for holding my hand? What were you checking for?”

A chuckle.

“Nothing at all, Villain. Nothing at all.”

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If it was possible, Villain somehow managed to feel lonelier the three days after the incident than usual.

Out of all the things they had gotten used to, they wished desperately that the loneliness was one of them. It was a horrible, overwhelming thing. The only pain that still truly hurt.

Their life was simple, and by many accounts, comfortable. Certainly, the room in which they spent their life was comfortable. Plush blankets and soft mattresses, ivory bookshelves and televisions. Their choice of video entertainment was practically limitless, and their well-organized collection of books ranged from Stephen King to Jane Austin and back again.

It was nice. Comfortable.

Every day, they would wake up, shower, get dressed, and... sit. Just sit. Staring at the television sometimes. Staring at a book at others. But always, they sat. Waiting.

They had long since stopped watching much in the way of TV. Watching the conversations, the love stories, the friendships... it all made them feel sick to their stomach.

At some point, they would be called to lunch. Their time to eat was limited, after which they would be returned to their room until dinner, when the same procedure was repeated. Such a rhythm was only accented by their press appearances, as well as frequent visits to doctors and hair stylists. Maintaining their appearance, or updating it if the current trends so desired.

They were lonely. Horribly, painfully lonely. They couldn’t remember the last time they had talked to a human being. A real one. Or, at least, someone who saw them as a human being, rather than a prop or a canvas. Even their interactions outside of their cage were stilted. Impersonal.

Impersonal, for as far as anyone was anymore concerned, they were no longer a person.

Those three days, however, had somehow managed to be worse. They felt with painful presence that they were no longer being contained, but hidden. Intentionally kept from view.

Their meals were eaten in their cell, now, and their media appearance the day after the attack had been short and nerve-wracking.

Now, on the fourth day, even being dragged from their room and taken to a car felt like a cause for celebration. The guards did not speak to them as much as they spoke orders, but that was okay. It was still speech, still words. That was enough.

The car was the usual one that they were transported in, shoved into the back seat and blocked from the outside by a wall of tinted windows.

At one point in time, in a time that now felt to be ancient history, there had been more security to the vehicle. A system of chains, on their wrists and ankles, securing them firmly to the seat. Once they were out of the base, the Heroes seemed to consider them more dangerous.

Of course, at that point, they were well aware that melting metal was well within Villain’s capabilities.

The metallic substance that Hero created, however, was an exception to that rule. They were unaware if the material had ever been given a name. It was a simple thing, appearing from air itself and being molded into any shape Hero so desired. That shape, from then after, could only be altered by its creator.

It was the only reason they had not simply melted off their collar and fled into the night. The device could not be removed except by those brutish hands.

The same material was used in those shackles that secured them to the seat. They were still there, hanging, useless. Their physical purpose was now secured by a psychological one.

Villain buckled themself in.

The driver was a nobody, one of the many employees that the Heroes maintained on their payroll. Villain wished nothing more than to lean back in their seat, to relax. But they knew that that wasn’t going to happen.

As soon as they had heard the guards’ footsteps outside their door, they had shoved Sidekick’s pillbox into the very bottom of their pocket. Now, they felt it digging into their leg. A tiny, horrible reminder.

Today, they could not relax.

They had spent so long pondering. They were under no obligation to go along with Sidekick’s plan. They had given their word, yes, but their words meant nothing. Their voice was a vector for scripts, and their agreement had not been scripted.

It would be so simple. To get up on stage, perform their tricks, and get off. Keep on the straight and narrow path that they walked so religiously.

In the pit of their stomach, it was what they wanted to do. But the very thought of going back to that cell, of living like a good, well trained mutt, made them feel even sicker than the thought of punishment.

The drive to the event center was not a long one, though it was made considerably more difficult by the throngs of vehicles belonging to both civilians and the press, filling the streets with the smell of gasoline. Originally, the conference had been meant to take place in a local auditorium, but overwhelming demand had switched the venue to a full-on stadium.

Instead of moving to the front parking lot, when the car made it to the building, it instead maneuvered around a small, blocked-off side street, to a lot where only a few vehicles were parked, all marked with the logo of the Organization of Heroes.

Villain’s door was not locked, and they opened it on their own, moving unsupervised and unfettered to the performers’ entrance. The Heroes got out of their own vehicles in turn, moving at their own paces towards the entrance. Watching them, but not exactly closely.

Inside the back entrance was a throng of activity. Cameramen and organizers and makeup artists. A few of the latter began drifting towards Villain, but they did not think that they could stand that overwhelming touch. Not today.

Behind them, the Heroes entered, though they did not speak. They would issue their orders when they were needed.

The minuscule pillbox in their pocket made its presence known by shifting against their leg, sending a dulled shiver through Villain’s spine. Half to escape the approaching artists and half to comfort their own nerves, they quickly ducked into the nearest bathroom.

The cool air and the sound of their feet on tile at least did something to help the warm numbness flooding their fingertips.

Again, Villain could not stop themself from looking in the mirror.

They recognized their face even less. The makeup work to restore their appearance had been extensive, and even now, they felt almost to be staring at a doll.

That’s what they were, wasn’t it?

They wanted to scream.

