#taking too long; not being familiar with where Whumper keeps things

[martyr-inthedark]

Whumper's first official instruction to Whumpee as their servant was to "make dinner."

Whumpee tried to tell Whumper that they barely knew how to fry an egg, much less cook a full meal.

"Make dinner, I'm hungry."

[montammil]

June of Doom Day 20 - "I can handle it."

| Scrape | Panic Attack | Neglect |

Characters: Lawrence, Marshall

Only neglect by Marshall's old parents, but it still counts to me lol. I like writing stockholm syndrome as you can probably tell XD

CW: Stockholm syndrome, parental whumper, carewhumper, panic attacks, bone breaking, blood, anxiety, self-consciousness, insecurites, past child emotional abuse, infantilization

...

Marshall had no idea he fell right into Lawrence's trap, and hard too. It took a few months, but in that short span of time, Lawrence showed him the truth.

It was time to accept the reality that no one would save him or give a damn that he was even missing. Not even his biological parents. They didn't love him. How could they love someone so overly dependent and stupid?

But Lawrence loved him. And that was the only thing that mattered.

Now that he had Lawrence's trust, that also meant more freedom. He was allowed to play out in the backyard alone, and in front of the house as long as he didn't go into the forest or into the road. That was more than enough for Marshall.

To his surprise, he actually liked being a kid again.

He had no big responsibilities, he could read all day, watch TV, or sleep if he wanted to. He still had chores around the house, but they were easy tasks.

And unlike his real parents who would yell if he forgot or did it wrong, Lawrence always helped him, guiding him through the steps without any harsh remarks or punishments. It was nice having someone who was patient with him for once.

Life was good.

His thoughts wandered as he worked outside planting some of the seeds Charlotte had given him from last time they visited.

For once, he wasn't obsessing over escaping Lawrence or wishing he was home, it was about his new home. He felt guilty living here rent-free, doing nothing other than the bare minimum.

He had to earn his keep. That's what he learnt from his real family.

A memory replayed in his mind. Lawrence mentioned how he loved huckleberries and cloudberries, but the forest was too dangerous for him to bother foraging.

It didn't matter to Marshall if it was safe or not, he had to make Lawrence happy somehow, and that'd be the perfect gift to show him his gratitude. Lawrence was still on a work call, and he usually stayed on those forever, so he had time.

Marshall grabbed the basket he normally used for gardening and climbed over the gate and rushed to the trees, navigating through the thick brush of the woods.

He had ran through these woods so many times that he remembered where a lot of the berry bushes were, even if he couldn't remember which berries they were.

The forest was quite nice. It smelled like dew drops and earthy soil. He didn't like the familiar feeling of being out here just a couple of months ago, when he'd escape and Lawrence would hunt him down. But that didn't matter. He wasn't a captive anymore, he was voluntarily there. He was lucky to have someone like Lawrence take care of him, and he never wanted to take that for granted.

After a half hour, he spotted a bush filled with deep purple berries. He was thankful he knew his berries semi-well from being sent to wilderness camp when he was a kid. Not some fond memories, but it was finally starting to pay off.

Marshall bent down and started picking a few of them.

A small part of him wondered why he was doing this when Lawrence told him never to go into the woods. But it would be fine. And Marshall could even plant a few seeds in the garden for him.

He hoped he would like his gift. He really, really wanted to impress Lawrence.

Lawrence was all he had now, and he refused to fuck this up.

He filled the basket, almost to the brim, and headed back to the house. He just had to get there before Lawrence realized he was gone. He got up from the ground and took a step forward when he heard a loud metal noise clamp together below him.

It took him a moment to process what he was seeing. It was a bear trap. It bit into his foot, a red gash cutting through his skin.

It was a miracle he didn't scream, but only because of the shock that swept over him.

He stumbled and dropped the basket, letting the berries roll onto the grass.

Marshall lost balance and collapsed forward, groaning in pain as the pressure against his injury increased tenfold. He choked on a sob. He tugged his leg forward, but that just caused his foot to bend in the direction of the trap. He finally yowled out in agony. Tears streamed down his face as he tried pulling himself backwards in an attempt to free his foot.

Nothing was working, and the more he moved, the worse the pain got. Blood dribbled onto the dirt from the wound.

He fell onto his side and clutched his heart. It pounded rapidly beneath his palm. He gulped down air like he was drowning, but tried to do the logical thing and pry the trap off him. He whimpered and scratched at the metal, but he couldn't get it to budge.

And it was only getting tighter the more he moved.

Marshall went to the last resort. "Lawrence!" he cried. No response.

What if by the time Lawrence found him, he was mauled by an actual bear, or died from starvation? What if Lawrence was so disappointed in him, he just left him here to rot?

Marshall's breathing increased at the horrifying thought.

"Dad!" he tried again. His voice was much more broken and hoarse with his second attempt.

All over some dumb berries. He was going to die here alone for the most pathetic reason ever.

It was getting darker outside. Marshall struggled for thirty minutes before giving up when he only made his injury worse, opting to bury his head in the red and yellow leaves scattered on the ground. His face was red and splotchy from all his crying.

The cold seeped in through his clothes, the sweat dripping down his spine.

He curled up on his side, hugging his arms to his chest. He gave up fighting, just like he gave up everything in his life. If he just had listened to Lawrence, none of this would've happened. He began to cry again, but this time just from pure fear.

Would this be it? Would this be how he died? He really couldn't do anything right, could he?

Marshall couldn't tell how much time had passed, but eventually the sound of footsteps trampling the dead leaves interrupted his thoughts.

He lifted his head to meet Lawrence's horrified expression. He was panting heavily.

"M-Marshall, oh god." The blond rushed to his side. He made sure to step around the other traps littered in the grass. Marshall's vision was too blurry with tears to realize Lawrence had been crying too. "Don't move, I can handle it. You're okay, baby."

He crouched beside him. Lawrence unclasped the trap and gently slid his injured foot out of it.

His eyes widened in horror when he saw the amount of blood that oozed out of the wound, most dried by now. The grass beneath him was soaked with red liquid.

"Oh, Marshall..." he whispered. He touched the swollen, inflamed skin around the wound, checking if the bone was broken or not. Marshall hissed.

Lawrence's fingers trailed up to his face, which was completely ashen white.

It took a second before he realized Marshall was hyperventilating. His eyes were unfocused, not paying any attention to his surroundings. Lawrence cursed under his breath and gathered him in his arms. He was saying something, but Marshall couldn't understand what over his own breathing.

Marshall whimpered and tried pulling away, but Lawrence shushed him and cradled the back of his head.

He didn't even realize they were back home until he was lowered onto the sofa. His breaths still came out in rapid spurts, and Lawrence cupped his face.

"I need you to focus on your breathing. Look at me, kiddo. Can you do that for me?" Lawrence asked. Marshall whimpered and blinked hard. He focused on the blue of Lawrence's eyes. "There you go. In and out, slowly."

He obeyed him. The younger man took deep inhales through his nose and let them out in one breath, just like how Lawrence showed him whenever he was nervous or scared.

It took several minutes, but his heart rate returned to normal, though his foot hurt like hell.

Marshall sniffled and looked away. Lawrence grabbed a first aid kit from the drawer, his eyes trained on the younger man the entire time.

"I'm so sorry," he sobbed.

The blond took a seat next to him. "Don't apologize, just stay still for me." Marshall swallowed and watched him clean the gash. Every time he'd let out a gasp from the sting, Lawrence would pause and give him a few seconds to recover, softly shushing him every time he whined. It took awhile, but eventually his foot was wrapped securely in gauze.

Marshall's lip trembled again when he realized something. "The berries..."

"The berries?" Lawrence checked his head for any bumps, but the younger man brushed his hand away.

"I just wanted to pick berries for you," he croaked. "You--you mentioned how you liked huckleberries, how your mom would make you huckleberry pie, and I just...thought maybe I could get them for you as a surprise. Because you do so much for me and I do nothing in return. And now I just made your life harder. I'm sorry. All I do is mess up everything!"

He broke down. Lawrence took him into his arms, brushing his hair away from his face.

Marshall fought him at first, but after a few seconds of the gentle embrace, he relented, hiccuping and clinging onto him tightly.

"Oh, sweetie. You do more for me than you could ever imagine. You're the only one I need. Those berries mean nothing to me if they're the reason why you're hurt. It's not worth it." Lawrence pressed a kiss to the side of his head. "And for the record, you make my life so, so much better. You don't mess up everything, not at all."

Marshall shook his head. "Not even my real dad could love me, why would you? I'm worthless." He knew Lawrence hated when Marshall referred to his past life at all, let alone calling his biological dad his 'real' dad.

But Lawrence didn't have the heart to get upset from his wording. "Stop that." He pulled away so he could meet his eyes. "That man is a monster. And he doesn't deserve someone even a fraction as amazing as you. You're not worthless. You're loved, so much." He kissed his forehead. Marshall closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

When Lawrence pulled away, he asked, "Am I in trouble?"

"No. But this is definitely a learning experience." Marshall nodded. "Never, ever, go into those woods again. Do you understand me? I can't lose you like that, I won't forgive myself if something else happens."

"Sorry. I was just trying to make you happy."

"You make me happier than you could ever know," Lawrence said. He wiped his tears away with the pads of his thumbs. "Just listen to me. That's all you need to do. Can you promise you will?"

"Yeah, I promise."

Lawrence held his pinky up. Marshall linked them, giggling at the childish action. It was nice being treated like a kid again. He really missed those days.

"Now," he started, "Dinner, bath, and then bedtime for you, young man." His voice was more jokingly stern, even if still serious. "Doctor's orders."

"If you were a doctor, I think you'd have a million lawsuits."

"Excuse you! What's that supposed to mean?" Lawrence threw a hand on his heart dramatically.

"It means you're the worst."

"Me? The worst?" he gasped. He reached down to tickle his sides, making Marshall squeal with laughter. "If you weren't injured, you'd be facing the full wrath of this tickle monster!"

"Nooo! St-stop, please!"

Lawrence pulled away. "Fine, but only because I'm a great dad. But once you're better, keep one eye open when you sleep." Marshall stuck his tongue out at him and Lawrence playfully did the same before disappearing into the kitchen.

Marshall relaxed into the couch and smiled to himself. For the first time in his life, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

[whumpwillow]

Demon's Haven 16

a guy who is just an idiot

—  

masterlist

warnings: past torture, blood, whumpee thinking caretaker is new whumper, self-harm references (he's aggravating his own injuries), vague dissociation references

—  

I just wanted them to respect me.

Words he’d never dared to utter out loud before. Hell was a vicious place where weakness wasn’t tolerated, and vulnerability got you nowhere. So he’d learned to keep his thoughts to himself, and to manifest his more…envious desires in other ways.

He’d never have admitted it to himself if all this hadn’t happened. He spent long hours working in his study just to occupy his mind so that he wouldn’t have to think of such things. And yet there it was, the undeniable proof that he was weak. That he had to resort to base means in order to try and garner respect when his other siblings were capable of it just by virtue of their very existence.

Hah, virtue.

His brothers had the lesser demons looking up to them as if they were gods and all they had to do was walk into a room. Pride especially was a perfect example of this. He was like the sun—he drew attention to himself as if his presence was itself a gravitational pull. Envy hated it. He wanted it. He didn’t have the ability for that sort of thing and had to take the scraps of attention that he was owed, grasping and strangling.

He thought the other demons would be awed or at least cowed by his display of brutality in the human realm, but then Lust had gone and one-upped him without even trying. Envy, as always, faded into the background. His actions forgotten by all the people he wanted to have remembered, yet was brought up again now only to serve as a reminder of his failings.

It was such a stupid farce. All of it.

He clenched his hair in his hands, disregarding the broken fingers. He let the pain consume him. He wanted to disappear.

Throwing his hands down in frustration did nothing to stop the riotous feelings welling inside. Did nothing to stop the voice of the angel. That burning, stinging, cooing voice. It told him he was a sinner. That he should suffer, that he should be punished, that he should live his days in fear and regret and utter misery. The angel made him believe it to be true.

The angel’s voice played out in his thoughts, telling him to be afraid.

Warm hands wrapped around his thin wrists. Envy drew in a sharp intake of breath, his gaze locking onto the witch’s.

Oh, Haven.

Why had he told her who he was? She was going to hurt him now, surely. She said she wouldn’t—many times, in fact—but how could he believe that? How could she not want to?

And yet. She held his wrists in her hands but did not squeeze the bruises there. She did not yank him forward or send him tumbling to the floor. She continued to surprise him by showing familiar actions that usually preceded violence and replacing them with kindness and Envy didn’t know what to do about it.

He wanted to be free of pain. He wanted to be free of his thoughts. He wanted to pay for his sins. He wanted to rest.

He tried to think of what to say as an excuse for his actions, and what had tumbled off his lips were truer thoughts than any he had said in years. Perhaps ever. He struggled to think of anyone he’d ever told his deepest secrets to and came up blank. Such was his life, what he used to think so highly of and yet what crumbled in mere moments.

He was crying again, goddammit. His eyes stung and the back of his throat burned, the feeling distinct from that of holy water being forced down it. Sharper, deeper. Utterly humiliating.

Haven wiped a stray tear from his cheek. Envy allowed his eyes to flutter closed as he savored the touch. When had anyone ever touched him like that? Like he was something worthy of being held so gently, like he was more precious than all the gemstones in his court?

“You’re bleeding again.”

Envy blinked dumbly at her in response to the statement. Finally catching up after a moment too long, he processed the words and turned to look over his shoulder. Sure enough, the lashes from the silver whip had turned the gauze a cherry-red. He was in less pain than he’d been in since…well, the beginning of his imprisonment, so this could actually have been seen as an improvement that he hadn’t noticed.

“Ah, I see,” he said, with utmost intelligence. Clearly.

Haven settled herself on the bed next to him, more carefully than before. He knew it wasn’t because of his injuries, but because of who he was. She was afraid of him. He’d seen it in her eyes when she jumped from the bed, instinct urging her to run from him. He almost wished she had. He only wanted her to be happy, not afraid.

But he was a selfish creature, and he couldn’t stop himself from the need that raged in him, that which made him desperately not want to be left alone. It was the same desire that made him grab her wrist earlier, and what had compelled him to think he could order her to stay while he bathed even when he knew she would have preferred to be elsewhere. He just couldn’t stop himself from causing problems for her.

And know she knew who he was. What he’d done.

Worse, she was a witch. She was of the ilk that he had carelessly slaughtered for amusement and recognition, and now Envy was at the mercy of her decisions. He wondered if she would take revenge for her kind that had died at his hands, or at those of his brothers’. The thought made his chest ache something fierce, but he couldn’t tell her not to. He didn’t have the right. After everything, he was still the same awful being that he was always was and he didn’t want her to treat him any differently than she had been.

He knew he didn’t deserve her kindness. Oh, he knew. The angel had made sure that he believed every awful thing she ever said about him, but by everything he was borne of, he wanted nothing more than for Haven to remain as she was.

“I’ll need to stitch them. The wounds on your back,” she said to him.

There was no malice in her voice, nor fear. The second emotion, however, was plain on her face even as she tried to hide it.

Envy nodded listlessly. “Alright.”

He realized this going to be a long night and that he wouldn’t get to drift off so soon. If he got lucky, she’d let him sleep while she worked. He might even be able to—he’d gotten lots of practice in sleeping in uncomfortable positions while in terrible pain.

Envy nodded, the motion stilted. He braced himself for what was to come and whether or not the witch—Haven, lovely Haven, such an apropos name—would take this as her opportunity to turn on him.

She didn’t, at least not right at that moment. Instead, she pursed her lips, forming them into a mildly displeased moue. Envy winced and cursed his tendency to nod rather than reply with actual words. That must have been what had done it. She was angry with him now for not being treated with the proper respect, of course. Because he was a demon prince, fallen so far, now at the mercy of those once considered beneath him and of course, of course she would want him to demonstrate just how much their positions had changed. He was just so tired, so it was easier to opt for a nod rather than to force the sounds from his throat that was still so raw from begging, screaming, pleading, pleading—

“We should get some rest.”

Haven set her hands down on her lap and stood, then brushed off her skirts. Envy watched her. Blinked once, twice. The witch began collecting the bandages and rolls of gauze from the bed.

“What?” Envy asked, confused.

Haven paused, then looked at him. “We’re both tired, you’re not going to bleed out, and I’m sure you would appreciate not being stuck with a needle while I try to sew you up half-asleep. We can do it tomorrow.”

Envy couldn’t seem to process the information he was hearing. She was going to let him sleep? Not just that, but to let him sleep unhindered by additional pain? What was the catch?

Haven bent down to pick up a bandage roll that had fallen, but Envy slipped off the bed to get it for her. He didn’t account for the fact that he could barely use his legs, and ended up falling ever-so-gracefully to the floor like an utter disgrace. His knees hit first, cracking loudly on the wood slats, and the rest of him followed soon after, crumpling like wet paper. His chest pitched forward and he, thankfully, turned his head to the side so that his cheek hit the floor instead of cracking his chin on it, though it still smarted. The pain shot into his broken ribs had him keening, sending out a high-pitched whine as if he’d become a tea kettle. The angel had humiliated him plenty, but this really did it for him.

He at least managed to wrap his fingers uselessly around the stray bandage he’d meant to offer to Haven.

The witch herself had released her burden entirely, dropping her arms to her sides so that all the gauze she’d previously gathered now fell at her feet and rolled away, adding to the existing mess on the floor. She knelt in front of Envy and gingerly placed her hands on his upper arms, and she was saying something he couldn’t make out. The world was incessantly loud all of a sudden, ringing in his ears. Pain, his only sensation.

“H-help—” Envy croaked.

Fear rose in his throat, burned in his belly, and inflamed the space of his chest. It beat against the inside of his damaged ribcage, fighting to get free as if it were a trapped animal. Envy thought it was kind of funny, to think of it like that. To understand and sympathize with an emotion itself, because he too, was once a trapped animal.

His hands shook.

“-vy! Envy! Your Highness! Prince whatever!”

The witch called out to him. Envy struggled to take in a breath. He felt her rubbing her thumbs up and down where she held his arms, and that too, made an emotion well inside him. He couldn’t place the name of it.

“P-prince whatever,” he said, once he could take in a full breath.

His throat felt raw and scratchy.

“I didn’t know what to call you,” Haven replied, sheepishly.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave him a wobbly smile. Envy tried to maneuver his lips into doing the same, but he felt…odd. Disconnected from his body in a way that was not unfamiliar to his time spent in the cell with the angel, on the days where he would go someplace faraway into his mind when the pain became too much to bear. Even before, to a lesser degree, the numbness would come for him without warning. He saw it as being better than the torture, at least.