Instead, they turned on the water, as cold as they could make it, running their hands under the faucet. The second the liquid struck their skin, it fizzled and turned to steam, quickly obscuring the image in the mirror.

Villain breathed as deeply as they could with numb lungs. They willed the heat to retreat from their palms, for the flame to calm itself, but the steam only billowed hotter.

A knock sounded on the door. The steam turned to flame.

“Villain?” A voice called. One of the Heroes. “Are you in there?”

“I’ll be out in a second.” They replied, moving quickly to flush the toilet before returning to the sink. That seemed to satisfy the hero enough, their footsteps heading away.

Their face could no longer be seen in the mirror on account of the fog.

Villain felt their own shaky hand move to their pocket, removing the pillbox and prying it open. Those little round things stared back at them.

They had a choice to make, and for the first time, they made it for themself.

The pills tasted like nothing, dryly sliding down their throat.

Starting from their chest and flooding outwards, they felt the warmth of numbness transform into something hotter, something sour that tore at the edges of their veins. They moved to the toilet, attempting to flush the pillbox, but found that the plastic had already melted in their hand. They washed it down the sink drain, even as the handles warped beneath their fingers.

Villain trembled.

They hadn’t used power enhancers before, had never had access, but the feeling...

Even without looking in the mirror, they knew they were smiling.

It felt like being a villain again.

The doorknob flinched away from them as they turned it, heading back out into the fray. They hardly look at the Heroes who whisked them away, hurriedly instructing them as they hurried towards the stage.

“Just let Hero do the talking.”

“We don’t need your input, this time.”

“Just smile.”

With that, they opened the backstage entrance, and headed up. The stage was relatively makeshift, the kind used when bands performed in the stadium. Despite its lack of permanent nature, the stage lights were sweltering, their heat overwhelming as soon as the door was opened.

Villain loved it.

Wait- What were they thinking?

As the Heroes moved onto the stage, an overwhelming cheer erupted from all sides. When Villain did the same, they were met with concerned muttering.

They gave the widest smile they could.

The stage was open to the air, the fresh air making them feel as though they could finally breathe. They moved to be at Hero’s side, beside a podium.

Of course they were nervous. Performing always made them nervous. Perhaps it wasn’t stage fright, but they always remained terrified that they would make a mistake.

It helped, somewhat, that the bright sun overhead prevented them from seeing the stadium seats that surrounded them. The glare was simply that strong.

The sound of microphones turning on pierced Villain’s ears as they stood at Hero’s side and smiled.

“Thank you, everyone, for being here today.” Hero’s voice was so charming that Villain almost thought, for a moment, that they were kind. “We are so grateful for your concern regarding recent events. I would like to begin by pointing out that, as you can see, Villain is just fine.”

They laid a hand upon their shoulder.

“We are well aware of the rumors of their death. They are completely unfounded. Their recovery is advancing quickly. But that does not mean that they were not harmed, and that does not mean that a criminal is not on the loose.”

A grumbling, groaning noise filled the air-- the breathing of an ancient beast. It took Villain a moment to realize that the noise was coming from above, though looking upwards made them flinch against the sunlight.

The stadium roof, with horrible slowness, ground inwards.

Hero looked up, smile still well on their face. With a joking tone, they stated:

“Looks like we’re expecting some rain. No worries, folks.”

No worries.

Villain felt their weak heart skip a beat in their chest.

They were waiting for the sun to disappear. The throbbing of blood in their veins quickened.

Still with agonizing slowness, the roof, bit by bit, cut out the sunlight-- and more importantly, its glare.

Row by row, person by person, Villain watched as the stadium seats were revealed, along with their occupants. Some were reporters, newspeople, but the majority were civilians. Dressed in casual clothes. Young and old, smiling and frowning, and all innocent.

The roof got louder as it reached its half point.

Heat pumped in their veins with such a force that they worried it would break through their flesh.

They understood, now, what Sidekick wanted. They had asked for chaos, and had given Villain these pills...

They wanted a scene, certainly, but more than that, they wanted a show.

Sidekick wanted Villain to destroy this place. To light the stadium ablaze. They were sure of it.

The roof continued to close, only a hint of sunlight peeking through.

More people. Almost every seat was filled.

Villain felt heat gather in their fingertips.

They swallowed.

Were they a hero, or a villain?

What was the real difference?

The roof closed, and the sun disappeared.

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What should our Whumpee do? It’s up to you to decide!

There are two options, each one leading to a separate story branch. To vote, feel free to use any means you would like to contact me. Replying or reblogging this post works just fine, as does PMing me directly or sending me an ask. I am unsure when I will be writing the next part, so as long as the next part hasn’t been posted yet, voting is still open!

I will choose the story path based on which option has more votes. This time, I do not have any questions to go along with the options (mostly just cause I couldn’t think of any oops,) but feel free to add any ideas you would like! The choices and questions for this part are as follows:

A) You are a villain, go through with the plan and burn the stadium B) You are a hero, continue the press conference as normal

@whumpilicious has recommended a third option for this choice:

C) You are an antihero, attack Hero specifically

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. This is my first time doing anything like this, so I apologize if it’s odd or confusing ^^

[whump-a-la-mode]

Gilded Cage - Part 2

Thanks so much to everyone who read and voted on part 1! The votes were very close. In the end, option A won out, with 6 votes, while option B received 4 votes. That means that Villain will tell Journalist the truth.

I received a number of amazing suggestions for this part, based on the questions from last time around. I would like to publish their names to credit them, but I am currently waiting to see if they would like this or not. I’ll edit this post if they give me permission to publish their names.

Edit: @jenny-ruths-writing-blog has given me permission to credit them for their ideas. I would appreciate it a lot if you would give them some love, they’re just starting out.

I hope you enjoy!

CW// Imprisonment, collars, shock collars, villain whumpee, implied torture, depiction of a panic attack, scopophobia, mentions of death, mentions of hostage taking

Villain didn’t notice when they fell.

They weren’t even sure that they fell at all. One second, they were on their feet, face stretched into a smile. The next, their knees grew weak, and they were on the ground, a pain growing in the back of their head as though it had been struck.

Their vision blurred as they felt their breathing speed up, paradoxically increasing to such a point that they were no longer taking in sufficient oxygen. They couldn’t feel their hands, or their legs, or... Oh god oh god oh god, where were they? Why couldn’t they breathe?

It was hard to be sure whether the pressure on their shoulders was real, or just another hallucination of an oxygen-starved mind. As the other pains softened into the background, however, that pressure stayed.

There was a noise... where was it coming from?

Was it a voice? Or music? Or just a far away hum of the fluorescent lights? Slowly, slowly, it began to fade closer and closer to reality.

“Hey, hey, oh god, please don’t tell me you’re having a heart attack or something. God dammit, you hit your head, can you hear me?”

The words blended together into a mix of slurring syllables, all spoken with a tone of nerves and concern.

Concern.

They had almost forgotten what that sounded like.

“Please, please say something. You’re not dead, right? That’s not how death works, right? Come on, come on.”

The pressure on their shoulders tensed and loosened in rapid succession, managing to somewhat revive their consciousness. Breaths rapid and shivering, they opened their eyes. Though it took a few seconds for their vision to clear, they still jumped at the face only a few inches from their own.

“Hey, hey. Are you awake? I see you- Your eyes, come on. Are you okay? Please, please be okay.”

Villain’s thoughts swam in their head a moment, a plastic ball drifting about in a fishtank. Their training returned to them faster than their senses, and their empty expression suddenly sprung to one of politely metered cheer.

“I’m just fine, Journalist. I apologize. I must have fallen.”

They shook their head, shaking off as much of the panic as they could. The words had come out on instinct, not out of thought, and Journalist seemed to have noticed.

“You... You fainted. I think? You don’t have a fever, do you?”

One of the hands on their shoulders moved to their forehead, flinching away a moment later.

“You’re cold. Um... is that bad? That’s like, the opposite of a fever, right?”

“‘m okay...” Villain muttered, remembering where their half-numb hands were and using them to right themself into a sitting position on the tiled bathroom floor.

“What happened?”

“It’s... I’m fine.” The words came out dully. It was hard to feel sorrow when feeling emotion at all was nearly impossible.

“Is it this thing?” Again, the hand moved, this time to their neck. A shiver ran up Villain’s spine as fingers ran along the scarred flesh beneath their collar.

They should have been used to being touched, even when in such a state, but for some reason, it was just making them feel worse.

“Please. It’s okay.” They protested. They just wanted to go back to sleep. “Don’t worry yourself.”

“No. No.” Journalist, who seemed to have formerly been in a kneeling position, shifted their legs so that they were sitting criss-cross before Villain. Their breathing slowed, panic turning to concern on their countenance. “If you’re sick, or hurt, or something, I can’t let you go out there and do that interview. It’ll just make you feel worse.”

“I’m not hurt! Or sick.” Their protests grew in volume and intensity as they fought to get to their feet. Their attempts were, however, thwarted, as the feeling in their legs had yet to fully return just yet. “Please. Just drop it.”

Journalist frowned.

“Villain. Tell me what’s going on. Please. We- I can get you to a doctor? We have a van just outside... Fainting out of nowhere isn’t normal.”

Villain blinked a few times, lips ajar. They didn’t know what to do. There was no script for this. They could do ‘how are you,’ they had the response for that well memorized, but ‘are you okay’ ? They didn’t know that one. They’d never been taught that one.

They...

Villain wanted so badly to lie. To smile, perhaps say that they slipped, or that they were narcoleptic, or something. Anything that would get them out of here and back on script.

But...

When would anyone ever ask them again? Ask them what was wrong? Offer to help? With their luck, it would almost certainly be never.

Almost unconsciously, they wrapped their arms around their chest. A comforting hug. The kind that no one had offered them in so long.

“The...” They raised their hand to their neck, curling a finger as far under the metal ring as it would go. “The collar. It’s a collar.”

“A... collar?”

The smile that crept onto their lips was one of sorrow. A sadness so profound that it became funny.

“What did they tell you?” Their self-hug grew tighter.

“What do you mean?”

“About me. How did big, bad villain go from terrorizing the city to, fucking, making television appearances? What was their story?”

“They- I guess they just said you’d seen the error of your ways. That you were a good guy, now.”

That sorrowful smile grew wider.

“I just chose to be good? Is that it?”