“Are you…” Haven said, but trailed off and bit her lip.

“Fine.”

Envy was not fine, had never been fine, and likely would never be fine again for as long as he lived. But he was just that—living, and that was all that likely mattered to the witch, if she even cared at all.

He regretted that last thought when he saw her face all scrunched up, appearing at once both sad and irate. Her eyes became red and misty, though no tears fell. She bunched her hands into fists at her sides and Envy thought she meant to hit him, though she only glared.

“Why did you do that?” she yelled.

Envy opened his mouth, but found he didn’t have an answer, or even any idea to what she was referring.

“I—” He remembered the bandage roll grasped loosely in his damaged fingers. “Oh.”

He held it up to Haven as far as his arm would give him the strength to, which to his dismay, wasn’t more than a few inches.

“I wanted to help,” he said.

Haven put a hand to her face and closed her eyes, then exhaled. When she looked at him again, her expression had softened. Envy noticed her unclench her fists and his shoulders sagged in relief.

“Just focus on getting better. Okay? That’s how you can help.”

—

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[avvail-whumps]

‘guns for hire’ — the little duckling #23

previous · masterlist · next

content warnings: mentioned multiple whumpers, intimate whumper, whumper caretaking, past stab wound, past character death, recovery, manipulation, glass wounds, blood

Recovery wasn’t as bad as Leo had been expecting. With the critical wound in his side still healing, he’d been bedridden for a long while. He had meals delivered to him, easing his stomach back to its usual habits, and he often found he was strong enough to keep them down when it wasn’t solid foods. 

Only Roy and Joey ever entered his room. It made him feel much more at ease when he heard his door clicking open, knowing he didn’t have to expect anybody that was going to grab him by the hair and drag him outside. He sometimes grew a little wary at night, becoming restless at the thought of somebody sneaking in, but he was certain that Roy was sneaking little sleeping pills into his food and drink that made him sleep peacefully. 

His eyes had been on the violin case by the windowsill. It had been sitting there since Roy pulled it out for him, and he’d wanted nothing more than to get up and start playing. The mercenary had made it clear that until he had the strength to stand around and cook, then the violin was staying there. 

“Where’s my jacket?” Roy hummed, playing with a knife in his hands. Leo blinked out of his daze, glancing at him in confusion. His eyes squinted softly. 

“I don’t know,” he croaked softly, seeming a little heartbroken at the prospect. “It was taken off of me.” 

Probably by Bran, he thought bitterly to himself, but he wasn’t willing to test fate by displaying his clear hatred for the big man. Roy cocked a brow, and Leo wasn’t quite sure if he saw a hint of annoyance in his eyes. They were focused so intently on the dagger, like he was contemplating something deeply. 

“Don’t worry, lion,” he drawled, offering him a light smile. “I’ll get it back for you.” 

Several days later, he dumped the familiar fabric into his lap. Leo could have cried from the sheer happiness he felt, bundling the jacket tightly into his arms and holding it close. It still smelled faintly of him, too, and Leo didn’t let go of it at all during his bedridden recovery. 

Once he was finally able to get back onto his feet, he knew he had to see the other mercenaries again. Roy had insisted he come downstairs for some food, rather than sit in bed and eat it by himself. The thought had struck him with a horrible terror in his heart, but he told himself as long as he stuck by Roy, then the other mercenaries wouldn’t be able to hurt him so easily. 

The first thing he noticed was how different the atmosphere was between them all. 

Beard was usually quiet, keeping much to himself, but it was seeing Bran hardly utter a word in the kitchen that struck the whole situation as odd. He chalked it down to the fact that Finger had been murdered, since that must have been enough to downplay the mood between them. He sat quietly at the kitchen table, keeping his eyes solely trained on the empty plate, hands clapped in his lap. Joey was taking the brunt of the cooking, but everybody seemed to pitch in occasionally. 

It made him recall the time he’d attempted to cook. The bolognese that had been so easily tossed in the bin by Bran without a care — now he seemed to be shutting up and taking what he was given. Leo himself also ate quietly. His heart was heavy in his chest just from being in the same room as them all. 

When Roy finished and promptly left the room, Leo watched him go with frightened eyes. A shock zapped up his spine, the despair of being left alone with the other mercenaries making a sickening wave of nausea smack into him mercilessly. His eyes darted back to their faces frantically. Joey offered him a brief glance, but Leo was already pushing away his half eaten plate of food, and swiftly scurrying after Roy. 

His eyes instantly found him as he exited the suffocating kitchen, and he turned around as if he’d been expecting him. “Want to go for a walk, lion?” 

Leo had liked the fresh air. Roy kept an arm draped around his shoulder, gently keeping him tucked into his side, but the secretary found he didn’t mind it. There was a part of his brain that was telling him he was getting too smitten. But it was quiet. 

Being stuck to Roy was to keep himself safe from the other mercenaries, but he also found that he just didn’t want to be alone. If it meant shuffling after the man wherever he went, then Leo did it. If he ate in the kitchen, then so did Leo. If he decided he wanted to sit and watch some television, then Leo would too. The mercenary hadn’t at all seemed to care. If anything, the little encouraging touches reassured him.

He wasn’t interested in what he was watching on the screen, but Leo didn’t care. As long as he was away from the others, and he wasn’t sitting alone, then he was relatively happy. The television was only on low, and so it was easy for him to hear Roy’s sudden question, startling him from the depths of his own thoughts. 

“Tell me about yourself, lion.” 

His eyes fluttered open wide, and he spared him a confused glance. “What?” 

Roy met his gaze. “Tell me about yourself.” 

About himself? Leo wondered where this sudden line of questioning was coming from. He hadn’t ever asked much about him, and he hadn’t thought he ever would. The only time he’d told him personal information was when he had the collar coiled around his throat, sending seizing shocks through his body. He involuntarily shuddered at the very thought. 

He didn’t want that to happen again. 

“What do you want to know?” He asked softly, his voice hesitant. He was trying to decipher whether this was some sort of trick. One thing he hadn’t missed about Roy were the subtle mind games, wondering whether he was being put to the test. The mercenary shifted, throwing one leg over the other with a sigh. 

“Anything,” he shrugged, eyes flicking back onto the TV. “Tell me what you like. What you don’t like.” 

Leo blinked slowly. His fingers fumbled in his lap, wringing anxiously. 

“Okay,” he breathed. “Um.” 

He tried wracking his brain. Under the silent pressure, he wasn’t even sure he knew what to answer the question with. His first thought jumped to the violin, but Roy already knew that. The question was so inexplicably normal that he felt like he’d forgotten everything simple about his life. He swallowed, releasing a shuddering breath. 

“I…like cats,” he finally whispered. He glanced over at Roy to see a smirk quirking at the corner of his lips. 

“How fitting,” he drawled, and Leo’s brows pinched in a frown. “Carry on.” 

He pressed his lips together. “I like looking at really old paintings.”

“You’re telling me you stand around in museums and art galleries?” 

Leo frowned. “Yes?” 

“Boring,” Roy sang, shaking his head playfully. There was a teasing lilt to his words, but he still couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. “Come on, keep going, lion.” 

Leo had the strength to send him a small glare out of the corner of his eyes. Roy’s gaze had been stripped from the screen, and now he seemed to pin his full attention on the secretary. He tried not to squirm under his intense stare, desperately thinking of something else. 

“Hot chocolate,” he answered absentmindedly. “But only the Galaxy mix. With cream and marshmallows.” 

“Sweet tooth?” Roy crooned. 

Leo nodded his head in embarrassment. The man tilted his head to the side, almost in curiosity. He was shocked by the normality of their conversation. It made everything seem almost normal. It made him feel normal. How long had it been since everything had been so simple? Leo found himself relaxing completely. His eyes stayed trained on the mercenary’s face, feeling sucked in.

“But...I also like salty stuff.”

Roy hummed. “That so?”

Leo fiddled with his fingers as a thought crossed his mind. He wasn’t confident he was even allowed to ask, but he found himself doing it anyway.

“What about you?” He whispered hesitantly. “Can you...tell me about yourself?”

Roy’s expression didn’t give anything away, but his chest seemed to rise and fall with a subtle sigh. His eyes shifted away, shaking his head slowly.

“Not today, lion,” he hummed under his breath, and Leo bit the inside of his cheek in disappointment.

“Okay.”

They both went back to watching the television in silence. Leo’s eyes would occasionally dart towards the kitchen door when somebody would leave or enter, but he eventually managed to keep himself still. He wanted to ask Roy how long they would be staying here for; he hoped it wasn’t permanent. The brief thought of escape stirred back within his brain, but he pushed it down. With everybody here, there was hardly a point.

Leo glanced at the window out of the corner of his eye. It was starting to get dark, and he could feel his head start to swim. Joey had left some aspirin in his room in case this started happening, and so he was eager to swallow it down and rest for the night.

As he retreated back up to his room on the second floor, he just caught the glimpse of a big shadow looming over him. His eyes darted upwards to meet with the snarling face of Bran, glowering down at him. The man didn’t bother to make room, simply shoving Leo abruptly out of the way like a rag doll.

“Move,” he snapped angrily, seemingly uncaring as Leo smacked into the wall painfully. His shoulder clipped a frame on the wall, and he heard it clatter off it’s hinges. It tipped forward, and landed face first onto the ground. The horrible, ear piercing shattering of glass cut through the silence, and Leo’s hands clasped over his mouth in shock.

His wide eyes darted towards Bran, who was staring at him with a deep scowl.

Not a moment later, Roy appeared at the top of the stairs. His gaze instantly landed on the frame and the little shards of glass on the ground, before his arms crossed over his chest.

Leo could feel his heart pounding in his ribs.

“What happened?” He asked, his voice and neutral expression leaving nothing to pick from. Bran kissed his teeth, almost rolling his eyes, as if he found the entire situation completely absurd.

“Your pet doesn’t know how to walk properly,” he snarled, and Leo finally uncovered his mouth with shaking hands.

“No,” he whispered, his voice wobbling from the sheer panic. “No, no, I...”

The words died instantly in his throat when he felt Bran’s intense, terrifying glare burn into his head. He tried to open his mouth to explain something, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t.

Roy’s brow cocked, before he redirected his stoney gaze towards Bran.

“Pick it up.”

The man scowled. “Excuse me?”

Even though Roy wasn’t as tall as Bran, he still took a firm step forward. His eyes didn’t leave his, hardening with a terrying vigour he had never seen before.

“Are you deaf?” Roy spoke harshly. “I said pick it up.”

“Fuck,” Bran hissed. Leo skittered backwards when the big man surged towards the broken painting, his face twisted in frustration. Roy’s words seemed to leave no room for complaints, but Leo was still trying to swallow down the bile that had built up in the back of his throat.

The moment the man crouched down to angrily pick up the glass, Roy’s boot violently slammed down on his hand. The sickening squelch of glass jaggedly piercing through flesh cut through the air, and Bran let out a deep, pained yell as the mercenary squashed his hand into the floorboards.

“Fuck!” He groaned, other hand bracing against the wall for support. “You fucking—fuck!”

Roy’s boot dug harder into the flesh, his eyes dark. “What was that?” He murmured lowly, his voice laced with disdain. “Say it again.”

Bran’s jaw clenched, a shuddery breath escaping him from the initial shock of pain. “Fuck you,” he growled, dripping with pained animosity. Blood pooled from under his palm. “Fuckin’ crazy as your—”

Roy pressed down harder, and Bran’s words were instantly cut off.

“Keep it up and Joey’ll be burying you out back beside Rafi,” he gritted out slowly. He sounded as though he was thoroughly restraining himself, and Leo’s stomach churned as he stayed far back. “That’s if I’m feeling nice.”

He lifted his boot, and turned away from Bran with a curt sigh. Leo pressed himself close to the wall as he passed him, his head darting back and forth when he realised he was heading into his room.

Without a second thought, Leo scurried after him.

tag list – @unorganisedalienrubbish @d-cs @rabidrabidme @sordayciega @burningkittypoet @whumpawink @mannerofwhump @suspicious-whumping-egg @welcome-to-the-whumpfest @whatwasmyprevioususername @crilex29 @firefly017 @dutifullykrispyland @wibbly-wobbly-whump @there-will-always-be-blood @anonintrovert @justawhumpjunkie @whumptastic-world @ha-ha-one @whatwhumpcomments @whumpterful-beeeeee @anonymous1235 @sonder35 @unforgiven235 @whumpasaurus101 @mj-or-say10

[whump-or-whatever]

40 Immortal Whumpee Prompts/Tropes

1. They never ask for help, having become self-sufficient out of necessity

2. They isolate themself to avoid the pain of losing people

3. They put themself in the way of danger because better them than someone mortal, right?

4. OR they put themself in the way of danger because it’s the closest they can get to an end to their suffering

5. They are genuinely confused when other people care for their well-being

6. “It doesn’t matter if I get hurt, I’m immortal.” | “Yes, but you still feel pain, don’t you?” | “Well yeah, but it will never do any lasting damage.” | “Okay, but it’s still just, like… not good for you to suffer constantly?”

7. They think nothing of going missing or zoning out for extended periods of time

8. They laugh in the face of whumper because no matter what they do, whumpee has survived worse

9. Captivity/servitude doesn’t really faze them much (practice makes perfect)

10. Alternatively, their past experiences affected them so strongly that they are terrified to go through it again

11. They fall into familiar coping strategies very quickly once introduced to a new whumper

12. They view whumper as little more than an amusing child

13. And yet they somehow view caretaker as an equal, if not an elder

14. Caretaker grounds them, reminds them of what it is to have a finite life, keeps them sane

15. They simultaneously abhor and relish in the fact that nobody will ever really know them fully

16. They have lived long enough to have made difficult decisions, made some mistakes, or outright done some bad stuff, about which they are endlessly guilty (they have a lot of regrets)

17. (If they have healing/regrowth) They are far too wiling to cut off a body part/severely injure themself to get free

18. OR (if the can die and come back) They are far too willing to take more drastic measures

19. (If they can die and come back) Whumper puts them in a situation where they die repeatedly (eg. chained underwater, buried alive)

20. Alternatively, whumper just locks them up and throws away the key, and they are stuck there alone as they slowly lose their mind

21. Maybe they use the fact that they can die & come back/heal to prank people… 👀

22. They take everything either way too lightly or way too seriously

23. They dedicate themself to a purpose, because it is the only thing that gives their life any meaning

24. Caretaker regularly has to remind them that there is more to life than just said purpose

25. Caretaker constantly pesters them to make sure they are taking care of themself

26. “Just because you won’t die if you don’t take care of yourself doesn’t mean you don’t have to do it!”

27. They have to stay in the shadows/only trust certain people with their secret in order to avoid people finding out they’re immortal

28. They have been betrayed before so they are very cautious about who they trust, and they are extremely slow to open up

29. When people do find out they are immortal, the reactions can be quite negative

30. They at times lose hope and fall into bad habits, such as alcohol or drugs (if those affect them), or fighting/self-injurious behaviors

31. They have to deal with the fact that everything they have ever known/will ever know will one day be gone

32. They don’t only outlive people regularly, they also survive through plagues, natural disasters, wars, major catastrophes, maybe even the destruction of their planet

33. (If they need need a thing to stay immortal, like a potion or talisman) Whumper denies them access to said thing and repeatedly brings them to the brink of death before finally giving it back

34. They are constantly looking for a ‘cure’ to their immortality, which caretaker simultaneously understands yet is horrified by

35. Alternatively, (if they can give away their immortality, say it’s a talisman) They have to decide when to give it away/who to give it to

36. And imagine, they had decided to give it to someone (maybe their child), but the person dies before they can give it to them

37. They gradually forget things and people which were important to them, such as their parents, significant others, children, and so on

38. OR they are so concerned about forgetting things that they obsessively record everything that happens in a journal or rehearse past events in their head

39. (If they don’t age or scar) They feel invalidated by the fact that their body does not represent who they are and what they’ve been through

40. (If they retain one scar, say the wound that first killed them) They are extremely distressed by what it represents and don’t like thinking about it, but they have to play it off and lie about it when people ask

[whumpshaped]

Chapter One: Goal

prompt list and "event"

trigger warnings: humans as livestock, dehumanisation, humiliation, abuse of power and authority, pet whump, nonhuman whumpers, multiple whumpers and whumpees, lady whump, death mention, murder mention, civil war setting, firearms and weaponry, bombs

“Why are you here?” 

“To take down as many of the monsters as I can.”

“Good, so listen to me. If you die right here, right now, that’s the end of your career. If you follow the plan, you and Zorka will both be able to kill thousands more.”

Mina squinted at him, weighing her options. Her sister was getting restless next to her. “I don’t know whether the plan will work.”

“There’s a solid chance that it will.” Draco pointed at the vest full of little bombs on her chest. “If you really throw yourself into the building from the roof and make these go off? You’re definitely dead. Both of you.”

Zorka groaned in frustration, feet bouncing impatiently. Draco knew that look, the one she always got on her face when she was beyond ready to kill. This discussion was taking far too long, and if they didn’t finish soon, the window of opportunity would close, and Zorka’s restraint would crumble. None of them needed a repeat of the checkpoint incident. 

Mina seemed to have come to the same conclusion. “Okay. Plan’s in action.”

“Perfect.”

Draco shot one last glance in their direction before they assumed position behind the pipes. The twins were still small, despite them both being well over twenty by now. Around twenty two, maybe? Could be twenty three. Draco wished he knew when exactly they were born.

His own age was just as much of a mystery, with his parents having passed away early on in his life, and the shithole they called the rebel base not having any calendars or clocks. Or anything else, really. The piles of softer dirt they slept on, the bugs and scraps they ate and the torn up fabric barely held together by stronger pieces of grass they used to cover themselves with couldn’t really be called beds, food or clothes. The only thing worth the risk of getting caught was gunpowder and weapons, so those were the only things Draco, the twins and the rest of the rebels stole. 

And of course, humans.

Demons regarded them as property, thus their rescue was considered stealing. Draco could barely keep his cool as he crept through the vents and felt the familiar rage take over his mind. Had he any less self-control, he would’ve let the twins go ahead with their plan. Hell, he would’ve led the suicide mission.

But his goal wasn’t to aimlessly murder. His goal was bigger, more complex, and it was to free all the people his parents couldn’t. It was to build a new world, where humans weren’t born to be slaves and livestock, where their struggle to stay alive wasn’t seen as an act of rebellion, where their mere existence wasn’t considered disrespectful towards the Lords and Ladies, towards the King and the throne standing on stolen human land and a pile of corpses and bones.

Draco tightened his hold on the handle of his sword. 

It was show time.

-

"Why are you here?"

"To put an end to this pest problem."