“Well, they said they talked to you, there was something about therapy?”

Villain’s smile turned to an audacious laugh.

“Therapy?” They shook their head. “Is that their code word for beating someone into submission?”

“W- What?”

Villain tapped the collar, a hollow noise ringing out.

“Shock collar. 100,000 volts, or something stupid like that. They didn’t fix me. I’m not a good guy. I’m still just as dangerous as I ever was. But now I’m... under control.”

At that, they hung their head.

More gently this time, Journalist again raised their hand to Villain’s neck, placing their finger under the collar. Feeling the burnt flesh.

“You’ve been here- You’ve been in their custody for months.”

“How could I forget?”

“You just... gave up?”

Those words alone were enough to send a pang of nausea through their chest.

“What choice did I have? Anything to make the pain stop. Heroes and Villains... all of them, they’re just as human as anyone else. They feel pain just as much as anyone else. And sometimes, that pain just gets to be too much. Fighting back just isn’t worth it anymore.”

They raised their head, forcing a rehearsed smile back onto their lips.

“But it’s okay. It’s the best way to keep the city safe. Sometimes you have to break a few eggs.”

Journalist’s concern turned to frustration, but whatever words they were about to say were halted by the sound of knocking on the bathroom door.

“Journalist? Are you in there?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re live in ten. We need Villain on the set.”

Their head turned back to Villain, who nodded.

“Okay. We’ll be right out.”

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“Turn your head a little to the right... Raise the chin, little more- Keep going, there! Okay, stop. And look at the camera. Right here, this lens. Sasha, can you go touch up their hair, please?”

Villain struggled not to flinch away from the blindingly bright lights that stared at them in a semi-circle. They sat on a small stool, hands perfectly held together in their lap. Their neck was already cramping from the position they were fighting so hard to maintain.

Stage lights always made the burns on their neck hurt. Hurt worse, that is.

From the bustling area behind the cameras, an assistant appeared, rushing over to Villain and yanking a small, black comb through their already-done hair.

It took all the will they had, and a little more than that, to choke back the tears that desperately wanted to rise in their throat. To scream and shove the stupid, clueless assistant to the ground. So they would stop fucking touching them.

But they didn’t. They sat perfectly still, cheeks aching from their smile.

“We’re live in one!” A screeching voice came from somewhere Villain could not see. The assistant retreated, and the cameraman started up the device that was his namesake.

It was difficult to see behind the blaring lights, but silhouettes that may have been people seemed to be rushing about in a panic, taking position. That shrill voice began to count.

“Thirty...”

“Twenty...”

“Ten...”

‘And we’re live!”

A red light appeared on the camera, and Villain tried not to imagine just how many eyes were on the other side of it. For a terrifying few seconds, they were there, alone, before the world. That was, until footsteps sounded, and someone sat in the chair next to them.

They didn’t dare look. Didn’t dare to turn their head away from the camera, to muss their perfect posture and hair.

“Welcome, everyone, to News at Nine!”

A single bead of sweat formed on their forehead.

They had assumed that Journalist was simply one of the many busybodies that the news crew dragged around with them. Not the reporter.

They could only hope that their gulp couldn’t be seen in the recording.

“As promised, tonight, we have a very special guest. Villain, it’s so good to have you here, tonight.”

“It’s great to be here.”

“Yes. Now, I really wish we could spend some time on niceties, but we have promised our wonderful viewers at home a very special interview, and we wouldn’t want to disappoint, now would we?”

“Of course not.”

“Now, Villain, I’m sure everyone remembers you in your, well, in your villain days. Would you care to explain where you have been since then?”

An expected question. They had a script for this. It flowed from their mouth like water.

“Well, after my capture several months ago, I have been working with and learning from the Heroes of this city. I understand that what I did in my previous occupation was wrong, and since then, I have been working to right the wrongs I have caused. Now, I am an advisor for the Heroes’ Organization. They say to catch a villain, you need to think like one, and, well, I have plenty experience in that field.”

They didn’t take a breath, not the whole time. When they did, after finishing their monologue, it sounded far too much like a sob.

The script was bullshit. They weren’t any kind of advisor. It was a fancy word for prisoner. ‘Advisor’ would imply that they weren’t locked up for 20 or so hours a day, when they weren’t eating or appearing before the cameras. They couldn’t advise the Heroes on anything if they tried. Their very voice was treated as though it was the funniest joke anyone had ever heard.

“And it is your position as an advisor that has led to the events of last night. Is that right?”

“I would say that it played no small part in it, yes.”

What the fuck happened last night?

“That event is what I want to speak to you about today. Our viewers have been very keen to know your thoughts on the matter, so let’s get right into it.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“So, Villain.” Journalist seemed to let their chipper attitude fall in favor of a more relaxed one. “How did you feel, exactly, when you first heard about Supervillain’s death?”

They wanted to throw up.

The Heroes did not allow them access to any outside news, but could they at the very least have said something? Anything?

Anything?

Keep to the script. Keep to the script. Keep to the script.

But they didn’t have one.

They swallowed.

“Um... I- I felt... Uh...”

The collar felt to be tightening around their windpipe.

“It’s okay. Do you need a moment?”

“No, no. I apologize.” Villain shook their head. “It’s just so shocking, to hear it said so plainly, like that. When I first heard the news, I have to say, I felt... conflicted. Certainly, it’s a good thing. But at the same time, I worry about what their absence will mean for the other villains in this city.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I suppose I’m afraid of a power vacuum forming. Or that the other villains will attempt to act out in vengeance, of a sort.”

“That’s understandable. Did you know Supervillain personally, at all?”

Of course they did. Everyone did. Every villain, at least. Their organization was informal, but entirely centered on Supervillain. If a villain was seriously hurt, or worse, Supervillain was there for them.

Some called them mother.

“I wouldn’t say I knew them personally. I met them, a few times, but they were always very distant. Not to mention that they were a bit terrifying.”

Behind the camera, Villain spotted a form appear. One of a very familiar stature, and wearing a very familiar cape.

“I’m sure they were. I’ve never met them in person, but even just on TV... that’s scary in its own right.”

No. It wasn’t. Supervillain wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not unless they were acting in self defense. Hell, they made sure their hostages all got lunch, for gods sake.

Villain nodded.

“It is scary.”

“On that note, do you believe that the city will be safer, now, with Supervillain gone?”

Two more figures. Two more capes.

“I do. Even with the possibility of a power vacuum or avenging attacks, ultimately, this will be a good thing for our city. Anything to keep those at home safe.”

“Of course.” Journalist paused a moment. “I understand that some villains have already made announcements decrying the actions of Hero. Do you believe that they were right in their decision to kill Supervillain?”

Villain gulped.

Behind the camera, Hero joined their comrades. Their gaze pointed directly at their prey, sitting beneath the blazing stage lights.

“No. I don’t believe that Hero was right.”

The words made their mouth feel numb.

“Supervillain was dangerous, yes. But there is a difference between stopping someone from causing harm and ending their life outright. Had it been me, I wouldn’t have committed a murder.”

The cameraman raised his eyebrows.

Even in silhouette, Villain could see Hero clench their fists.

“That’s a very interesting take on the matter, and that seems to be the stance that many others, villain and citizen alike, have been taking. I believe that’s all the questions I have for you, today.”

Journalist’s gaze turned to the camera.

“After a word from our sponsors, the weather! It’s gonna be a scorcher this week, folks. And don’t forget to stick around for the reveal of the new fashion line: Be Your Own Hero. Thanks, everyone!”

The little red light on the camera blinked off. Villain felt about to puke.

Finally, finally, they felt able to move their neck. The cramps were bad enough that doing so hurt terribly, filling their muscles with pins and needles. They stood as the stage lights flicked off, one by one.

Revealing, in full detail, the Heroes.

Most of them looked various degrees of concerned or frustrated. That was, all except Hero themself. Their face was twisted in a horrid mask of pure, unadulterated fury.

Villain felt their legs lock up, as if staying on set would protect them. Already they couldn’t breathe. They wanted to gasp for air, but the collar was crushing them, choking them, and they wanted to cry. Oh god, the tears were already beading in their eyes. They swallowed them, but more threatened to well up, to take their place.

A pressure on their shoulder nearly made them jump. Only their eyes would move, all else locked up, but they could see well enough to locate what was touching them.

Journalist.

Their face a mask of concern. Panic, concern, and worry.

They dropped their hand, stepping back as Hero practically stomped over to Villain. Their face had turned to the brightest smile, but that did nothing to diminish the rage in their eyes.

“Villain, good job on the interview. That must have been a difficult one.”

“A little difficult, yeah.”

“Well, good on you for getting through it. If you wouldn’t mind, let’s go back to my office for a minute. Just to have a little chat.”

Villain paled.

They knew full well that Hero didn’t have an office. What they did have was a sound proofed room with a very specific purpose.

That pressure on Villain’s shoulder returned. Journalist’s hand.

“Well? Are you coming, or not?”

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What should our Whumpee do? It’s up to you to decide!

There are two options, each one leading to a separate story branch. Alongside each option is a question specifying what exactly will happen. Answering this question is completely optional, but it is great if you have any particular ideas! Otherwise, feel free to just put a letter.

To vote, feel free to use any means you would like to contact me. Replying or reblogging this post works just fine, as does PMing me directly or sending me an ask. I am unsure when I will be writing the next part, so as long as the next part hasn’t been posted yet, voting is still open!

I will choose the story path based on which option has more votes, and will choose whichever answer I find the most interesting to base the next part upon.

The choices and questions for this part are as follows:

A) Go with Hero - What should Journalist do?

B) Refuse - How should Villain try to get out of it?

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. This is my first time doing anything like this, so I apologize if it’s odd or confusing ^^

[whump-a-la-mode]

Gilded Cage - Part 4

Once again, A won in a landslide. I hope the choices this time around will be a little more interesting. As a result of A winning, Journalist will help Villain.

Both of the options from last time around led to separate twists. It may be a little confusing at first, but I promise, it’ll make sense!

Again, the suggestions I received this time around were amazing!

I hope you enjoy!

CW// Imprisonment, collars, shock collars, villain whumpee, talk of torture, talk of blood, explicit discussion of injuries, medical discussion, deciding whether a person will receive medical treatment, mention of pneumonia, amnesia, panic, talk of law enforcement and criminal charges

The news segment began with its cheery jingle, starting with a light whistle, and crescendoing into an orchestral sound.