The demon looked Jayden up and down, clearly not satisfied with the one man army standing in front of him. "Your Highness, I-"

Before he could even finish the sentence, Jayden's sword was already under his chin, the tip of it just barely breaking his thick skin. "I said I'm going to put an end to it. That's an order for you to empty the building before they put their pathetic plan in motion, and leave me be. Otherwise I might just empty it myself."

"Understood, Your Highness."

"Good. You might not be completely stupid after all." 

The demon set his jaw, swallowing hard as he forced a curt nod. It was obvious that he was trying his best to avoid trouble, but unable to completely control his reaction - or unwilling. And Jayden couldn't have that.

"Something the matter?"

"No, Your Highness."

"It's part of my job to assess the mental state of my servants. And I definitely sense some… frustration here."

"I apologise, Your Highness. I will do better in the future."

"Well, then." Jayden grinned, sharp fangs betraying the fact that they were a dangerous predator despite their size. "I'm glad to hear that. Surely, you can unclench your jaw now. Relax your shoulders. And get the fuck out of my way."

The much taller demon gave another nod and finally let them go inside to survey the area. It was a big facility, one with many cages and livestock. The "rebel groups," or more accurately, the pests, liked to target facilities like this one. Rescue usually failed when it came to any other group, since the demons standing guard were considerably stronger than the strongest of humans. But this one group of kids… Jayden had heard a lot about their… accomplishments.

It was becoming a nuisance for the neighbouring settlements. There weren't enough humans left to comfortably feed the people and breed new ones, which was troublesome. The Crown needed a stable base of land and livestock to control the country, and as it was, one of those was being decimated.

Jayden walked past a huge cage, the humans inside all huddled together for a bit of warmth and faux safety. Someone recognised them as the heiress, they could tell from the wide-eyed look on her face.

"L-Lord- Lord Rienn! Lord Rienn, please!" The woman crawled away from the protection of the pack, pressing herself against the bars. "Your Highness, why have you c-come to such a lowly place? Am I pardoned? I have written so many letters, please, the governor said I would be pardoned, I have been a good servant, I have done everything for the crown, I- I-"

"Silence, human."

Jayden's golden eyes bore into the human's soul, tearing it open and laying it bare. They didn't like demanding animals, and the woman could probably sense it, because she lowered herself all the way to the ground, forehead pressed against the floor.

"The scum known as the rebellion is headed right here." They spoke after a while, voice steady and booming. They didn't spare the woman a single other glance - her letters had probably been burned to ash anyway. "But worry not. I, Lord Jayden Aithne Rienn, rightful heiress to the demon throne and proud leader of the Rebel Extermination Unit, will protect this facility. Rejoice, for you will live to see another peaceful day instead of being given 'freedom' you would never be able to utilise. Instead of having to live an unpredictable life on the outside, beyond these walls, without the comfort of the guards and the cage."

"Thank you, Your Highness," the woman said without hesitation, still on the ground like the lowly animal she was. Her obedience set a good precedent, and the other humans started tiredly echoing it.

Thank you, Your Highness.

Jayden grinned. Maybe they really would show her mercy in the end… and maybe they would devour her whole after an exhausting battle. It didn't matter.

It was show time.

~

send me an ask w a suggestion to influence how the story progresses!

[galaxywhump]

Awake and Alive

[Masterlist]

Timeline: Escape arc, set after No Other Way.

cw: slavery whump, rescue, hospital setting (medbay on a spaceship), referenced stabbing, wounds, swearing, creepy/intimate and deranged whumper, knocked out.

~~~

Wren’s consciousness tries to surface a few times. Harsh lights tear their way under his eyelids, he hears voices, talking above him, muffled, unintelligible. Those moments never last long enough for him to become fully aware of his surroundings; his mind retreats back into darkness.

And then he wakes up, confused and weak, every nerve in his body itching, every sensation increased tenfold.

He wakes up.

“Lieutenant Rackham?”

He grimaces at the sound of the word he hasn’t heard in ages, and the voice he doesn’t recognize, which only makes him more confused with how out of place it is. What is even happening? How did he get here, and where is “here”? He was…

In Daniel’s arms, crying and begging as the knife slipped into his body with ease, he was dying, so how-

He opens his eyes with a gasp as the realization hits him with the force of a tsunami.

I’m alive?

It’s not the ceiling of Daniel’s house he sees above; it’s smooth curved metal and sterile white lights, so different from the familiar warm yellow glow.

And it’s not Daniel sitting by his side, which he realizes when he turns his head to the side to see whoever is addressing him. Someone else, not Daniel, not Berkeley. Someone in a League uniform; and someone else is moving in his peripheral vision, wearing a white coat, checking some devices, machinery he’s apparently hooked up to and he has a feeling he should recognize.

“I am lieutenant Sterling Johnson,” the ranger begins with an uncertain smile. “Squad D12. How are you feeling, lieutenant?”

“Wait, I-” His voice is hoarse and alien, like a sound that has no place on this- ship, a spaceship, and he has to pause to inhale, fighting for air as if in his shock he has to control every little thing, put tremendous effort into every little action, even breathing. “I-I should be dead,” he whispers, his brow furrowing as he looks at Johnson’s face, their features so different from Daniel’s, their dark eyes reflecting sympathy.

“You almost were,” they reply. “But we came in just in time. You’re alive, lieutenant.”

His heart stutters and he lets his eyelids drop for a moment, too exhausted to keep his eyes open and take in his surroundings that make his head hurt.

“I’m alive,” he repeats the unbelievable words in a shaky voice, opening his eyes again to look at Johnson, who nods with a slight smile. “And I’m… free from-”

Him.

“Where is he?” he spits out, eyes widening, darting around; he sits up rapidly and immediately pays the price when his body explodes with pain - the wound under his ribs, he assumes - and a frantic beeping sound fills the room.

“Hey, hey! Easy, lieutenant!”

That word again, the title that he no longer deserves, being a pathetic mess that had to be rescued from him.

“Don’t call me that!” he snaps and immediately regrets it, but the regret is pushed out of his mind, the panic leaving no space for anything else. “Where is he?! Is he dead?! Is that bastard dead?!”

“We took him alive,” Johnson rushes to answer, reaching out to lay their hand on Wren’s shoulder only to freeze mid-motion, and even that movement makes him flinch, so they take a step back. “We had to tranquilize him, he’s in a holding cell right now, we’re taking him back to Earth. He won’t hurt you anymore, lieu- uh-”

Wren presses his hand to his forehead with a shaky exhale, trying to compose himself. The thought of Daniel being defeated like this, tranquilized, locked up, makes his head spin, it’s… absurd. His stomach ties into a knot when a thought appears that this could all be a dream, this and the last few days, that he’s going to wake up in Daniel’s arms, because Daniel- Daniel’s too strong, too confident to be taken down. 

But this all feels too real, and- fuck, of course he can already feel a familiar burning behind his eyes.

“Wren,” he whispers. “Just call me Wren.” His voice trembles. “I’m free. He can’t hurt me anymore. I’m free.” He covers his mouth with his hand and squeezes his eyes shut as his shoulders shake with a soundless sob, and he turns his face away when hot tears overflow, the kind of tears he can’t even stop, he barely feels. He tries to mask his pathetic reaction with a forced laugh. “Fuck- sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Johnson says in a calming voice. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

He nods with a heavy exhale, the disbelief constricting his chest until he can barely breathe, and the pain doesn’t help matters. He lies back down to take the pressure off the wound, and somehow manages a smile.

“Thank you,” he says. “Really… Thank you. For saving me.”

“It’s what the League does.” Johnson’s eyes squint as they smile, with more confidence this time. “We still have a solid few Earthly days of travel ahead of us, so you should rest. The wound should be gone in…” They trail off and look at the other person, the medic, with a question in their eyes.

“Two days, give or take,” comes a reply. “But be careful, so it doesn’t open again.”

“Sure. Thanks… again.” The beeping of the- medpod, now he remembers, ceases as he relaxes. The padding is soft and warm, there must be a heating mechanism inside, and he could melt into it from the exhaustion caused by the wonderfully overwhelming situation he was thrown into. “I- think I need to… sleep it off. How long was I out?”

“Twenty-two hours.”

He snorts.

“Clearly not enough yet.”

“Which is understandable,” Johnson laughs. “You can rest now, Wren. You’re safe.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am,” he says, looking up at the distantly familiar ceiling, just like the ones he used to look at before SV-240, when he was on his own ship, being lulled to sleep by the familiar humming that he can clearly hear now too. 

Safe, relieved, and free, he dozes off into a - at long last - deep, peaceful sleep.

-=-

Private Boris Golubev fixes his tired eyes on the opposite wall, bouncing his leg in a mix of boredom and anxiety. The latter surges when a voice comes from the room behind his back.

“Is he alive? Please, please tell me, you have to tell me!”

Don’t answer him, private. All you need to do is guard the cell. Someone will take over in a few hours.

But Rooney just keeps talking, getting more and more frantic, his voice choked and trembling. He started talking, yelling, when he woke up from the drug-induced sleep into immediate panic. He tried to struggle, but they took him to the cell without major problems, locked the hatch, and let out a collective sigh of relief.

Guarding him should be easy, then.

But damn is it annoying.

“He died without me,” he laments, pacing around the cell. “He died alone, I can’t be here, I shouldn’t be here!”

Golubev blinks and moves his gaze up to the ceiling. Just one more hour of having to listen to this, then he can rest and try not to think about what had been happening on SV-240 these past two years, what Rooney had been doing.

Of all the things he thought he’d be doing as a ranger, guarding a dead guy while another dead guy - Nathaniel Rackham’s son of all people - is reportedly recovering in the medbay was not one of them. He shouldn’t be doing this and neither should his entire squad. They were simply the closest, and their trip still took a while.

The rescue mission was a success, at least. They should’ve been faster, should’ve overridden Rooney’s defenses sooner, but even if it was a close call, they got both men out alive in the end. That was the hard part.

Now they just need to transport Rooney to Earth to face justice without going insane from his monologues.

“He has to be alive! I know you can hear me!”

Trust me, I wish I couldn’t.

He closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall, trying to tune out Rooney’s voice and focus on anything else. It’s been a while since he last visited Earth - a pretty long while, actually. He’s gotten used to assignments in remote parts of the universe, and most of his family live in colonies anyway, but he finds himself looking forward to paying a visit to the birthplace of humanity again. So that’s another upside to this hell of a mission, along with doing something good for the League, and… for the whole universe, really. A tiny contribution to the efforts to put an end to the slave trade, whose existence still makes him shudder.

His duty has been rather slow lately, and he enjoys feeling like a part of something huge, even if it involves-

“You have to tell me! Is he alive?!” Rooney yells, and Golubev jolts in place and jumps to his feet when the sound of fists pounding on the metal door explodes in his ears.

“Okay, okay!” he shouts back before he can stop himself, forgetting the orders in his frustration - besides, no one could’ve predicted that it would be this bad. “He’s alive! Calm down! Creep,” he mutters the last word, sitting back down. His answer seems to work at first, and he enjoys the blessed silence, until he hears Rooney’s voice again, quieter, stern:

“I need to see him.”

“No.” Should’ve just stayed quiet.

“You have to let me see him.”

He purses his lips. Ignore him. Just ignore him.

“Please.”

“No,” he repeats. “You can’t see him. Now be quiet.” In his tired, irritated state, he almost adds a please himself.

Rooney does fall silent, thankfully. Golubev stays alert, listening, but all he can hear are footsteps as the prisoner goes back to pacing around the cell like a caged animal, which he realizes isn’t that far from truth. They tore him out of the planet, put him in confinement on a spaceship for the first time in over a decade, after all. No wonder the weirdo isn’t taking that too well, and it’s not like his situation will change when they reach Earth. There’s only more imprisonment waiting for him, only with more people, which will surely be even more torturous for someone used to being on his own.

Golubev is almost convinced that this relative peace and quiet will last, that now he just has to wait for the next person to take over, advise them to ignore Rooney, and go on with his day - until he hears a quiet groan followed by a dull thud.

Like a body hitting the floor.

He frowns and listens in for a moment, but all he hears is silence - no longer welcome, but absolute and unsettling.

“Hey!” he calls out. “What’s going on in there?”

He gets no response, and his anxiety skyrockets. Shit. Of course something had to happen on his watch, on a duty that was supposed to be so straightforward.

All you need to do is guard the cell, my ass, he thinks, getting up.

“Rooney?” he tries again, and once again silence is his only answer. He turns on his communicator, but hesitates before he can do anything more. He should send a signal, let the others know that something’s wrong, but what good will that do if he doesn’t check on Rooney first? It might be nothing.

With his hand resting on the plasma gun on his hip, he enters the code to open the cell door.

“Hey?” he says as he takes a cautious step inside, expecting to see Rooney’s still body on the floor.

Instead, the last thing he sees as his head is roughly turned to the side is Rooney’s face contorted with a satisfied grin before pain explodes in his skull and he sees stars, as if he has been pushed right through the metal walls, out into space, and he plummets into the all-encompassing darkness to the sound of nervous laughter.

~~~

Next

taglist:  @faewhump @inky-whump @whole-and-apart-and-between @whatwasmyprevioususername  @procrastinatingsab @inkyinsanity @special-spicy-chicken @redstainedsocks @luminouswhump @lonesome--hunter @as-a-matter-of-whump @renkocchi @whump-only @rose-whump @muddy-swamp-bitch @girlwithacoolcat @wildlywhumping @sophierose002 @mnmlover2002 @whump-headspace @to-whump-or-not-to-whump @kixngiggles @ohwhumpydays @whumpvp @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @stab-the-son-of-a @his-unspoken-words

[whump-a-la-mode]

For Your Own Good

I’ve seen a lot of stuff about bad caretakers floating around recently, and I really love the trope, so I tried my hand at it. I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Whumpee soon finds out that their safehouse may be little more than another prison.

CW//Bad caretaker, collars, shackles, being cut off from the outside world, stolen phones, controlled internet access, attempted gaslighting

“You’re safe here.”

The words were soft, whispered into the ear of a Whumpee who could hardly believe them. They were out, they were free. And they would never have to be scared again.

Caretaker used their elbow to close the door behind them, their hands thoroughly occupied by the half-limp person they carried bridal style. With a gentle motion, they laid them upon a couch, a hand stroking softly through matted hair.

“No one is ever going to hurt you. Never again. I promise.”

For the first time in so, so long, Whumpee allowed themself to relax. To truly, genuinely relax. They were safe. Whumper was gone.

Everything was okay again.

They felt like weeping.

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

The room was empty.

Mostly, at the very least, though it was decorated by a floor of thin carpeting, and a few pieces of stray furniture.

Whumpee leaned on Caretaker as they stepped through the door, scarred legs unable to support their own weight.

“You can stay here, for the night.” Caretaker murmured. “I know it’s not much, but it would be too suspicious, having two bedrooms. We can’t let anyone know you’re here. I’m sorry. It’s for your own safety. I’ll try to get a mattress or something for you, when it’s safe.”

They nodded in understanding, trying to ignore just how familiar it felt, to be left in a room, small and dark and forgotten. Remembered only when a certain Whumper needed to blow off a bit of steam. Or, if they were feeling particularly cruel, flame.

“Thank you.” Whumpee nodded. As Caretaker left the room, they retired to the space they had been used to occupying for so long-- curled up in the corner of an oubliette.

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

It was a knock on the door that stirred Whumpee awake. Pins and needles flowed through their limbs as they unfolded themself from the corner. For a split second, adrenaline overtook their veins, instinctual terror wondering which torture implement would be brought for them, this time.

Instead, the door opened to a plate of food, in Caretaker’s hands. It was still warm-- when was the last time they had had a warm meal?

“I think it’s safer if you eat in here.” They hummed. “There’s a window in the dining room-- if you can call it that. It’s just where the table is. I don’t want anyone seeing you. It’s safe in here, no windows.”

Whumpee nodded, giving a thankful smile as the food was placed in front of them. A hot meal. A safe place to sleep.

They could stay here forever.

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

“Caretaker?”

Whumpee knocked on the door again-- the door to Caretaker’s office. They could feel their shoulders tense, even just being here. In their month of residence, they had grown so used to their room. It was cozy. It was safe. It was where they belonged.

“Yes, Whumpee?”

They hated being out of it like this, but...

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

Doing their very best to hide any residual shaking in their hands, Whumpee pushed through the door, into the room, where their guardian sat, poring over piles of paper and pens. They approached the side of the desk, noting that the scrawling of pencils on paper did not cease, even so.

“I was just wondering, um-,” Whumpee began. “I was wondering if the Internet is working for you? It’s been down for me for a few hours.” They held up their phone, waving. They couldn’t believe Caretaker’s kindness, how long had it been since they’d had a phone? “I can try to reset the router...”

“The internet is fine.” Caretaker shook their head. “It’s your phone.”

“My phone?”

“Do you know how easy it is to track a phone? I didn’t even think about it, getting it for you.”

“I don’t...”

“I disabled the internet, on there. It’s not going to be able to connect. It’s for your own safety. If that device ever got connected to you, you could be tracked in an instant. Whumper could find you.”

Oh. Of course.

For their own safety. They had been foolish, to think using the internet so freely would be safe.

“I got a TV for you. I’ll put it in your room when it gets here.”

“Thank you.”

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The next time Whumpee needed Caretaker, they did not leave their room. They did not want to risk such a thing. Instead, they waited until that familiar knock came, heralding dinnertime. Not that it was easy to keep track of such a thing-- only a week after disabling the internet on their phone, Caretaker had taken the device away altogether. Too unsafe. Too easy to track.

For their own safety.

The door opened, bringing with it the smell of warm food. It was a smell that threatened to make Whumpee sick to their stomach.

They were grateful for the food. Of course they were, they should have relished in the delight of being given a warm meal, instead of scraps. But, eating the same thing, twice a day for over a month...

Even though they knew it was a terrible thought to have, they would have rather starved than eat the same thing again. But they would eat it. Caretaker would come in in an hour, to make sure.

“Thank you.” Whumpee nodded as the sickly-smelling plate was placed on the floor before them.

“Of course.”

“There’s, um, the TV had been really nice. Thank you so much.”

“If it makes you happy, I’m glad to have got it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Um, I was wondering if you could take a look at it? I’m not really a tech person... It’s not working right. It has recordings, but it won’t connect to any live channels. Says there’s no connection. Maybe a cable is-”

“Oh, it’s supposed to be like that.”

“It is?”

“Of course it is. TV channels, you never know what could be on them. They broadcast all kinds of scary things, and we both know how sensitive you are. I don’t want you to get scared when I’m not around to help.”

“Oh.”

“So, it has recordings. I’ve watched them myself. They’re all safe, I promise.”

“Thank you.” That time, it was not genuine. They bit their lip.