The video dawned on Journalist’s set. Behind the camera stood their crew. But the show’s usual host was nowhere to be seen. Instead, having been replaced by two other reporters, sitting behind their table. In their chairs.

“Hello, everyone.” One of the reporters spoke with a nod of the head. Their practiced, fine-tuned smile was present on their face, but there was a level of appropriately moderated sadness to their tone. “We hate to inform you that the previous host of this show, Journalist, has unfortunately left their post.”

The other reporter spoke with a similar tone, looking up at their cohost. “Shall we get right to it, then?”

“I suppose there’s no point in beating around the bush.”

“No. There’s not.” The reporter shook their head. “Your regular news for this segment will be moved to tonight’s News at 10. After much discussion, we figured it was only right to address the situation regarding this segment’s former host.”

“Yes. I am certain that many of you have seen this video on various social medias.”

In the corner of the screen, a panel faded into existence, showing a silenced video. Only a few frames long, looping every time it finished.

The video was of remarkably low quality, and taken in remarkably low light. The faces of only one of those in it could be made out-- that of a bloody, bruised, yet alive Villain. They who stood over the injured was little more than a shadow in silhouette, face never once turning towards the camera. After a few repeats, the video skipped around, showing different frames. Always in shadow. Never showing more than a hundred pixels or so.

The action within could only truly be seen if the viewer was to squint. Or, if they knew what to look for.

“This video was released by the Organization of Heroes, late last night.” One of the reporters spoke up, after the display was finished and faded away. “It was taken by one of the employees of their headquarters, shortly after this very news segment was filmed yesterday, in that very headquarters.”

“The Organization stated that it released this video to promote transparency regarding a current investigation. Though the exact details have yet to be revealed, this video is harrowing on its own.”

“We do not know why Journalist would do this.” The reporter’s gaze met with that of the camera lens. “We all have our own opinions about Villain, but no opinion can justify beating someone senseless. We all knew Journalist. We never thought there were capable of such a horrible thing. It is believed that, after filming an interview with Villain, Journalist led them to an unused room, and beat them severely. This video shows the incident.”

“The Heroes and local law enforcement have stated that they are currently pursuing a manhunt for Journalist on charges of assault and battery.”

“To dispel rumors that have been spreading: As of only a few minutes ago, the Organization of Heroes has reported to us that Villain is alive and well. Rumors of their death are greatly exaggerated. Journalist is not being pursued as a murderer.”

“Villain is currently under the care of in-house medical professionals of the Organization. They are in critical condition, but are expected to recover.”

“If you believe to have spotted Journalist, please call the number on screen. This is a tragedy, but together, we can at the very least bring this criminal to justice. Thank you.”

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“Can they hear us?”

“No, no. They’re asleep.”

Villain’s eyes twitched, the voices above them hazy, coming from behind a layer of fog. Still, they thought they knew them... Maybe. The effort of recognizing who was speaking when made their head hurt, but their heart was beating far too fast to allow them to fade back into sedated bliss.

“Good.” Teammate muttered, their hand shifting the hospital bed ever so slightly as they placed it upon the bedrail.

“Yeah, good.” Hero’s grunt dripped with sarcasm.

“They need their rest.” Villain didn’t quite recognize the third voice, though they could only assume it was a doctor. “They’ve regained consciousness a few times, but they‘re somewhat sedated, right now. We can’t risk them choking.”

Choking. Villain knew that word. They remembered it being shouted, over and over again, next to them. Their mouth tasted so much like copper...

“I wish they’d choke.” Hero growled. Villain didn’t need to open their eyes to feel Teammate’s glare.

“Well, we’re not going to let that happen.” Doctor shook their head. “What we need to do is talk about... well, you’re in control here. We’re under your command. We have them stabilized, but if you want them to do anything more than lay in a hospital bed, we need to talk about what comes next.”

There was a moment of hesitant humming, before Teammate asked, tentatively:

“How bad is it?”

Villain had heard that question before, in a tone of panic and screaming. Who had said it?

Again, hesitance.

“Bad. Really bad.” Doctor sighed, straightening their tone to something more official. “We’ve seen some possible early signs of pneumonia, but, well...” Another deep breath. “Their torso sustained several dents. There’s risk of internal bleeding. That’s not to mention three snapped ribs, five additional broken or fractured ribs, and fractured clavicle. And the leg.”

For a moment, the nerves in the doctor’s voice turned to fury.

Villain knew that fury. The fury of someone who was watching the person they tried to protect die. Why didn’t they remember?

“A spiral fracture. I’ve never- I have no damn clue how you managed to do that. It’s generally only seen in falls, or industrial accidents, but... yes. There is a spiral fracture in their left tibia. We believe it’s shattered into five separate pieces, though we won’t be able to tell for sure until we can perform exploratory surgery. Villain will need to be a lot stronger before that, though.”

“Okay.” Teammate gritted their teeth. “And that’s all... bad.”

“Very bad.”

“Well, they’re not dead.” Hero hissed.

“They may as well be.” Doctor snapped back.

“Hey, who here is paying you-”

“Shut up, you two.” Teammate growled. “Are they going to die?”

“As it stands now... no. We have them stabilized. Any external bleeding has been stopped. But if our suspicions of pneumonia and internal bleeding are correct, then they could very well die, if we don’t act quickly. That’s what we wanted to ask you about.”

“Whether or not to save them?”

“Essentially.”

“Do it.” Hero’s tone was firm, though still frustrated. “At least for a bit. The edited video will go out on national news tonight. If this assault investigation turns into a murder one, it’ll be more scrutiny than I care to deal with. The less anyone looks into it, the better.”

“Having them back on camera so soon may not be a great idea, sir.” Doctor’s voice had practically turned to a whimper.

“Well, how soon can we expect them to be healthy enough for it?”

“A month-”

“A month?!”

“One month for the initial recovery. And at least four for subsequent physical therapy. They should not engage in any strenuous physical activity for at least that long.”

“We don’t have a month. Much less five.”

“Well, I’m a doctor, not a miracle worker.”

“I need them on the air tomorrow. Either tell me a way to make that happen, or I’ll find a better doctor.”

Doctor’s footsteps could be heard against the tile as they stumbled backwards.

“I guess there’s...”

“What is it?”

“The miracle drug. That’s what they call it. It’s certainly not a miracle, but... I’m sure you’ve heard of Hollywood medicine. An injured actor getting up the day after a car crash, looking good as new.”

“You can do that?"

“Well-”

“Then do it!”

“It’s not that simple. There’s no such thing as a miracle drug. Painkillers and steroids won’t fix their injuries, but with the right mix of them, they can be as good as new tomorrow. Well, along with some seriously good makeup work. Those injuries are... not pretty.”

“Then do that. The news is coming back at 9. Now, was that so hard?”

“Wait.” Teammate interjected. “It can’t be that simple. What’s the catch?”

“The catch?” Doctor began. “The catch is kind of the whole matter of the thing. This treatment, it won’t actually do anything. We’d be blocking pain signals to their brain, and giving them enough strength to press on despite their wounds. But that’s all. The injuries will still be there. And the longer they’re untreated, the worse it’s going to get. Especially if Villain is up and moving.”

“But they’ll be able to appear tomorrow night?”

“Yes. They’ll be good as new.”

“Then...” Teammate hesitated. “You treat them like normal, and we just give them some kind of miracle drug whenever we need them on stage?”

“Again, it’s not that simple. This treatment, it’s going to destroy any possibility of a normal recovery. It’s either or, not and. Either we treat them like normal, or we have them ready to perform tomorrow. It’s your choice, but I’m sure you know what I recommend.”

“They’re performing.” Hero spoke with such a force that it was known in the room that no one could hope to oppose the decision. “Get them up and moving. How long will this work? This miracle drug?”

“There’s no way of knowing, really. They run the risk of collapsing at pretty much any time. We’re tricking their mind into thinking it’s unharmed, but we can’t do that with the body. The wounds are still going to be very, very real.”

“Just give me an estimate.”

“I don’t know, two weeks? Less if the pneumonia gets bad.”

“And then?”

“And then they collapse. Kaput. Gone. The human body has its limits, superpowers or not.”

“I can work with two weeks. I want them back in their cell by tonight, understood?”

“Understood, sir. They’ll be as good as new. And, lay off the collar, please.”

“That depends on if they choose to behave, or not.”

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Villain wasn’t sure when the rough linen of the hospital bed turned to a duvet made of plush, laid atop an impossibly soft mattress that sunk several inches under their weight. They must have been moved at some point, they certainly didn’t remember walking. They couldn’t so much as feel their legs, so walking would have been an impossibility.

One hand curling around the plush on which they lay, they fought against their leaden eyelids until they finally relented and opened. The ceiling above them was one they knew far too well, having spent far too many sleepless nights staring up at it.

They blinked a few times, waking up their mind, which was rapidly beginning to panic.

Had they been dreaming? The day before, had all of it simply been a horrid nightmare?

Sitting up took only minor effort, and as their lungs filled with air, they felt no pain. In fact, their whole body was absent of any pain at all. Even their leg felt to not have lost an ounce of its strength.

It couldn’t have been a dream, could it have been? The pain had felt so real, but...

They raised a hand, drawing it to their ribs. Pressing down prompted no pain, only a vague soreness. But even with their limited medical knowledge, Villain knew full well that ribs weren’t supposed to fold inwards like that.

Nope. Definitely not a dream.

At least, that part wasn’t. Maybe? Trying to think about it was so difficult, causing a horrible, gnawing pain at the back of their mind. Closing their eyes to aid their focus, they did their best to recount.

They had eaten lunch, they believed. There had been others at the table. Visitors. Government representatives? The mayor, maybe? That sounded somewhat right. But then, no, that couldn’t have been right. They remembered the burning of stage lights so strongly, it must have been a news crew.

And then...

Then pain.

They didn’t remember the circumstances in any detail, but they remembered exactly how it felt for a boot to collide with their flesh, crushing all in its wake. They remembered how it felt to have every nerve alight in artificial agony.

After that, there was shouting. Someone was touching them, helping them sit up. It mustn’t have worked, though, for a moment after, they were on the ground, and there was more shouting. More yelling. Screams.