“Of course. For your own safety, Whumpee.”

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

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?! How stupid?!”

Whumpee flinched at the scream, not having even had time to close the door into the home. They took a step back, wincing as a gust of wind slammed the door closed on its own.

Caretaker’s face was red, fuming, just like...

“I-”

“I don’t want an explanation. You know going out like that is dangerous! In here, I can guarantee your safety. There’s no one out there to protect you.”

“I know.” Whumpee snapped. “Please, I just went into town for a few hours. I haven’t been out in so long...”

“Because being out like that is dangerous.”

“I don’t care. Maybe I want it to be. Maybe I’m willing to risk danger if it means having a life!”

Caretaker bit their lip, shaking their head.

“Your trauma is fogging up your mind, you can’t even think straight. That’s why you need me. Come here.”

Whumpee obeyed, without a second thought. From a table nearby, Caretaker plucked something, something-

Something round and leather and-

A collar.

The buckles screeched against the leather strap as the loop was fastened about Whumpee’s neck. The lock was small, but clearly too strong to break, and as Caretaker closed it, they put the key in a pocket.

“There. It’s just a tracker, so I’ll never have to worry about losing you. Never again. Now. It’s time for you to get back to your room.”

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“I thought you would’ve learned.”

The sharp words cut the air as briskly as a whip.

“I didn’t realize just how bad your mind has gotten.”

Caretaker’s fingers looped under Whumpee’s collar, between leather and skin, dragging them forward. They tried to fight, tried to stop moving, but they were no match for their guardian’s strength. A simple tug on the leather loop was all it took to keep them moving again.

“I’m sorry about this. You have to know I’m sorry. But it’s the only way.”

They arrived at the door to Whumpee’s room. The lights had never worked, but they didn’t need to. When Caretaker opened the door, the inside was clear enough.

Five loops, installed into the wall. Five lengths of chain. Four shackles.

One for each wrist. One for each ankle. And one for their collar.

“It’s for your own good, honey. I promise.

[whumpingcrow]

Pt. 17 "Pet Show"

CW: unconscious whumpee, low self worth, creepy/intimate whumper, drugs/alcohol (explicit), injury mention/descritption, past torture mention, tics/tourrettes, gaslighting/emotional whump, pet whump, whumpee wearing a collar, dubcon (explicit), noncon (descriptive, explicit, 18+ please), multiple whumpers (let me know if I missed anything!)

Elias woke up in a soft bed, legs tangled up in thick, pleasantly warm blankets. He felt groggy and heavy, like he'd been underwater for years. He looked up at the window next to him, at the bright light shining through and the trees swaying softly in the breeze. When he sat up, he felt a dull pain in every limb, every inch of his body, and he whined loudly. He had to remind himself where he was, in France with August, but he couldn't remember the last thing that happened before falling asleep. He was in chains, August had a bat...he had a taser, at some point...what next? What caused all this horrible, gnawing pain?

He pushed himself out of bed, sighing as he tried to stretch out his tense muscles without hurting himself. He looked around the room, at how neat it was, at the expensive looking furniture and the lavish sheets. It felt wrong, too nice, like it was wasted on him.

"August?" He called out as he padded down the hallway. His voice came out raspy and broken up like he'd swallowed glass. At this point he wouldn't be surprised if that'd happened, with everything else August had done to him. When he got out to the living room, August was standing up and rushing toward him, a bright smile spread across his face. Elias stopped in his tracks, he didn't think he'd ever seen anyone, especially August, look so happy to see him.

"You're awake!" He breathed. "I was starting to worry about you. How do you feel?"

Elias shrugged, holding his breath when August closed in on him. He didn't look mean or threatening, but Elias didn't want to let his guard down too much, just in case. "I'm sore, is all." He was lying of course, he was nervous and confused and in so much pain it made him feel ages older, but August looked worried enough. He shouldn't be worried, he didn't need to waste his energy.

"You've been out for a few days. My friend said you were just having a rough come down but I...I was really worried." He reached out timidly and stroked Elias's hair out of his face. "You'd wake up for a few minutes at a time and say stuff to me, but you weren't making any sense."

Elias frowned at him. It had been days? That explained the heaviness, the confusion. He stepped forward, until he was pressed against August's chest, and closed his eyes. "I can't remember what happened."

"Well uh...what's the last thing you do remember?" August led him into the living room, holding him close as they sat down.

Elias thought hard for a moment, thinking back to the chains. It was painful to think about, how badly it hurt, how scared he was. He vaguely remembered someone else being there, he remembered being left alone for a long time, he remembered thinking his arm was going to snap off of his body. But he couldn't remember the chains being taken off, or leaving the basement. "Um...we were in the basement. I was chained up and there...there was someone else there with you. That's it."

August sighed at that, a sound of disdain, of disappointment. Elias cowered away a little, terrified of displeasing him. "After that, you didn't want to go to sleep so we did some coke. We went out to the bar, remember that?"

That was right, the sea of bodies, the too loud music and too close strangers. It was overwhelming, even as a memory, and he tried to keep his tics contained when he got nervous. "Yeah, a little."

"Good. That's good, baby." He patted his thigh gently, watching Elias relax at the praise. "After that I took you to a diner. You were upset, you were very tired."

Elias nodded eagerly, now aching, yearning, for more affection, more praise. "Yeah, you were gonna sober up and take me home."

August smiled softly, proud, almost, and reached up to pet his cheek. "That's right, love." He cleared his throat, looking down at his lap. "You fell asleep at the diner, and after I sobered up we went home, and you stayed asleep. But then the next morning you wouldn't wake up, not all the way at least, and not for very long. And the next day either. So I had a friend, he was a doctor for awhile, come look at you, and he said you'd be alright, so I was just waiting it out."

Elias frowned at how pained his voice sounded, how he seemed actually, truly, concerned for his well being. "I'm ok now, August. Don't look so sad. Please."

August smiled sadly at him, nodding dismissively. "I have something for you," he said suddenly, standing up, "wait here, close your eyes."

In spite of himself, Elias smiled softly and did as he was told. He had to admit, it was nice to have August acting so kind, because he knew it was just acting. So maybe it was ok to let himself indulge a little, to allow himself to be spoiled and praised and fawned over like a prize when August wanted to do that. He didn't deserve it, he knew that, but if August could act like he cared, Elias could act like he was worthy of it, act like it didn't make his skin itch in self doubt.

Elias felt the couch sink down next to him when August returned, then flinched hard as something was wrapped loosely around his neck. He should have known, he should have expected that the play-pretend wouldn't last long, that he would hurt him when he was bored again.

"Relax, baby. Not gonna hurt you." He fastened whatever it was around his throat, kissing his jaw softly. "Wow," he breathed, "look at you, Elias. My beautiful boy."

Elias pulled his hands away from his face, brushing his fingertips against the thing August fastened there, confusion written on his face. "What...?" He whimpered.

August pulled him to his feet and led him down the hallway, to a huge, floor length mirror against the wall near the bathroom. Initially, Elias was breathless and speechless at the condition he was in, pale and bruised and sickly. August always made him look and feel like some sort of ghost, sometimes Elias had a story in his head that he had really stayed dead when August choked him and now he was just cursed to haunt him the rest of forever. Except, it felt more like August was the one haunting him, most of the time. Still, sometimes it just made things easier when he told himself things like that, made it all feel less real. But then his focus shifted from how awful he looked to the thing around his neck, leaned closer to inspect it. It was leather, thick against his skin, with a tiny pendant hanging from the end, embedded in jewels. It was a collar, he realized, and his stomach tightened in an uncomfortable, confusing knot.

He was just a pet, he wasn't a human, a person, just like he knew already. He was not on August's level, or anyone else's for that matter, and he shouldn't be loved or cared about in the way a human should be. He existed solely to please others, specifically August, to be used by them, to be fawned over and stroked and paraded around and have stress and anger and pain taken out on him. The collar meant he was owned, he belonged to August, as his plaything.

But on the other hand, it meant August cared about him enough to make him wear his ownership. He belonged to August and he was going to make sure Elias and everyone else knew. In a sick way, the most twisted way imaginable, it reminded him of a wedding band. When he got a closer look, the tag had "Bunny" engraved on it, and he bit his lip. It wasn't even his own name.

"You just look absolutely darling in that, little one." August cooed, slipping his arms around his waist easily, kissing his temple. Elias leaned into his grip instinctively, obediently, and put on a weak, not quite genuine smile.

It was humiliating and scary and wrong, but whatever it took to make August play nice with him, whatever it took for him to touch him so tenderly and say such sweet things, he would do it. It didn't hurt this way, and being humiliated by being lovey dovey with him was a little more bearable than being chained up again. He would do anything to avoid that happening again. "Thank you," he choked out. He tried to sound genuine and appreciative, he truly did, but it felt like he couldn't speak around the collar. It wasn't tight, not tight enough to matter, anyway, but the presence of it around his neck felt the same as a gag.

The way August held him there, kissing on him, pressing close against him, was familiar. Elias realized, he'd been out of it for days now, which meant August hadn't been able to take what he always wanted, at least not from him. And he really hoped not from anyone else. He wondered if he was the first person August had put a collar on. He wondered if he'd put one on Allen, then felt like vomiting when he found himself hoping that he hadn't.

Eager to please, Elias turned toward him and wrapped his arms tight around his neck, brushing their lips together gently. August hummed, hands gripping his hips tightly. "Thank you," he whined again, this time drawn out nice and slow, how he knew August liked to hear it.

"What do you think you're doing, bunny?" August teased him.

I want you to tell me you love me again, he thought, I want you to tell me I'm good and important and worth something, even though I'm not. I want you to lie to me.

"Please touch me," he begged instead, "please." Because he knew he didn't get to want things, because he knew August liked when he begged, because asking to be touched was so much simpler than asking August to pretend that he cared about him.

So August did, he took him back to the bedroom and undressed him, everything was off now but the collar, and touched him until he was shaking, until he was defiled and sensitive and tired. He pushed Elias until it was too much, and then he pushed more. He loved it when Elias was asking to be done and trying to contain his discomfort by biting his tongue, but he liked it even more when he couldn't even help the noises coming out of his pretty mouth, or his body twitched and trembled underneath his hands or a weapon, or tears were streaming down his face helplessly. He was so beautiful, crying out his name and gripping at the sheets desperately.

When it was finally over, Elias was disappointed that he hadn't gotten through it without pain, like the last time. He had hoped that he would please August enough into not hurting him, but he could feel the burns around his wrists from the ropes and he could could feel the bruises on his arms from struggling as he was pinned down, and he could taste blood in his mouth from being hit. Hadn't he been good? He'd been asleep for days, how could he have messed up? Maybe that was it, that he had been asleep for days and August had to wait for him. He couldn't help that, but he knew August didn't care.

He watched from his spot on the mattress as August sat up, reaching over to grab a joint from the bedside table. He lit it up, allowed the smoke to curl around his head. He looked at Elias with a warm smile, then laid back next to him and pressed it to his lips. He didn't ask if he wanted any, he didn't have to, because Elias didn't have the luxury to want. He didn't get to say that he was afraid of being high again, that the idea of falling asleep for days and days again frightened him even more than August did. So he inhaled, and then he felt the familiar haze drape over him. Time slowed a little, his throat burned, the room seemed distant from him, like looking at it through the lens of a camera, not his eyes.

"How's your shoulder?" August checked, his tone actually concerned. Elias didn't know what was going through his head, with all of this back and forth of caring about him and then slamming his fist against his face for no apparent reason.

"What?" Elias coughed.

"Your shoulder. It was bothering you the other day. How is it?"

"Oh. Um...fine." he stretched his arm out, wiggled his fingers to show August. He could see the bruises peppering his skin, and he sighed. He was surprised when August wrapped his fingers tenderly around his wrist, smiling at him.

"You are so beautiful, my angel," he cooed softly, fingers trailing over the injuries on his arm, "my perfect little bunny." Elias was soft and pliable under his grip, but his eyes were wide with apprehension. He was still slightly riding on adrenaline, ready to run or struggle at any second, if August decided he wasn't done with him yet, after all.

"Now that you're awake," he said, sitting up to look at him, "I was going to have some friends over. I figured it would be more fun with you conscious."

Elias frowned; the last time he was introduced to August's friend flashed into his mind, he was reminded of the cold chains and the shock of the taser. He was scared again, and he wanted to tell August that he didn't feel good, that he wanted to just lay in bed and be alone for awhile. He imagined that August would just laugh at him. "I uh...o-ok." He forced a small smile, knowing that if he agreed out front it would save him a world of trouble. August seemed pleased with that, and he sat up with a hum.

"Let's get you looking presentable then, huh?" He remarked, pulling Elias to his unsteady feet.

Elias felt nothing short of a centerpiece, an ornament, arm candy. He was put into a loose white button up, that was only buttoned to his ribs to really show the collar August insisted he kept on, along with a tight pair of black shorts. While August was helping him brush his teeth he had a chance to look over himself in the mirror, and he looked horrible. The older bruises were a green and yellowish hue, while the new ones were bright red, the shade they only stayed for mere hours before blossoming to purples and blues. August made sure to wipe the blood from his face, but he couldn't change the scrapes and cuts that were slowly healing. Not that he seemed to care much, and Elias was sure his friends wouldn't care much either.

Once people started to arrive, Elias was discarded on the couch, watching the flow of expensive looking people come in, grab glasses of wine, laugh and speak with August like they knew him. Elias didn't fit in, he knew that. He was raised from trash, with no family, fending for himself, and now he was sitting here wearing a collar like some sort of animal. He was less than them, and the realization made him want to crawl under the covers and hide away from all of their patronizing gazes.

"Aw, quel mignon petit animal de compagnie." What a cute little pet. Someone was saying a few feet in front of him. He glanced up for a second to see an older woman in an elegant black dress eyeing him, a tall glass of dark wine resting at her hip. He hated the way she looked directly at him, with her thin lips tipped up in a smile. "Tu veux une cigarette, chiot?" You want a cigarette, puppy? She eyed his collar, then quirked an eyebrow up. "Ohh, il est un lapin. Cigarette, lapin? Ou vin?" Oh, he's a bunny. Cigarette, bunny? Or wine?

Elias blinked at her with his wide, nervous eyes, then began to search for August amidst the people. Of course he wasn't anywhere close. He recognized the word cigarette, and when he looked back to the stranger she was moving to sit next to him with one extended. Elias didn't protest as she popped one into his mouth, lighting it up for him. She sat so close to him, her round thighs pressing against his bony, cut up knees.

"Thank you," he whispered after the cigarette was lit, lifting a trembling hand to hold it in between his knuckles. How where his knuckles also bloody? What happened to them?

"Ah, tu es américain?" Ah, you're an american? She mused, trailing her manicured fingers over the bruises on his cheek. "Tu ne parles pas français?" You don't speak french?

Elias chewed at his lip, shaking his head at her to try and get her to understand that he couldn't talk with her, wishing she'd leave him alone when she realized. He began to search for August again, taking a long drag of the cigarette. He wished he could have some booze, but he was too afraid that he'd wake up days later again with no memory of what happened. Elias couldn't decide if it would be better or worse to not remember this strange woman touching him, stroking his injuries like prizes and talking to him in that condescending, playful voice. As he thought it, another hand snuck into view, this one holding a large glass of a dark amber drink, and he looked up to see an older man staring down at him hungrily, shaking the glass at him.

"Petit garçon besoin d'une verre, oui?" Little boy needs a drink, yes? He mumbled to the woman. His voice was gruff and had an edge to it, and Elias was frightened enough by that alone to take the glass that was pushed toward him quickly. He downed some of the bitter drink, chasing it with the cigarette with a grimace. "Il est parfait." He's perfect.

"Oh, oui. Regarde sa bouche." Oh yes. Look at his mouth.

Elias's skin crawled at the way they spoke, their eyes taking him all in, her hands all over his face, poking and prodding and dissecting, almost like they were shopping. He wanted August. He hated that he did, but he couldn't help but ache to be in his sure, strong arms to shield him from their touch. With a huff, he polished off the drink, setting the glass down feather soft on the coffee table.

"Viens, mon cher," come, my dear, the woman spoke, standing up with a sigh. He frowned when one of her long fingers looped through his collar and hoisted him up with her. "Je veux utiliser ta bouche." I want to use your mouth.

"I have to wait-" he gasped, stumbling a little as she dragged him along behind him, "August wanted me on the couch. Please, I have to wait for him." She ignored him, and he could only whimper hopelessly as she shoved him into an empty bedroom in the hallway. She turned the light on as they entered, kicking the door shut behind her. He was mortified when she locked the handle.

He let out a whine when she forced him down onto his knees by his collar, until his cheek was pressed against the soft carpet and he had to squeeze his eyes shut. "Please," he rasped out, trying not to shake in the uncomfortable position she held him in, "st-stop please."

"Ah, chante pour moi, lapin." Sing for me, bunny. She stood up, allowing him to raise his chest only about an inch before her sharp heel dug into his spine and forced him back down. Her drunken giggle rang out seconds after his broken cry of pain. Elias didn't dare struggle against her, but his breathing was coming in hitched, desperate whimpers. He tried to think of the french word for please, for stop, but he knew nothing but "yes" and "thank you", and there were no two terms he wanted to say less just then.

Soon enough she removed her shoe from his back, allowing him to right himself partially. He was looking up at her with a fearful grimace, shoulders rising and falling unevenly. The look on her face was shockingly familiar, Elias had seen it on August countless times. She was drunk on the power she had over him, high on how much control she had over him right then. And August seemed to like when Elias gave himself up just a little more when he was already beyond helpless. It made him a little softer, usually, if Elias played it just right. So he took a shallow, shaking breath, and then he fought the pink blush he knew was on his cheeks when he forced himself to choke out "M...Merci."

"Oh, lapin," Oh, bunny, she moaned, crouching down in front of him and grabbing his face, "très bien ! Bien garçon." Very good! Good boy. She ruffled his hair gently before she stood straight again. She sounded overjoyed, and Elias was relieved that it had worked. He'd done good, thanked her for the humiliation and pain just the way she would like it, and she was happy. For a moment, it looked like she might turn to leave, but then she grabbed a handful of the skirt of her dress and began hiking it up. Elias felt an uneasy sinking in his stomach as he watched her, suppressing a shudder when he realized what was happening.

"I...I can't do that. August would be...would be so upset. Please don't." All of his words fell short on her, and she grabbed at his collar again, pulling him closer. He tried to tip his head away from her, but then her fingers were in his hair and forcing his head forward and he couldn't do anything, he wasn't allowed to say no, he wasn't allowed to fight back. August told him he existed to be used, and she was just using him.

And soon she was moaning, pulling at his collar hard to get him closer, saying things he didn't understand, in a voice that made him feel filthy, and he felt like he was out of his body watching it all unfold. His knees hurt, his neck hurt, his spine was aching. When she finally decided she was done, she shoved him off of her, panting as she dropped her dress. He choked back tears, watching her hopefully. He wished he understood her so she could tell him he'd done well. Had he done well? He wasn't sure, he'd never done that before. Finally, she reached down and wiped his bottom lip gently, smiling. "Attends ici." Wait here.

With that, she turned on her heel and left, shutting the door behind her and leaving him there. He was too afraid to move, staying on his knees with his head tipped downward and eyes squeezed shut. Whatever drink the strange man had given him didn't do enough to quiet the horrible dread in his chest, but at this point he wasn't sure if anything would.

When the door opened again, the woman had returned along with the man from before, and Elias only looked at them for a second before turning his head back down. He didn't want them to look at him, he wanted to be left alone, the closest he would get to that was looking away from them. But they didn't want to just look at him, of course, they wanted to use him, and use him they did. This time he couldn't help the tears streaming down his cheeks or his muffled cries that were overpowered by the aggressive grunts of the man above him. He kept waiting for it to be over, he was clutching at the man's pants sleeves desperately, trying to stop himself from ticcing and taking out a chunk of the foreigner in his mouth.

When they finally stopped and pulled off of him to straighten out their fancy clothes, Elias curled into a little ball on the carpet, arms wrapped around himself to try and stop the small sniffles from escalating into sobs. The two strangers left him there, the door slightly ajar. The nice white shirt August gave him was stained now, his knees were reddened and raw, his jaw hurt. But none of that mattered, did it? He had fulfilled his purpose, twice even, that was what should matter. Elias had obeyed, he'd let himself be used, because that's what he was told he was made for. He hoped he'd been good, that August wouldn't hurt him anymore than he already was. But even as he told himself that, he felt absolutely tainted and ruined and wrong, this was what it felt like to be less than the dirt beneath people's shoes, Elias felt bad, to say the least.

And then, as the door opened and shiny toed black shoes and dress-pants started approaching, he couldn't help but feel like he was only going to keep getting worse.

[spookyboywhump]

So remember that conversation we had on Wren starving himself because he refuses to eat out of Nicholas’ hand? Yeah here we go :3c

CW: Bad Timeline, starvation, force feeding, death mentioned several times, creepy whumper, noncon kiss (not on the lips), pet whump, dehumanization

***

It had been an ongoing fight ever since he’d gotten there. Nicholas would feed them at the same time, praising Cain for being such a good boy as he passed him bites of food that the man eagerly accepted, while Wren sat there with his arms crossed over his chest, stubbornly refusing to accept any food from him. As long as he was trying to hand feed him, he’d rather go hungry.

At first he found ways around it. When Nicholas’ back was turned, especially if he was distracted with Cain, then he could slip away. He’d always been good at sneaking around, if he was quick he could get in and out of the kitchen with something that would be enough to get him through the day. He’d tried sneaking down at night but was too worried about waking Nicholas when he tried to get out of bed, instead just doing his best during the day. Of course, it was only a matter of time before he got caught, and after that Nicholas began to keep a better eye on him, leaving him frustrated and so, so hungry.

“Don’t look at me like that, Love. I’m offering you food, all you have to do is take it.” Nicholas reminded him as Wren glared up at him.

“I’m not eating out of your fucking hand.” He snarled, arms wrapped around his middle as he was hit with another hunger pang. It had been days since he’d last eaten, and Nicholas didn’t seem like he was going to give in anytime soon- but neither was he. He was unfortunately used to being hungry, from growing up with little food to spending nine months with Cain, by now he was used to that dull ache in his stomach. Nicholas wasn’t going to be the one to finally break him with this, he refused to let that happen. He didn’t get a single bite to eat that night, and Nicholas sighed as he finally rose from his chair once he’d finished his meal.

“You can’t be this stubborn forever.” He told him. “You won’t be eating anything that I don’t feed to you, you may want to drop this stubborn attitude sometime soon.” He said, and Wren narrowed his eyes at him.

“I’d rather fucking starve.”

***

“You need to eat something.” Cain said bluntly, sitting beside him where he was curled up on the bed. Nicholas had left them alone for the day, he’d fought with the door longer than he cared to admit despite the fact he knew there was no escaping. He had to give up eventually, curling up with his arms wrapped around himself, his eyes squeezed shut. His head hurt, his whole body felt weak, and the ache in his stomach just wouldn’t go away.

“I’m not fucking doing it.” He muttered, refusing to even look at him.

“You’re not going to get anywhere like this. You’re more likely to starve to death before he gives in.”

“Good! I’d rather fucking die than be his obedient fucking lapdog!”

“I never knew you were so much like Zander.” Cain sighed, finally catching Wren’s attention enough that he at least turned to face him, opening his eyes to look up at him. “He did the same thing, the idiot planned to starve himself to death just to spite my father.”

“I think that’s a good enough reason-”

“It’s not.” He interrupted, looking down at him. “You’re not getting anything out of this. You’re just going to starve and starve until you finally die, or until he tries to do something about it. You might as well start eating before he gets to that point.”

“Fuck off.” He muttered. He knew it was a weak response because he knew that Cain was right and he’d rather die than admit that. He’d rather die than do a lot of things right now.

“You know I’m trying to help you, right?” He said, gentler as he placed a hand on Wren’s shoulder, almost as though he was trying to comfort him, only for him to quickly jerk away, weakly forcing himself to sit up so he could move away from him.

“I don’t want your help! You’ve never been any help to me before, you don’t need to start now!” He snapped. He thought this was ridiculous coming from Cain, he had half a mind to remind him how he put him through the same thing for two weeks, all for the sake of some stupid game. “Just leave me the fuck alone, will you?!” For a moment he saw a familiar look on his face, the way his eyes narrowed when he talked back to him, the look that used to make him freeze in terror. It didn’t last long though, giving way to his typical resigned expression.

“Fine then, suit yourself.” He said, getting off the bed while Wren laid back down, hiding his face in a pillow. He felt dizzy just from sitting up, his stomach turning and making him even more nauseous.

He knew it would be easier to give in. He knew it would be better for him to just stop being stubborn, to just be good and behave for Nicholas, allow him to hand feed him like a beloved pet. He knew it would be better but the thought of it made him angrier than he’d been in a while. He grit his teeth and curled up on himself as his stomach growled.

He still refused to give in.

***

He knew this was bad. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, the days continued to blur together. He hardly slept, constantly kept awake from how sick he felt, and at this point, he could hardly move. He spent most of the day curled up in bed or on the floor, and he unfortunately needed Cain’s help if he even wanted to shower after he fainted and hit his head days ago. Nicholas refused to offer him any help, in fact he’d been acting as though the starving boy in his bed was invisible, not worthy of his attention as long as he was “misbehaving”.

He hated to admit it, but he spent a lot of time crying. There wasn’t anything else he could do, and sometimes he couldn’t even manage that, miserable and angry and scared. He didn’t want to die, every time he thought he was okay with it, every time he thought it would be better than everything happening now, he was wracked with guilt. He hoped that his friends were looking for him, he hoped that Zander wanted him back, and he would feel awful if they’d wasted all that time only to find him dead. Cain had tried to talk some sense into him but there wasn’t anything he could do now. Nicholas was waiting for Wren to break and beg and he just wouldn’t.

Even though Cain had warned him, Wren still didn’t expect Nicholas to snap before he could starve completely.

Wren didn’t have the strength or energy to move when Nicholas lifted him from the bed that evening. The man didn’t say anything as he carried him from the room, and though Wren had a thousand snarky comments he wanted to make, if only to preserve his own sanity, all he could manage was a tired moan, his head leaned against Nicholas’ chest. He didn’t know, and he didn’t really care where they were going, his eyes fell shut and he simply waited for this to be over. It didn’t matter what he had planned, there was nothing he could do now except wait.

It wasn’t long before he was being sat down in a chair, which wasn’t a problem until leather straps were pulled tight around his wrists. He didn’t understand the point of that, he couldn’t have struggled even if he wanted to, but he didn’t question it.

“I have to admit, I didn’t think you would last this long. You’re more stupid than I thought, but your perserverence is impressive to say the least.” Nicholas said casually, and Wren watched tiredly as he got things ready on the table in front of him, though he couldn’t quite make sense of what he had there. Everything was sort of in a haze to him, in fact he wouldn’t have been surprised if he was dreaming all this, sighing and closing his eyes until Nicholas suddenly grabbed his face, startling him into paying attention. “I can’t have my favorite pet starving to death though, so I have to put an end to your little game.” He said, and Wren could see the slight irritation on his face.

“Wh… what do you mean…?” He murmured, his thoughts too clouded for him to understand what he was talking about. He knew he couldn’t eat right now, knew it would just make him even sicker, but Nicholas seemed to have a plan.

“Now- I need you to stay still, and do exactly as I say, Love.” He said, all but ignoring his confusion. “I’ve never done this before and I’d hate to hurt you while doing it.” He said, and Wren watched as he picked up a long, thin tube. It took him a few seconds to figure out what he planned to do with this, but it hit him hard as Nicholas held him by the chin, bringing the end of the tube up to his nose, and he was suddenly hit with a rush of panic and adrenaline.

“N-no!” He cried, trying to jerk his head away and weakly pulling against the straps holding him down. “No! G-Get that- Get that away from me!”

“I said hold still.” Nicholas said sternly, scowling at him. “This is for your own good, Love, you can’t continue to starve yourself this way.”

“I-I’ll eat, okay?! I’ll eat w-whatever you give me, I’ll eat from your-your hand, j-just get that away from me!” He yelled.

“Oh, I wish I could.” Nicholas said, faux sympathy obvious in his voice. “No, it’s been too long now, you’ll have to start with this and maybe, if you can be good, you’ll get to eat normally again. You should’ve just behaved from the start, this is really your own fault.” He told him, gripping his chin tighter as he finally forced the end of the tube up his nose.

His eyes began to water immediately and he couldn’t help but cry out in pain and discomfort. He wanted to pull away but he knew Nicholas was right, he needed to stay still if he didn’t want to risk this going terribly wrong. The fact that Nicholas hadn’t done this before wasn’t any comfort either, and he choked and gagged as it was pushed down the back of his throat, his nails digging into the armrests his wrists were secured to. Tears streamed down his face and all he could do was whine and whimper pathetically, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Shh, you’re doing fine sweetheart. Just relax, okay?” Nicholas said gently, but it wasn’t really of any comfort to him as he coaxed him to swallow to help push it down. “Poor thing, I hope you’ll behave better for me next time so we can avoid this.” He sighed, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Wren’s forehead as he finally got the tube in place, all the way down his throat. He was still getting used to the intrusion, the discomfort of having a foreign object pushed through his nose, he wasn’t sure he’d get used to it at all. It hurt less now that it was in place but it was still uncomfortable, it was still scary, he just wanted this to be over.

He watched through his tears as the man pulled away from him, watching as he used a syringe to push some sort of liquid into the other end of the tube. He shuddered and whined at the cold feeling that rushed down his throat, more tears welling up in his eyes from the odd sensation.

Stop stop stop, please just stop, He thought, wishing desperately that this was some sort of nightmare he’d finally wake up from. He didn’t know how long he expected this to last but it continued to drag on and on, slowly he began to feel full but it wasn’t satisfying, he just felt exhausted and sick, the same as before.

It felt forever had passed by the time Nicholas slowly began to remove the tube from down his throat, Wren panicked and gagging as he did so, unable to tolerate the feeling. He thought it would be a relief but it felt awful, even as Nicholas finally pulled the end out from his nose he was still taking shuddering breaths, soft whimpers escaping his throat. His wrists were finally freed and he instantly brought his hands to his nose, though he quickly pulled them away when he realized he was bleeding, just another layer of misery added on to this.

“You did good for me, Love.” Nicholas said gently, carding a hand through his hair. “Let’s hope you can keep it up, then we won’t have to do this longer than necessary.” He warned, and for once, Wren knew he should listen to him.

***

Time passed and he was slowly able to begin to eat again. He was so relieved to finally have a day where that awful tube wasn’t forced down his throat, kneeling at Nicholas’ side as always while he ate dinner.

“Love, look at me.” The man ordered at some point, and tiredly Wren turned his attention to him, still scowling though. His eyes widened as he realized Nicholas was holding out a piece of food to him, giving him a hesitant look. “Go ahead, I think you’ve finally earned it.” He said, a smug look on his face and Wren finally relented, leaning forward and taking the food, careful not to bite him.

He tried to savor the taste of having solid food again, even as he felt sick with himself for finally giving in. He wanted to fight, he wanted to struggle and snap and swear at him, but unfortunately, this was a battle that he’d lost. He’d hate to admit it but humiliation hurt so much less than being force fed like that and he’d do anything to avoid it happening again- even if it meant playing the part of Nicholas’ obedient little lapdog.

[actress4him]

In Irons 4 - Punishment

(Prompt #3 for Summer of Whump)

If a little bit of this seems familiar, it’s because I mixed what was originally Whumpay Day 9 in. I liked that drabble, and it’s what started this whole series, but it didn’t work perfectly as is and was super short. This chapter, on the other hand, ended up being really long!

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @a-series-of-whumpy-events , @ladydani101

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Warnings: lady whumpee (male whumper), imprisonment, restraints, starvation, dehydration, brief mention of noncon touch, brief emeto mention, hallucinations

.

. The sound of footsteps on the wooden steps wakes Adelaide from a restless, uncomfortable sleep. Lifting her head off the dirty floor, where she had finally resigned herself to settle when she couldn’t stay sitting up any longer, she blinks and squints at the figure coming into the brig. His face is obscured by the light from the lantern he’s holding. Adelaide quickly uses her manacled hands to shove herself upright, then decides even that’s not enough to make her feel safe and wobbles to her feet. 

The man comes closer, setting the lantern down just outside her cell so that she can finally make out his face. It’s Marshall. So far he’s never treated her unkindly, but that was before he knew her secret. Besides, he carries out the Captain’s orders, so he could very well be there to take her to her doom. 

For a moment they remain silent. He stares at her, as if trying to reconcile her outward appearance with the knowledge he now holds. Not that there’s much hiding it now, not with her shirt still gaping open. She hadn’t been able to twist her hands around to rebutton it.

“Thought you might need some food and water,” he says finally, holding out a flask and a sliver of bread between the bars of her cell.

She glances down at the offering, and back up at his face. “How...how long has it been?” She doesn’t bother to deepen her voice this time, but the way it rasps in her throat doesn’t sound the most feminine, anyway.

Marshall gives her a look that she might would call sympathetic if she didn’t know better. “About a day.”

Nodding slowly, she eyes the bread again, not sure if she should trust it. “And has the Captain reached a decision on what is to be done with me?”

“Not yet. I’ve mentioned to him that ‘twas Adams and me that brought you aboard, and that you probably continued the ruse for self-preservation.” He shrugs. “If you’re lucky it might sway him to be more lenient. Captain hates being lied to, though.”

He had...spoken up for her? That’s certainly unexpected. 

Adelaide runs her tongue over her dry bottom lip, listening to the water slosh in the flask as he speaks. He must notice, because he holds both it and the bread out once again. 

“Here, take this. You’re gonna need it. Captain...doesn’t exactly know I’m doing this, so don’t say anything to anyone about it.”

Finally she walks forward, still a bit unsteady on her feet but trying her best to hide it, and takes the food and water. She feels awkward, unsure what to do or say, but settles on nodding and whispering, “Thank you.”

Clearing his throat, Marshall steps back and nods once, as well. “Alright. Well. Just...just slide that flask over toward the stairs when you’re done with it, that way if anyone else comes down they won’t think it’s yours. I’ll pick it up whenever I come back.” Without waiting for a reply, he bends down, picks up the lantern, and turns to disappear back up the staircase.

He doesn’t end up coming down to see her again until her fate has been decided. Adelaide nibbles at the stale bread and makes the water last as long as she can, obediently disposing of the flask when it’s empty and sitting back down to wait some more in the endless silence and darkness. By her best guess, another day has passed when more footsteps traverse the stairs. But when Marshall returns, he brings another man with him, and that’s when she knows it’s time to really be afraid.

The bright sunlight is nearly blinding as she’s escorted up onto the deck, ankles free but wrists still bound. It’s a beautiful day, though. The sea is calm this afternoon. Gentle. The kind of sea that makes sailing easy, makes her feel like she’s out there for leisure, not being forced into laboring for filthy pirates.

Adelaide tries to enjoy it, even as Captain Payne sneers at her and orders the men to bring her toward the bow. There’s no telling if and when she’ll be able to enjoy a beautiful day like this again.

The edge of the ship and the water loom ever nearer, and she has half a mind to start struggling, to fight to get away from the rail, but she knows it would do her no good. She can’t even stop walking, the men on either side of her propelling her ever forward with their vice grips on her arms.

“There,” the Captain orders, pointing. “Make sure it’s good and tight.”

Suddenly she’s shoved back, away from the water. Her back collides with something hard. Before she can process what’s happening, Marshall and the other man are working together to wind rope round and round her torso, pinning her to what she’s realized is the frontmost mast of the ship.

So she’s not being thrown overboard. That doesn’t make her feel more than marginally better, not when she still doesn’t know what is being done to her.

The two men finish their job, tying the rope off in one of their expert knots, and Marshall produces a key to remove the shackles from her wrists. It’s a relief to have those gone, at least, though she wishes she could move her arms in order to massage the sore skin left behind. The rope is tight, just as ordered, only barely loose enough to not cut off her blood flow. The thick fabric of her coat keeping it from digging into her skin and rubbing it raw is the only thing making it bearable.

There’s nothing, however, to keep the Captain’s spittle from landing on her face when he leans in to sneer at her.

“You’ll learn quickly that I don’t tolerate deceit of any kind on my ship.” She’s smelled many foul things in her time aboard this ship, but his breath may win the top spot. “You’ll stay right here for three days. If you’re good and don’t put up a fuss, I might let Marshall give you some water once or twice.”

She won’t give him the satisfaction of speaking, but she does level a steady, defiant glare back at him. The punishment scares her. She can’t deny that. She’s already weak from the last two days in the cell with very little to eat and drink. But he won’t see her break.

He takes another step closer, and she refuses to flinch. “And if you think that seems brutal…” He chuckles darkly. “Try crossin’ me again. Then you’ll see brutal.”

She wants to protest that she didn’t cross him, it wasn’t him she was originally aiming to fool, and technically no one on this ship ever asked her if she was a female. Instead she presses her lips tighter together and keeps her gaze out on the horizon as he walks away.