Then nothing. Next thing they could remember, they were swimming through sedatives and painkillers in a hospital bed.

And now they were here.

They looked to the clock, noting it to be late in the night. After the time at which the Heroes would have eaten dinner. There were never any appearances at night, so they would be left alone until it was time for lunch.

It probably would have been best for them to go back to sleep, to rest and recover, but now that they were awake, they couldn’t help but feel that such a thing would be impossible. Warmth ran through their veins like alcohol, making them feel more alive than they could remember having felt in quite some time.

Villain couldn’t sleep, but perhaps they could do the next best thing. They felt around their nightstand, finding eventually the television remote, and clicking on the TV mounted on the wall before them. It was what they spent most of their time doing, anyways. Staring at the screen and rotting.

The screen blinked on, displaying something that caused Villain to do a double take. They looked at the info for the channel, double checking its number.

It was the news. The Heroes had always kept every news channel, or really anything that talked about current events, firmly out of their reach. Yet, here one was, playing right in front of them.

They couldn’t help but feel a dull ache in their neck.

Still, who would catch them? No one would be coming in at this hour. Perhaps they could, at least, peek into the outside world. Hell, they would have been grateful to know the weather.

But what was playing was not the weather.

A banner on the bottom of the screen read, in big white letters, “News At 9.” Two presenters sat behind a table, a brief moment of silence hanging between them as a video played in the top right corner.

Villain saw their own face. Their own bloody, beaten face.

“It is believed that, after filming an interview with Villain, Journalist led them to an unused room, and beat them severely. This video shows the incident.”

Journalist.

Villain did not know that name, but it made their stomach twist in on itself.

Their nausea turned to panic in an instant as they heard a quiet knock, echoing against the door to their room. Already shaking, they lunged for the remote, tapping in a random number and willing the channel to change faster. By the time the doorknob twisted and the door opened, they were sweating bullets.

They looked to the doorway, doing their very best to pretend that they had only been innocently watching an approved channel.

They had expected Hero, or perhaps one of the others on their team, and they supposed that they weren’t entirely wrong.

Hero had long since stopped having a singular sidekick, stating that such a thing was horribly inefficient. Instead, they had multiple at any given time, training each for several months before sending them off to other duties.

Sidekick was one of the newer trainees. Villain couldn’t quite remember what exactly their powers were, though they remembered that this trainee in particular was one of Hero’s favorites. They were younger-- not a kid, but firmly college-aged, though their stature was far too muscular to suggest such a thing.

They had painted on their face the same smile that Hero always presented to the media. It made Villain shudder.

After flashing that bright smile a moment, Sidekick turned, closing the door with notable care and approaching their bedside. Villain turned off the television, shifting to face their visitor. Sitting up straight, drawing their shoulders back, showing all the respect that a trainee of Hero deserved.

“Can I sit?” Sidekick pointed to a spot on the bed.”

“Yes! Of course.”

They nodded, sitting down. There was a remarkable care in the way they moved and shifted, as if they were terrified of making even the slightest noise.

“Turn the TV back on.”

“Um- okay. I promise, I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to, it just turned on, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, please don’t-”

“Shh, shh. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m not going to hurt you. We need to be quiet.”

Villain nodded, turning on the TV. The noise practically drowned out Sidekick’s voice, and they couldn’t help but feel that that was rather the point.

“Villain. You know me, right?”

“I wouldn’t say that I know you very well.”

“That’s okay. I’m Sidekick, and we want to help.”

“What do you mean ‘we?’“

“Me and your friend. Journalist. They couldn’t be here, it’s too dangerous, but... I know you don’t know me very well. And to be quite honest, I don’t know you very well, either.”

Sidekick raised their hand, causing Villain to flinch back. But they were not struck. Instead, the hand was presented as if offering a handshake.

“Villain, I need you to trust me.”

They felt their mouth grow dry as they looked at the offered hand.

“I know we don’t know each other well, but what I do know is that you’re suffering, and you need help. In three days, you’re going to be at a live press conference, down on the East side. There’s going to be a signal. When the sun disappears, that’s your signal. You’ll know what I mean, okay?”

“I don’t know if I-”

“Please. When you see the signal, you need to cause as much chaos as you can, okay? I mean, don’t hurt anyone, or at least try not to, but do what you need to do to get them running. That’s all you need to do. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“W-Why?”

Sidekick moved their offered hand closer.

“Villain, do you trust me?”

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What should our Whumpee do? It’s up to you to decide!

There are two options, each one leading to a separate story branch. Alongside each option is a question specifying what exactly will happen. Answering this question is completely optional, but it is great if you have any particular ideas! Otherwise, feel free to just put a letter.

To vote, feel free to use any means you would like to contact me. Replying or reblogging this post works just fine, as does PMing me directly or sending me an ask. I am unsure when I will be writing the next part, so as long as the next part hasn’t been posted yet, voting is still open!

I will choose the story path based on which option has more votes, and will choose whichever answer I find the most interesting to base the next part upon. The choices and questions for this part are as follows:

A) Trust - Should Villain go along with the plan? B) Refuse - Should Villain report the infraction?

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. This is my first time doing anything like this, so I apologize if it’s odd or confusing ^^