The evening goes by slowly. Her face is quickly chapped by the ever present wind that she can hardly turn away from, her eyes dried out by the same. Her stomach rumbles with hunger. That small slice of bread is the only thing she’s eaten in two days, and while she’s had to get used to much sparser rations ever since coming onto the ship, this is far worse. 

Once the sun sinks below the horizon to her right, the temperature rapidly drops. The crew dwindles down to just the nighttime shift, leaving the ship in near silence. She can hear the slapping of the water against the hull. It gives her something to focus on, something other than the shivers that rack her body and the dryness of her lips. She even manages to be lulled into a kind of half-awake, unthinking state, though she doesn’t actually sleep until morning when the air starts to warm again. Then her sleep is fitful, frequently interrupted by the sounds of the morning crew going about their duties. 

If she thought the evening and night dragged on, the next day is much worse. Hunger gnaws at her stomach and her lips are even more chapped. Adelaide can feel herself growing weaker as time goes on, slumping further into the ropes, head lolling forward from time to time without her permission. It’s becoming harder, too, to distract herself from her misery. 

When Marshall appears in what must be the early afternoon, she nearly sobs with relief. The small flask he holds is quite possibly the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Without speaking, he unscrews the lid and holds it up to her lips, and glorious water washes across them and into her parched mouth. She doesn’t even care that it’s stale and luke-warm, it’s heavenly.

Marshall pulls the flask away after only a few seconds, and she’s so upset by the loss that she accidentally whines, though she quickly cuts off the embarrassing sound. He offers her a half-smile.

“Not too fast. We don’t want you vomiting it all back up.”

He’s right, that’s one of the most terrible things she can think of happening right now. Adelaide nods, regretting it when her head throbs, and keeps her eyes averted from his. He lifts the flask again, and she relishes every second she gets. All too soon, she’s having to turn her head to the side so that she can tip it further back, Marshall following the motion until the last drops are drained. 

Replacing the cap, he turns to leave as silently as he came. Before she fully knows what she’s doing, Adelaide calls out after him. “Stay!”

When he looks back over his shoulder at her, brow furrowed, she drops her voice to a near whisper, cutting her eyes away again. “Please? Can you...would you…? I…” Her chin drops down toward her chest. “I feel like I’m going to lose my mind.”

From the corner of her eye, she sees him lean to the side, probably looking over the rest of the ship, maybe even gauging the Captain’s position, before he steps back closer to her. He, too, speaks in a low voice. “I’m sorry. I cannot. Not without getting myself in trouble and you in even more trouble.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving her to the sun and the wind and her own thoughts again.

On the second night she manages to doze despite the chill in the air. The second day, however, is the most miserable thing she’s ever experienced in her young life. As they travel farther south the days had been growing ever warmer, but this is by far the warmest day yet. The sun bears down on them all, but while the men shed their coats - and some even their shirts - she has no such option. Her throat is impossibly dry, her lips crack painfully. Running her tongue across them does little to moisten them and leaves a bitter iron taste in her mouth. The brightness of the sun makes her head pound even harder than before, and from time to time strange colors dance in her vision.

She’d cry if she could, but her eyes feel as dry as the rest of her.

This time when Marshall approaches she can’t stop herself from begging, though her voice rasps horribly. “Please, please, I need...I...please…” It doesn’t even make any sense, but he garners the urgency, regardless, and brings the flask to her as quickly as possible. Calloused fingers slide under her chin, as if he’s unsure whether or not she can keep her head up on her own. She’s grateful. She’s unsure of just the same thing.

He forces her to take it slowly once again, and she squeezes her eyes shut in between gulps, trying to savor the water as much as trying to block out the sun’s rays. When the water is gone, though, and Marshall begins to screw the lid back on, she opens them, blearily, to look at him. His coat is missing and his shirt is unbuttoned. She’d blush if she had the energy.

“I don’t...I don’t think I can…”

He gives her that half-smile again. She thinks maybe it’s a sympathetic smile, but she’s really in no condition to judge such a thing. “It’s only one more day. You’ll make it.”

That night her mind is filled with nonsensical thoughts and imaginings of people she knows for certain aren’t there at the time. Her husband’s face morphs into the Captain’s and back again. Her parents stand to the side and tell her what a good match it is, Marshall tells her she’ll make it, all while the Captain gropes her and berates her for not having children and Charles pulls the rope around her tighter, tighter, until she can’t breathe and can’t feel her limbs. She’s not sure whether she’s awake or asleep for any of it, she just wants it to end.

The third day passes without her really being aware of it. One moment it’s nighttime, the next the sun is climbing up into the sky, burning at her skin once again, and the next she’s falling, ropes finally gone, body collapsing to the deck without anything to stop it.

“Permission to take her to her bunk and get her some food, sir?” she hears, barely, as if from a great distance away.

Perhaps the permission is granted, perhaps not. All she knows is that she’s picked up, hefted over a broad shoulder like a weightless sack of flour, and she groans with the change in position and altitude. Again, time passes without her knowing, and when she’s aware of the world again she’s lying in her hammock, in the blessed dimness of the bunk room, and Marshall is there, with another flask and a bowl of something that smells wonderful. 

“Hello there, Miss Gray.” His smile is a bit brighter this time. “You made it.”

[whumpzone]

Tomas and Rowe - Part 11

this chapter was tough, and I might never be totally happy with it, but I hope you all still enjoy it! I’m doing my best to keep to the fortnightly updates <3

Masterpost

taglist: @sola-whumping @just-another-whumper @misspelledwitch @looptheloup @briars7 @black-polarf @zipadeedooda-drabbles @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @rosesareviolentlyread @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jazz-0307 @kestrelsparverius @whumpsy-daisies @whumpersworld @memoriesneverforget @sky-or-something-idfk @ghostcomit @cupcakes-and-pain @frankieswhump @ihaventwritteninsolong @mybrokenlittletoy @kiretto-laorentze @morelikepainsley @lave-e @tears-and-lilies @whump-me-all-night-long @newbornwhumperfly (just ask if you want to be added! thank you all!)

CW: pet whumpee, dehumanisation, hospitals

-

"Hey," came a voice. When Rowe didn’t immediately wake up, a slap landed across his face. It ground the muzzle deeper into his flesh and forced him awake, wide-eyed and cowering. He was lucky to be spoken to first, of course. Usually he’d be hit without any warning. "Wake up Mutt. You’re finished here."

. . .

"Why couldn’t he come meet me in the waiting room?" Tomas asked the orderly.

"The exit is just this way. We find that most Pet owners like to be discrete in this kind of situation."

The ‘discrete’ room was divided into small curtained cubicles. The orderly left without a word after pointing Tomas towards Rowe, and Tomas was grateful for that at least. Rowe looked horrific. His wrists were strapped into a wheelchair- like he had any intention of running away, given the splint fixed around his left leg. His head flopped to one side, eyes closed, and a thick muzzle was clamped over poor Rowe’s face. His Rowe, that someone had bound and muzzled and hurt. The surge of protectiveness scared Tomas. It felt too close to ownership.

He went to take a closer look at Rowe’s legs, when a hand appeared in his line of sight. Tomas shook it without thinking.

"Hello, you must be the owner. Mr… Grzegorzewski? I’m Dr Scarlett Easton, and this is Dr Jacob Clerval."

"Ah, pleased to meet you both," Tomas said weakly. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Rowe’s head twitch. He’s awake, then. "He was bad enough to need two doctors, then?"

Rowe flinched, ever so slightly, at the word bad.

"He? Aw, that’s quite cute," smiled Dr Easton. Tomas wished everyone would stop commenting on that. "Dr Clerval here is quite new, so he’s been observing. We thought he might be needed, but only one leg was broken, as it happens. We’ve put it in a splint. The other one just needed stitches."

"Right, that’s good then. And the restraints, I… was he being troublesome?"

Tomas chanced a glance in Rowe’s direction. His eyes were full and apologetic, and Tomas wanted to reassure him that everything was okay, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

"Spoke out of turn."

"Mm. But we could get the arms down without a problem. So there’s hope still," the young doctor said with a smile. Tomas realised a few seconds too late that he was making a joke. It felt too weird to speak about Rowe like he wasn’t even in the room. Discussing him without letting him have a say in the matter. Rowe, of course, looked completely used to it. He sat perfectly still, and it only angered Tomas more. It was normal! Rowe was on his best behaviour despite being muzzled like a bad dog because he’d be hurt if he wasn’t, and that was just normal and expected and understood. It made Tomas’s blood boil. He needed to get Rowe home.

. . .

Rowe’s heart jumped when he heard Master’s voice. The painful fog lifted. Master Master Master. He was here. He didn’t abandon Rowe. He was here and that was worth any punishment he’d give out when Rowe got home. He didn’t remember ever being so happy to see his old master, but he didn’t dwell on that. Master, they fixed my legs. Please take me back home. You said I can have wants. I want to go back home and serve you and let you do whatever you want to me.

The two doctors were talking about Rowe, and Master glanced over a few times, but not to look at Rowe’s legs. He was looking into Rowe’s eyes, staring at him from under his blond curls and Rowe couldn’t understand because that wasn’t where he’d been hurt. He wanted to survey the work the doctors had done, right?

"Okay, thank you," said Master, and his voice was so familiar, so calm and clear and measured, and even through his shame Rowe’s spirits lifted. "I don’t think this wheelchair will be necessary from now on, thanks."

. . .

"That’s handy, because we need it back anyway. And the muzzle."

Tomas tried to act like someone who didn’t care because he had one at home anyway. Rowe kept his eyes down as his mouth was released and again Tomas just wanted to scream at them, because for goodness sake he’s bleeding, and it was fastened over a barely-healed broken nose, and you’re all acting like it doesn’t fucking matter.

"Have you brought a cage for it?"

"If you haven’t brought a cage then he will need carrying, sir."

"That’s- I can get him home fine, thanks."

"Whatever," Tomas muttered, scooping Rowe into his arms without a second thought. He was still light even with the addition of the splint. Rowe didn’t react except to bury his face into Tomas’s neck as he turned on his heel and left.

"Hey, Rowe," he said gently as soon as they were outside. "How do you feel, pal?"

"M-Master," he said weakly.

"I’m here, I promise. Does it hurt?"

"It d-doesn’t matter…"

No Master for once. That was probably not a good sign, right now. "Can you tell me anyway?" Tomas was careful to avoid sounding like Rowe was being rude, or disobedient, or forcing him to tell him out of fear.

"U-uh, it hurts on m-my legs, M-Master. And m-my face."

"From the muzzle, right? Little bastards. I never said they could do that to you."

"I s-spoke without permission, Master."

"Well, I like it when you speak. I like hearing what you have to say." He kept his tone matter-of-fact. Rowe shuddered against his chest, and it could have been a laugh. Yes, I suppose that isn’t said to Pets very often. "And your poor legs. Well, we’re going to try this out, but let me know if it doesn’t work, okay?"

Tomas gently hoisted Rowe onto his back, climbing onto his bicycle very carefully. Rowe clung on; his frail arms hooked over Tomas’s shoulders and the brittle scabs forming over Rowe’s newest cuts tickled his jaw. This is fucking stupid.

"I’ll go slowly," Tomas promised, pushing the bike into motion and vowing never to go back to that wretched place.

. . .

Rowe savoured the last few moments, tucked protectively against his owner’s chest, before they got home and his punishment started. He had wasted Master’s time, he had spoken without permission, he had got blood everywhere upstairs, he was ugly, he was useless, and he was due a punishment. He was due more pain until he was a pitiful, twitching wreck, sobbing that he’d never trouble Master like that again. This was all he could think as he was carried into the house and- not dropped on the floor, as he’d expected, but placed onto the sofa. But- but- Pets couldn’t-

"You’re allowed on the sofa," Master Tomas said, like he’d read Rowe’s mind. "You’re always allowed. But right now, I don’t want any argument, okay?"

Rowe nodded nervously, and didn’t resist as Master unclipped the collar from around his neck. It was insolent and rude and selfish, but Rowe had got used to life without one. He tried to sit up and be pretty, but he was still faint and clumsy with pain.

"H-hurts, Master. M-my legs hurt."

"Rowe?" Master asked, and Rowe’s heart sank because of course, Master would notice immediately. Pets were too stupid to hide things from their Master. The truth always came out, eventually. "You doing okay?"

A pause. "They did… you got painkillers right, Rowe? They gave you anaesthetic?"

Rowe shook his head and immediately Master’s eyes darkened with rage. Wrong answer.

"What the fuck?" Master cried. Rowe flinched. He knew what that tone predated. "No, I’m not- I’m not angry with you. I’ll get you some painkillers."

"P-please, it’s n-not wasted on Pets," Rowe protested weakly, even though he knew Pets never argued with their Master. What was he thinking? Besides, he still opened his mouth obediently when Master approached him with two small pills and some water.

"Okay," he exhaled. Master crouched before him and took Rowe by the hand, ever so gently. Rowe still felt ice run through him at the contact, expecting him to clamp and wrench and pull, but he didn’t.

. . .

I have to do it, thought Tomas as he looked at Rowe. …but I don’t have to do it tonight.

. . .

"Rowe," Master began as he often did, and Rowe liked being reminded that he was important enough to be named. It made him feel wanted.

(made him feel like a person) (no it didn’t)

Master was looking at him so warmly that it made Rowe just want to shy away because he hadn’t earned this kindness. Why was Master even here? What did he want? Why was he here if not to get something from Rowe- to punish him for causing such a fuss?

"When people get hurt, it’s important to be extra nice to them. This doesn’t mean that you can only have nice things if you take pain first, okay?"

"O-okay, Master." But what does that matter?

"I want to do whatever you want tonight. Anything at all. I know having wants is still new, so this is a good chance to try them out." Master ran his thumb over Rowe’s hand. His fingers weren’t rough like old master’s were. They were soft. "Wanting something won’t make me angry. I won’t get angry, I won’t laugh at you, I won’t ignore you."

"I can want s-something?" Rowe timidly confirmed. "I’m not being punished?"

The worst case scenario flitted before his eyes, as it always did- Master’s grip turns painful and he smacks beats hits kicks whips burns hates me and it was all a cruel joke- but it didn’t linger, it didn’t make him seize up. It-

It passed. And all that happened was Master nodded.

"I want-" Rowe’s breath hitched. He knew what he wanted. He couldn’t believe he was even capable of wanting. And now that it wasn’t a dream, or a private thought, the desperation came crashing into him almost too fast to keep up with. It tore and wrenched and made him ache. "Please- please p-pet me, Master, please hold me and ruffle m-m-my hair. I want to b-be held so badly. Please."

. . .

Oh, Rowe, Tomas thought, feeling his heart break once again. I’ve really been cruel to you, haven’t I?

"Of course, pal, of course," he said gently, sitting down next to Rowe and putting an arm around him. "Why don’t you lean on me and get comfortable?"

It felt wrong, Tomas couldn’t deny that, it felt so wrong to let this small, traumatised human rest his head on Tomas’s chest and be pet like a- well, like a Pet. But he also couldn’t deny the way Rowe softened against him. Sure, Rowe went limp a lot, his training making him unresisting and pliable, but this was different. Tomas worked the fingers of his free hand into Rowe’s hair and stroked, all the way down to the top of his spine and back to his crown. Rowe let out a shuddering breath, like all the defences he’d had to keep raised since Tomas got him were being lowered, just for tonight.

The words kept dying on his lips, but Tomas promised himself that if Rowe didn’t respond then he wouldn’t say them again. "You’re- you’re a good boy, Rowe."

Another shudder, and a sniff. Rowe’s face pressed harder into Tomas.  

"Such a good boy. You were so brave today."

And then- Rowe’s shoulders trembled, in the way Tomas had quickly learnt they only did when Rowe was crying silently.

"Th-thank you," Rowe whispered between sobs. "Thank y-you so much, Master."

"I mean it," he soothed. "You are so good, Rowe. I’m happy I have you as a Pet."

It was a confession to himself as much as it was a comfort for Rowe. The words sank in, for both of them. Rowe’s crying didn’t abate, and Tomas felt a few tears of his own drip down his face. They landed perfectly on the hand in Rowe’s hair. That’s for the best. Proper Masters don’t cry over their Pets.

Tomas couldn’t help it. All his anger at the hospital had settled into sadness. He wasn’t being selfish. Rowe so desperately needed to feel safe and comforted, even if by morning he would be back to his usual fearful servitude. But Tomas also wanted to drop the pretence, just for a night, and let himself be kind and gentle without confusing his poor precious Pet.

He continued stroking his hair until Rowe fell asleep, his head rising and falling in unison with Tomas’s slow breaths.

(ending loosely inspired by this post)

[jordanstrophe]

Going Once, Going Twice, part 10

Prison party, part 2/?

Masterlist

CW: Pet whumpees, whump party, abuse, collars, restraints, manhandling, shock collar, public torture, panic attack, anxiety, creepy whumpers, 

Robert held Peter close in his arms, not daring letting him an inch apart in fear someone would just rip him from his arms. This was a bad idea... This was a terrible stupid bad idea, his gut feeling was going haywire, but they were there now. Might as well get it over with as soon as possible. 

There were people all standing around, the room filled with chattering and laughing, drowning the sobbing coming from some of the Pets that were either standing by their owners cowering, or quietly kneeling at their feet. You could tell a lot about that person based on how they were treating their Pets and how they were behaving, limping, black eyes or tight collars. 

Robert scanned the crowd trying to find Nina, before walking to the main room. It was a dining room, a long massive table in the center, slowly being filled with expensive exotic foods for dinner. Some people were already claiming their seat early, as close to the ends as possible hoping to be seated by someone important. 

“My my, what a sweet thing you have there.” A deep charming voice said from behind. Peter went stiff, as Robert glanced behind him. There was the Barron, standing well dressed in a suit and bow tie, a Pet kneeling at his feet with a chain attracted to his bound wrists, like a leash. 

“He’s... Clean.” The man tilted his head to get a better look at Peter’s face, noting the lack of damage. He had plenty of scars, sure, but you would have to really look to find them. “Can I help you?” Robert muttered. The man let out a loud jolly laugh, throwing his head back. The battered bruised Pet at his feet cringed fearfully. 

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest, both from fear and guilt. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the broken Pet at his feet, cowering, terrified.

That was supposed to be him... Wasn’t it.

“This must be your first time here, call me Nicholas Grimm. You must be Robert McAllen, right? I don’t recognize you entirely, it was pretty dark at the auction. But I do recognize him.” They pointed. Peter flinched when he moved his arm, as if he had been shot. “I sincerely apologize, but I’m looking for someone, if you don’t mind.” Robert tried to keep his voice as polite as he could, backing away. “Come now! I’m an important man, sit with me at dinner, there’s something I must discuss with you.” He smiled, extending his hand to the dinner table. “Oh, I wasn’t planning on staying for dinner, I’m really in a hurry.” He muttered, trying to make it clear he was walking off. 

“You’re.. Not staying for dinner?” He was clearly trying not to break down laughing again, biting on his lower lip. “No sir!” He called, hoping he was inched far away enough it was appropriate to walk away. 

The Barron shook his head with a large satisfied smile. “What an absolute fool... He has no idea.” He giggled to himself. He glanced down at the Pet at his feet, giving him a swift hard kick against his leg. ‘’Isn’t that right?” He hissed harshly down at the boy. “Yes sir!” He immediately shouted in response. “No stutter... Good job. That’s one less punishment for tonight. Keep it up.” He growled.

“Are you okay?” Robert whispered down as Peter. “I’m fine...” He muttered with a shaky voice. “I’m sorry... I didn’t know he would be here.” He admitted with guilt. He felt a weight being torn from his arm, as he gasped and whirled around. A tall woman had a grasp on Peter’s arm, wrenching it up as she pulled him close. Peter let out a cry as her long sharp nails dug into his arm. “Oh how adorable! I’ve never seen such a clean empty canvas before.” She smiled wildly, grabbing his chin and tilting it to the side. “Hey! Get yours hands off!” Robert yelled, grabbing Peter in one hand, shoving her hand off with the other. “You dare?... You don’t have to be so rude about it! I was just looking!” The woman snapped, crossing her arms. She wore a hat with long white feathers flowing from it. “Then look with your eyes...” Robert cursed under his breath. She raised an eyebrow. “I want to borrow him. How much?” She asked. “He’s not up for grabs, please don’t touch him.” Robert snapped. Peter immediately latched onto his shirt trying to hide himself underneath his coat. 

Robert shook his head in disgust at the woman as he slid through the crowd as for away from the women as he could. He found somewhat of a clear corner as he sat down on a couch and setting Peter next to him. “Are you okay? Let me see your wrist...” He muttered, gently taking his arm and pulling his sleeve up. “I’m okay.” He muttered, his voice was obviously shaking as he trembled. “Honey...” Robert sighed. “That’s it... We’re going home, I can’t believe I actually brought you here. I never imagined it was like this.” He muttered. “But, you didn’t get what you came for!” He tried to argue back. “It doesn’t matter! You’re not safe here. I don’t even see Nina. It was just a stupid letter, you’re more important then that.” He said.

Peter let off a small sad smile. “I’m sorry, I should never have made such a scene... Urrg.. I’m so stupid!” He cried out, digging his nails in his hair. Robert immediately snatched his hands up in his. “Young man, none of that. We’ll talk in the car.” He said, standing him up and walking straight for the door. He kept his head down as he pushed his way through the crowd, but when he reached for the handle, the door didn’t budge. “What the....” He muttered, jostling the door back and forth. 

“Well well... Would you look at that. Speak of the devil.” A creeping voice sang. Robert shut his eyes in disturbance, slowly turning around to face Nina. “Hey cousin...” He muttered, nodding in acknowledgme- “DON’T YOU DARE CALL ME THAT!” She hissed with a shrieking voice. The room quickly went into deathly silence, as she chuckled, cleaning her throat. “Ehem... Excuse me. I never dreamed in a thousand years that I would see you, here of all places. And what’s this you have here?” She smirked, bending down with her hands resting on her knees. “You, Rob, have a Pet. My Robert McAllen, has a Pet.” She laughed. “Honestly, I wanted to put you on a ban list of every occasion I threw, but I didn’t bother with this one because, well, I figured you were too much of a poster boy to get one. Where'd you get him at, second hand thrift store for five dollars? Hah!” She laughed at her own joke.

“Five million at an auction.” He gave a sweet yet smug smile.

“F-f-f-five... Million.” She muttered, eyes going wide, almost dropping the glass she held in her hand that went slack. “You paid five m-million, of MY money, on a little Pet?!” She hollered. She tried to get a good look at Peter’s face, who was pressing his body against Robert’s back. 

“Awww... He’s is pretty cute.” She cooed, her mood instantly shifting as she gave him a small smile and wave. He only had one eye poking out from behind him, wide and fearful. 

“I was here for you, actually. I wanted to talk to you about a letter that was left for me. A letter from my mother.” He explained. 

“A letter, hmm? Not familiar with it.” She shrugged. “I think you are, and I’m willing to pay for it.” He said. She gave him a curious look, before a smirk spread across her face. Sit next to me at dinner, at my left hand.” She smiled, turning to walk away. “Wait! I need to take him home. Can you unlock the door?” He called. 

She broke down laughing, she laughed and laughed as it echoed throughout the walls. “Oh darling!” She laughed. “You really didn’t do your research. At five the doors close and lock, no one in, no one out until midnight. That’s the rules.” She shrugged. ‘'What? What kind of a rule is that? Just let us out!” He hollered. “It’s our only rule, you should have checked, it was on the front page where the party was advertised. Chill out now, have a drink, join us for dinner, show off your preciouses boy you got there. You’re here now, might as well enjoy it.” She waved, slithering off into the crowd.

Robert sighed, trying the door one last time as if it might magically become unlocked. “M-master...” Peter muttered, tugging his coat. “I’ll be okay, I can do this, I have you.” He gave him a nervous smile. Robert placed a hand on his head. “I’m so sorry hon... I’ll keep you safe, I promise.” He muttered back. 

He joined the dinner table, Nina sat at the head, of course, with the spot she promised left open for him. She was happily chatting away as a guest standing next to her, her eyes immediately caught his, as she waved him over. 

Robert glanced at the single chair, then back at her. “Just put him on the floor, you can feed him scraps if that’s what you choose.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “I’d rather just hold him.” He glared. “Hold him-? Whatever.” She waved her hand, annoyed. 

Robert Pulled Peter onto his lap who immediately latched onto his shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of his neck. Nina waved the man away who was trying to talk to her, as she stared at Peter intensely. 

“My eyes are up here.” Robert grumbled. She spat out a laugh, before turning attention to the person who just sat at her right hand. “There’s the man of the hour.” She smiled. “Hello my dear.” The Barron smiled gleefully, shoving his Pet to the floor at his feet. Robert knew at that moment something was going on. He wasn’t sure what, but she was up to something. 

‘’Nina, the letter...” Robert tried. Before he could get anymore out, the lights began to dim. “Sssh! We’ll talk after the show. Barron wants to talk to you too.” She smiled before turning her attention to a stage, as red curtains that took up the entire wall slowly lifted.

A man in a top hat was standing over another who was heavily restrained, with his head down silently.

“Good day to the ladies and gentlemen. I hope each and everyone enjoys tonight's show! This here is Eden, he’s going to be demonstrating his marvelous obedience and respect.” The man smiled. “But if he doesn’t perform flawlessly, he gets a slight punishment...” The man winked, holding up a trigger, mercilessly hitting the button. The man let out a holler, chest slamming onto the floor, as a buzzing sound could be heard. The man let go of the button, grabbing his hair and forcing his head up to show off the shock collar around his neck, the crowd laughing and cheering.

“Master!” Peter whispered as loudly as he dared. “I can’t see this! Please don’t let me watch this, I’m begging you!” He panicked, clutching onto his coat desperately. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, as Robert let him off his lap. “Go in the front room sweetie, I’ll come get you in a minute.” He whispered. “Thank you!” He cried, bolting off while covering his ears. 

Robert knew Peter had some built up trauma, he couldn’t quite watch this either, but he couldn’t do all of this only to miss his one window with Nina. 

The Barron shot a glance back, noticing Peter slipping off into the other room. He smirked, before turning his attention back to the stage with a wide evil grin.

Nina McAllen

Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @moose-teeth @ill-eat-you-if-you-cross-me @yet-another-heathen @sillypizzazineoperator @freefallingup13 @alien-octopus @unicornscotty @whumpzone  @penny-for-your-whump @girlwithnoballons242 @whumpingredroses  @rippedjeansandfadeddreams  @cupcakes-and-pain @thinkingofausername

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Thank you for reading!

[bumpthumpwhump]

Snippets from in the cellar

This is my first piece with original characters/content that I’m posting anywhere ever (so please let me know your thoughts) but when I saw this prompt (see below) I knew I had to write something. The only trigger warnings for this would really be: held captive with injuries, a little swearing and heavy angst, smaller reference to non-con if you squint hard enough to see it, so if that’s not your thing then please don’t read. Story under the cut. 

This is from a prompt I saw by @whumpthencomfort (I tried to tag you for credit but it wouldn’t find your blog):

“The whumper lives in a nice suburban street where nothing bad ever happens and keeps the whumpee in their basement a secret from their family. One day, during a neighbourhood barbecue, the whumpers kid and couple of their friends break into the basement expecting to find alcohol - only to discover the terrified, traumatised whumpee who had just about given up hope that anyone was going to save them.”

He’s jerked into consciousness from the impact to the side of his face and the breath being forced from his chest as he’s thrown to the floor, with his hands tied behind his back he had no way to lessen the impact or protect his already bruised body. Drowsily he looks around and takes in the room he’s lying in, a wine cellar, he realises. As his eyes try their best to adjust to the bright overhead lights and tries to shake off the drug in his system, he feels chains being fastened around his ankles “wha… what?” He asks, his mind struggles to keep pace and make sense of what’s happening. He’s no stranger to waking up from being high but this is too different.

The rough voice comes from behind him as he feels chains being wrapped around his bare wrists “Shut the fuck up” he’s told as the zip tie that had been securing his wrists is cut off, the knife nicks the side of his wrist.

He weakly protests as he tries to wriggle away from the man “N…no… you can’t…” but he’s cut off by a thick cloth gag being put between his lips and tied at the back of his head.

He feels the mans breath on his ear as he leans in close “Oh but I can… I can do whatever I want now…” the man trails off as words send a chill down his spine, almost as though he’s pausing for effect… it’s followed up with a tug on the gag, it pulls at his mouth as he’s told “There, that’ll keep you nice and quiet.” The man pats the side of his face and it sends his world spinning again. He thinks that he should’ve seen this coming, that they should’ve been more careful. He knows he can’t let this happen, so he takes as deep a breath as his bruised ribs will allow and tries to scream. It comes out in the form of a muffled cry, he’s still too weak to make it count. He works to regain his breath.

His attention is drawn towards the door to the cellar, where the man stands chuckling as he shrugs and tells him matter of factly “Go ahead, scream as much as you want, no-one would hear you even if you weren’t gagged.“ As the man turns and pulls the door open, from his position on the ground he can blearily see that it leads to a smaller room with another solid looking door. The man turns back and reaches his hand towards the light switch “I’ll give you some time to rest and think about why you’re here.” He then smiles and tilts his head as he adds “oh and I’d try not to fall asleep if I were you, you might be have a concussion” as he flicks the switch and closes the door behind him, the room plunged into darkness and the sound of the locks on the door turning echo through the room along with it’s captives shaky breaths.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He’s sitting on his mattress against the wall eating the sandwich he’d been brought, he doesn’t know how long he’s been down here, he’s lost count of how many times he’s asked this, how many times they’ve been through this routine now. He can’t tell how long he’s been here for, but he’s betting it’s been a while. In a show of desperation he sighs and asks the man sitting opposite him “Please, Paul… I won’t tell…” he interrupts the story about the mans family, the trophy his daughter had won at school yesterday.

Rolling his eyes at he stands, his captor asks “How many times?” Gesturing around the room with his hand extended he continues in sorrowful tone with an underlay for warning “…Do we need to get rid of these again… start from the beginning?”

At those words his mind flashes back to the last time he’d tried to escape, not long after he’d been captured, when he’d tried to overpower his captor and he had to start fresh, being drugged twice a day, having to behave and show Paul that he wasn’t a threat… all so that he’d get his mattress and lamp back. He never thought he’d be grateful for, or treasure, two small things like these. He’d do anything to not be forced to go through withdrawal tied up in the dark on a cold stone floor again. He’s snapped back to reality by a questioning “Well do we?”

Quickly he utters “No I’m sorry… I, I won’t ask again” as he moves into the middle of the mattress in an attempt to stop it being taken, the chain connecting his ankle to the bolt in the wall rattling as it moves with him.

The smile that spreads across that face that he’d love to punch again manages to stir up a burning hatred in his chest, it’s a feeling he didn’t know he was still capable of feeling for the man he’d never thought could harm him, the same man who has managed to reduce him and his world to this existence in this room. He receives a nod “Good…” as they both move back to their original positions, him sitting against the wall as he resumes eating, and the man sitting back down on his chair that he brings in with him, but higher than him, always higher than him.

The next thing the man says feels like a punch to the gut “Besides, no-one’s really missed you…” He pulls back from the bite of the sandwich he was about to take, his hands falling to his lap and his eyes following them, he unconsciously winces as he looks at the scars around his wrists, the sandwich falls to the floor. It can’t be true, he knows there’s at least one person that would still miss him. He opens his mouth to say something as he looks up, any kind of cutting reply would be fine, but all he can do is take a breath as the words die before they’ve even been formed, he looks back down to his lap. He shakes his head in place of the words he can’t say. Almost as though he’s speaking out loud anyway, he hears “They’ve all moved on… moved away…” the voice grows closer and he sees the boots in front of him stop at the edge of his mattress “and when they come home? You’re not even mentioned anymore…”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When he wakes up he realises he’s on the stone floor again, he’s not sure how long he’s been out for this time. Willing his arms to work and carry him this time, he manages to crawl the rest of the short distance to the wall and slowly prop himself up against it, though by the time he’s managed it his vision is fading at the edges again and it hurts too much to sit up, there’s too much pressure on that place he’d never known could hurt like this until he woke up in this room… In fact, everything hurts more than it did before he’d moved. As he gingerly eases himself back down to a lying position, he looks around the room slowly, but doing both things at the same time still makes him dizzy. There’s not much to see anyway from the tiny beam of dull light sneaking in from under the door, but he knows his mattress, water and lamp will be gone. He instantly dismisses his idea of using his shirt to wipe the blood from his eye, he couldn’t manage to get the damn thing off his body anyway.

As he settles on the floor and wills his body to stay as still as it possibly can he silently curses himself… he’s not quite sure whether it was the smugness of that voice, or just the words that Paul had spoken that made him jump up and punch the man under his chin, or whether it’s just that he’s finally snapped and doesn’t really care whether he lives or dies anymore… Either way he knows it was a stupid mistake, he’d barely had time to think about his next move before he was jumped on and pinned down to the mattress “Stupid fucking mistake…” the stern words whispered in his ear somehow felt like they were being screamed as the punches started. He knows he blacked out after he half turned round and was hit on his chest and face with part of the chain that connected his ankle to the wall… he can hazard a good guess what happened next as he takes stock of each ache and pain in his body. He knows he won’t be walking or standing for a while.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He wakes with a start as he hears the first door being opened carefully, he knows what’s coming next, and his breath quickens as much as the battered body will allow it to. He can’t have the drugs, not now, not like this. He knows he won’t last, and for the second time in his captivity he thinks maybe it’s better that he doesn’t come out of this anyway…

The door to the cellar opens slowly, pulling him back from spiralling, it lets in more light, and the footsteps stop in the doorway from the sound. They’ve done this dance once before, and this time he can’t bring himself to look up, what’s the point, he’s accepted his fate, probably couldn’t fight back even if he wanted to… he can hardly breathe without it hurting. His body seems to have a different idea though, as he automatically pushes himself up a little and scoots back, subconsciously moving until he’s propped up with his back is against the wall and he’s squashing down a pained groan from the movement.

Its the sharp intake of breath from the doorway that finally makes him look up, but it’s not the silhouette that he’s become so familiar with that’s standing there now. “I… you… I… b-but… no…” the figure in the door stumbles over the words, and he knows now that he’s officially lost it because it can’t be… Paul said they’d all moved on, moved away… and the voice sounds shocked to see him… Then he realises what this is, that this is the final play in the cruel game that Paul’s been playing for however long he’s been kept down here.

Ignoring the aches that explode everywhere on his body, he pushes his body to curl into a ball because this is the thing that will finally break him, and he’ll hide from it for as long as he can. The footsteps come closer, and they sound almost tentative as they come to a stop before him, almost where Pauls had stopped at the edge of the mattress. He curls tighter into himself and manages to croak out “nnn… no… p-please?” as he shakes his head slightly and the world spins around him as the edges of his vision go dark.

He knows he’s fading as he slides down the wall and meets the ground, faintly hears the far too concerned voice calling the name that he’s not been called in who knows how long, his name… “Sebastian stay with me!” But he can’t make himself stay awake, his eyes close as the world fades away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

If anyone is interested in more from this, I kind had a whole universe in my head while I was writing, so I have a few ideas for other stories, so just let me know :) - Also let me know your thoughts on this one! Thank you for reading!

[secretwhumplair]

What Xerxes wants

878 words | Xerxes & Nor (timeline - weeks after Xerxes got rescued)

Content | Whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker, ex-whumper x whumpee (non-romantic), mention of past torture, conditioning

Notes | Hm. Hm. So. Here we are. I was a little hesitant to delve into this part of the story but literally this blog exists to play with those things so!

Xerxes already had their touch aversion before, the torture unsurprisingly did not make it better...

Taglist | @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​​​

For a while after waking up, Xerxes stared at the ceiling, listening to Nor’s calm breath next to them. “Don’t leave me,” they had begged, weeks before, their mind raw with the agony filling their entire world, except for the Nor-shaped cut-out. They should have taken back the words once they could think halfway straight. They knew they should have.

But they still woke to the sound of Nor’s breath every morning.

It was such an achingly familiar sound, and it shouldn’t be.

They had no business staying here, taking advantage of Nor’s kind heart or Stockholm syndrome or whatever the fuck it was that had possessed him to save them.

They carefully sat up, swallowed down tears, and climbed over Nor without disturbing him. When they moved, something inside them still throbbed with pain. For a moment, they wondered idly whether it would ever fully go away, but of course it would. They always healed.

The thought made them sick to their stomach.

They had almost made it, were almost fully dressed and on their way out the door, when Nor stirred behind them. They had tried so hard to be quiet, let him sleep and wake without them as if from a bad dream, and they froze, hoping he’d go back to sleep.

“Xerxes. Where are you going?” He sounded almost hurt.

“Home,” Xerxes replied, not turning around. “I don’t belong here.” I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve y-

“You belong to me. I bought you.” He regretted saying it by the time they turned around, they could tell from the way he leant back just a fraction, as if to distance himself from his words. But he was right, of course. It was almost a relief. That was at least some level of fair.

“Sit.” Nor nodded to the empty space next to where he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Xerxes obeyed, folding their hands in their lap. They felt themself tremble lightly and couldn’t have said quite why. It wasn’t that they were scared of Nor, in the way a pet might be of their master; they knew he would never treat them this way, no matter what he said.

Even though they deserved it.

For a while, they sat in silence. Not didn’t reach out, hadn’t reached out to touch them once since he brought them here, even though they knew he wanted to, and they were so grateful.

“This isn’t right,” they finally said, when Nor didn’t. “You shouldn’t have to do this. You of all people.”

“Well, someone had to.” Xerxes glimpsed over to see Nor looking steadily at them, not happy, certainly not, but determined. “You didn’t deserve that. No one does. You didn’t deserve being tortured - essentially to death over and over. No one fucking deserves that.”

It took all Xerxes had not to flinch when Nor put their ordeal so bluntly. They looked away, shook their head. Absurdly, they found they missed the flow of their hair as they moved. “I-“

“I know what you did,” Nor interrupted them. “I haven’t forgotten, don’t worry.” He’d raised his voice just a little, the way he never would have dared a year ago, and they found a smile tugging at the corner of their mouth.

At least.

Yet his raised voice, or his cut hair, or the weight he gained couldn’t hide the tense poise with which he still carried himself, or the willingness to drop whatever he was doing to do what anyone asked. They had seen the damage they had done - they had known, of course, but only now they knew how well it lasted.

“I’m grateful,” they whispered. “I can never thank you enough. But it isn’t fair you have to take care of me. And I - I’m better. I can go. You’ve done enough.” It took all their strength to keep their voice from breaking. A little voice inside them was begging for help, begging for more of the care they’d received in the last weeks, begging not to be left alone again. But even if they could ever ask for it, it would never be fair to ask it of him. They pushed themself up from the bed.

From the way Nor looked at them, they knew they hadn’t convinced him, and it struck them that knowing each other for so long was a two-way street. They looked away.

“I’ll come,” Nor said quietly. “I’ll help you with your work. You’re doing good, I want to help.”

“You shouldn’t. This… is a bad idea.” He was still attached to them, it was painfully obvious, and that was perhaps the worst of all.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” There was a note of playfulness in his voice now, but it didn’t cover the tiredness underneath. “I’ve made up my mind. I don’t want to argue with you.”

I don’t want to argue with you was there in his eyes, sure. But Xerxes also saw something much deeper and kinder, a kindness they didn’t deserve.

But they couldn’t bear continuing to argue. Maybe it was even right not to. They couldn’t tell, too strong was the ache inside them to continue being looked at like that.

[supersilversleuth]

I Know You Won’t Believe Me (But Sometimes I wish You Would) by SuperSilverSpy

Fandoms: DCU, DCU (Comics), Batman - All Media Types  

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Category: Gen

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Roman Sionis, Hurt Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson-centric, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson Whump, Whump, Whumptober 2021, Angst, Dick Grayson DID NOT fake his Death, I know I’m not really touching on it in this fic, but it’s important I say that, Post-Spyral, Miscommunication, Betrayal, I mean, Perceived Betrayal, SuperSilverSpy, SilverGrayson, SilverWhump, Protective Dick Grayson, injuries

Summary:

“Wha—Where am I? What do you want?” He asked, pretending to be groggy from waking up.

“Well, Officer Grayson, you are the Red Hood’s dirty pig informant, so I’m betting there’s a lot I can get out of you.”

Dick resisted the urge to laugh, or explain himself. There wasn’t much to explain anyway, not without revealing secrets that he would rather die protecting. Instead, he forced his expression into something more like shock, and resignation, deciding to play this role to the end. He could feel the instincts of manipulation and deception settling back over him like a very familiar blanket. Playing spy for a while had given him the opportunity to hone those skills. If there was any beneficial thing that could be taken away from that whole experience, it was what good he could now do with the abilities he’d enhanced during that time.

OR Dick is forced to pretend to betray Jason in order to protect the Red Hood’s identity

No. 5 - I’VE GOT RED IN MY LEDGER betrayal | misunderstanding | broken nose

Part 5 of 2021 Most Whumperful Time of the Year - Dick Grayson-centric

Language: English Words: 3,462 Chapters: 1/1 

Dick was tracking down a lead in the northern part of Blüdhaven, snooping around in various warehouses. It was the part of Blüdhaven that was closest to Gotham, so really Dick should’ve known better than to think his day would be uneventful.

 As it was, he was surprised by the sight of the Red Hood tying up the exact criminals Dick was looking for.

 Jason had tensed, glancing up, hand going for his gun—when Dick pushed the creaky warehouse door open to take a peek inside—and then, when Jason realized who it was, the hand went away from the gun, and the eyes away from Dick, but the tension remained. Jason continued about, tying the criminals up, studiously ignoring Dick’s presence as he did so.

 “Hood—” Dick started.

 “I’m just finishing up, Officer ,” he said mockingly, “They’re all yours when I’m done.”

 “I—They’re Black Mask’s people, do you have any intel about what they’re doing in my city?” “Not much,” replied Jason, tone clipped. “You?” “I have a little, maybe we could arrange a time to go over it? This case is clearly turning out to be a problem for both of us—”

 “Nope, that’s not how it works,” Jason cut him off, “You haven’t been forgiven for your last f*** up yet. Maybe we can trade information later, if I ever decide to trust you again.” Dick winced, stepping back. “Well, I’ll be out of your hair then, Hood. I’ll have some people come this way to put these criminals back where they belong.” “Where they belong is a big, ugly a** community grave,” Dick heard Jason mutter behind him just as he walked out the door.

-- A few days after the Hood incident, Dick was heading home after a long day of writing reports and studying casefiles. Being a detective was certainly not all excitement 24/7. Most of the time he was sitting around, wishing for more time in the field.

That particular day, he was distracted, thinking about a very complicated case that had been stumping him for longer than he’d like. He should’ve known better than to take that route home, though it probably wouldn’t have mattered—whoever wanted him was professional enough to have all the streets around the precinct covered.

 Ah, chloroform, he didn’t miss it. It’d been a while since he’d last had it pressed against his face. He supposed he was due for a run in with the stuff. The chloroform appeared at the same time as the wrenching of his arms behind his back, and the restraining of his legs. Dick tried not to fight  too  hard, he was still Detective Grayson, a civilian by vigilante standards, afterall. He had to keep up appearances. For that reason, he also pretended to fall unconscious long before he actually did. He’d built up an immunity to the drug of course, but that could only work with him as Nightwing.

 When Dick woke up, he found himself face to face with Black Mask. The man sat behind a desk, with Dick, sitting, bound to a chair in front of him. With a start, Dick realized that Roman must’ve been watching him while he was unconscious. Dick suppressed a shudder. 

 “Wha—Where am I? What do you want?” He asked, pretending to be groggy from waking up.

 “Well, Officer Grayson, you are the Red Hood’s dirty pig informant, so I’m betting there’s a lot I can get out of you.”

Dick resisted the urge to laugh, or explain himself. There wasn’t much to explain anyway, not without revealing secrets that he would rather die protecting. Instead, he forced his expression into something more like shock, and resignation, deciding to play this role to the end. He could feel the instincts of manipulation and deception settling back over him like a very familiar blanket. Playing spy for a while had given him the opportunity to hone those skills. If there was any beneficial thing that could be taken away from that whole experience, it was what good he could now do with the abilities he’d enhanced during that time.

 “I don’t know who the f*** that is,” Dick said, thinking about the actions of several of his coworkers for reference on how to act like a dirty cop.

 “Don’t lie to me,” snarled Roman. “My people know you spoke with him at the last operation of mine that he busted.”

 Ah, so that’s how he knew. One of the thugs must not have been fully unconscious during Dick’s conversation with Jason the other day.

 “Look man, I’m just his source guy sometimes, and he doesn’t even like me very much lately. So I don’t know what to tell you. Just let me go, and we can call it a day.” Dick made himself fidget, as if he was nervous about the threatening crime boss sitting across from him.

 “So what? You don’t have anything for me? Maybe I should just torture you until you die, how about that?”

 “N—No,” Dick made himself stutter, “I—I can still help you...for a price.”

 “Even now, you argue for your checkbook,” Roman chuckled, “The world goes ‘round, and dirty cops never change.”

 “What can I say,” Dick smirked, “The Hood didn’t pay me enough. I’m sure  you’ll be different…”

 Roman smiled at him, a dangerous smile that said he couldn’t wait to use him up and leave his body in a ditch.

 Dick smiled back.

--

Jason got an alert that the alarms at one of his safehouses had been tripped. It wasn’t one of his favorite safehouses or anything—in fact, it was due for a restock, but he knew it would be better to check it out as soon as he could anyway.

 He swung through the air, making his way through Crime Alley to where he knew the safehouse to be. Any intruders in his territory would be dealt with, crappy safehouse or not. 

 He found that much of his security system had been quietly disabled…except for a single, simple sensor. Whoever did this wanted him to come here.

 The door to his safehouse was ajar, and Jason carefully pushed it open, peering through the crack.

 His lights were on, and there were the sounds of ransacking and breaking glass.

 Jason grabbed the guns from his hips, and slammed open the door.

 There stood Dick, out of uniform, surrounded by several of Black Mask‘s people. 

 Jason snarled at the sight, thoughts of the man’s betrayal swirling through his mind. 

 Dick’s eyes widened, shooting a pleading look at him as if trying to convey something. Jason ignored it in his anger.

 “Let’s go! He’s here!” yelled Dick.

 “Traitor.” He growled darkly.

 Something flickered in the traitor’s expression, before smoothing out as if it had never been there.

 Jason didn’t think. He just lifted his guns, and fired.

 Unfortunately, they were rubber bullets, and he’s pretty sure he only managed to clip the lying b****** in the leg.

 He did manage to take down at least three of the others before the rest escaped quickly through the window.

--

“So, I guess Hoodie really isn’t on your side after all,” said Roman, pacing.

“I—I don’t understand what happened,” Dick sputtered, feigning fear, “I disabled all of his security, he wasn’t supposed to show.”

 “That’s because I had one of my people purposely sabotage you. I needed to make sure you weren’t still on his side. This,” he said, putting his hand on Dick’s leg where the bullet hit him, “is the proof I was looking for.” He pressed down, Dick gasped as if in pain. It really didn’t feel nice.

 “W—What?” He said in indignation, “Of course I’m on your side, that guy hates me.”

 “So I’m told.” Roman said, uncaring. He dug his fingers in.

 “Stop!” Dick strained against the ropes binding his hands behind the chair.

 The man let up, briefly, “You got the package I sent you to get?” 

 He was referring to the fake intel Dick had promised was stashed in Hood’s safehouse, intel that he had planted while no one was looking. The moment Roman plugged that thing in, Oracle would have complete access to all of the crime boss’s servers. “Yes, of course! Don’t forget to plug it into a high powered computer, I’m sure it’ll require a lot of decryption…”

 Roman waved his hand, “Yeah, yeah, whatever, my people have it covered.”

 “I’d like my payment now,” Dick said, glaring at him.

 The man grinned malevolently, “You’ll get your payment, when I let you go and the Hood goes after you. The people he captured have  quite  the story to tell.” 

 Dick slid a look of fear onto his face.

--

Jason didn't even give him the chance to explain.

Not that Dick was surprised about this, of course, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt.

Roman had released him onto Gotham's streets, and sent several of his people to tail him.  Dick of course, was not supposed to know about that particular detail, but it's not like the low-level thugs had any actual expertise when it came to anything, least of all properly tailing a person.

Ah, so this was one more test, to confirm that he was truly against the Hood, before Roman dared plug in the USB. So it was best that Jason's first reaction upon seeing him was to lash out anyway, and Dick didn't even get a moment to get a word in before Hood was slamming him into the ground.

Well, it seemed these days the only reliable fact was that his family no longer trusted him. It was a good thing he needed Jason to beat him up for the operation, then. Internally, Dick sighed, he wished it didn't have to be like this. He hated lying, detested spying, but he'd learned long ago that sometimes there's no time for debate, and often the situation called for the best solution, not necessarily a good one.

Jason always acted on his emotions, it was something about him that never changed. It was reliable qualities like that, that Dick had been trained to notice, to exploit when needed. Dick did what he had to do, Jason did what he wanted to do. Many times, Dick had had to shoulder the burden of doing what was needed, even if it hurt those around him. He would gladly carry these responsibilities for the rest of his life, if only his siblings didn't have to, if only his family  lived.

And so, Officer Grayson fought with the Red Hood in a back alleyway as the man spewed curses about him and how he couldn't trust someone who'd betray him just to meet their own ends and not even think to tell him about the undercover op—

Dick, of course, was still being watched. So he fought like a random inexperienced police officer, not like Nightwing, professional vigilante. 

Jason didn't seem to notice. 

"Is this the new you then? Huh? You stab us in the back at every chance you get, all for a supposed “mission”? Is this Dick the spy then? Is that who you are now?"

Dick dodged a fist, got kicked in the knee.  It’s probably just the pit rage,  he reminded himself,  another thing I can count on.

"You know, I didn't think you of all people would pull something like this the first time, I don't know why I didn't see it with this one, you'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now."

Jason punched him in the stomach, causing him to sink further to the ground.

"I don't even know if I'd grieve again, if I found out you were dead. How would I know it wasn't just another lie that you failed to mention to me?"

Dick was just glad his tails were too far away to hear what Jason was saying.

"Do you have any idea what Black Mask is capable of? Have you  forgotten  who the f*** he  is  ? You can't just go undercover to work with him against  me, without telling me!"

His little brother sounded so upset, Dick only wished he had time to explain.

"Whatever happened to communication? Is that a foreign concept to you  spies? And here I thought we were actually family."

Jason headbutted him right in the face, breaking what Dick was pretty sure was his nose. He could feel the sticky warmth of blood on his face, flowing over his lips, past his chin to drip to the ground. Dick's vision blurred, and he collapsed to the ground, curling in on himself, he had to play it up, afterall. Even though the wounds inflicted were mostly just surface ones. They had an audience, and Dick could not fail to perform.

Above him, Jason scoffed, as if he could see through Dick's pretending. Still though, DIck could see his hands shaking, could see as the pent up energy within his little brother's body drained, tension leaving his shoulders. In a moment, Jason was gone, and Dick closed his eyes, giving into the exhaustion of having had to pretend to be someone he wasn't under very stressful circumstances for the past few days. It was alright, nothing...Dick...couldn't handle...

--

Jason felt drained. He hadn't felt that angry since well...the last time Goldie had pulled something like this.

The feeling of Dick’s face against his fist was quite familiar by this point. Each time he’d done it blurred together, echoing in his mind as green tinted his vision.

Jason made it back to one of his safehouses, somehow. He wasn’t sure when he got there, or how, but when he finally came back to himself, it was to the sight of a familiar kitchenette.

He felt too restless to sleep, but too exhausted to do anything productive at the same time. He didn’t trust himself to go out as Red Hood. In this state, he was a danger to anyone around him.

Jason’s mind raced, even as his body collapsed on the couch. He turned the tv on, letting himself get lost in some random sitcom.

He needed to calm down, probably do something like think things through. Though Jason knew that he was most likely going to just go about his day tomorrow, as if today hadn’t happened.

Always running away, still that same self-preserving street kid who only knew how to survive. Well, it’d worked for him so far, minus the dying part of course.

Hours later, technically into the next morning, Jason’s comm beeped. What could Barbie possibly want at this time of morning? Not even villains were awake at 6:00am, usually this hour was sacred.

“Hood?”

Well, apparently not anymore.

Sighing, Jason brought his finger to his ear, “Yeah? How’d you know I was awake?”

“Unimportant,” she said, all business, “I need you to check on Nightwing for me.”

Jason’s mind blanked, and then he scoffed, “You kidding me?” His voice was shaky. “What the f*** did he do this time?”

Oracle had no time for overly dramatic interbat-relations.

“A few hours ago, Black Mask’s servers went online, Dick’s code caught my attention. I was able to get every little bit of data ever entered into one of Mask’s computers. It was more than we’ve been able to get from him in years. Dick’s work really was genius. I tried to get in contact with him, but his trackers aren’t working, his phone’s out of the picture, and I can’t find him on any camera. I’m worried he went undercover without a backup plan for when Mask figured it out.”

Jason attempted unsuccessfully to tamp down his feelings of guilt and concern.

“Alright O, I’m on it.” He croaked, already heading out the door.

Adrenaline flowed through his veins, spurring him on. 

His earlier hate had fled, leaving behind nothing but cold determination. He was angry at his brother, sure, but he didn’t want the guy to  die… right?

And if what Oracle said was true, then it just might have been worth it for Dick to do what he did, just maybe.

Jason headed to where he’d last seen Dick. 

He found him about a block away from where they’d fought, being tortured in a rundown warehouse.

If it weren’t for the screams, Jason probably would have passed it and not even known.

Black Mask stood over Dick, who was bound to a table. Goldie was missing his shirt, and his torso was littered with burns and bruises. His feet were bare too, Roman was in the process of whipping them.

For the second time in twenty four hours, Jason felt the anger rise and the pit take over. 

The emotion was stronger this time, more powerful, Jason thought distantly. 

There were about thirty thugs surrounding Roman, guarding the man’s sadistic torture session.

Jason drew his guns, and tried not to think about the last time he’d used them to pistol whip Dickie across the face.

The first five thugs went down quickly, the next ten following right behind them. Jason reloaded. Some part of his subconscious aimed for kneecaps and non-lethal areas. The pit aimed for whatever was convenient. Nevertheless, if Jason had been paying attention, he’d have noticed that not one of his bullets missed a target.

By the time he’d made his way through all thirty of them, he had two loaded guns left, though they weren’t the same ones he’d started out with.

Roman had fled sometime during the action, like the coward he was. Jason was halfway out the door to find him when he heard a sound from behind him.

It was Dick.

Jason startled, hurrying towards his brother's side. The anger once again drained from his body.

Dick’s eyes were hazy and unfocused, they looked at him without seeing. But as Jason neared, something foreign came into them: fear.

Jason dropped his guns on the floor, trying not to think about how he’d never seen Dick look at him like that.

He bent to untie his brother from the table, and Dick flinched away from him, unintelligible noises stumbling out of his throat.

“Shh, Dickie, it’s alright.” Jason said frantically, “I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?”

He finished removing the last of the restraints just as Dick passed out from what was likely incredible pain.

--

Jason efficiently cleaned and bandaged his brother’s wounds, feeling numb. Dick’s body was covered in scars, the recent--but not too recent ones were what caught his attention. Jason didn’t want to think about when Dick must’ve gotten them.

Instead, Jason thought about something that had been bothering him before, little details here and there that he had missed. Namely: Dick hadn't been wearing his Nightwing suit during all of their interactions in the past few days. In fact, he'd been dressed quite like a detective.

 It dawned on Jason in a moment, and he felt horrified. Dick had been a detective that day in the warehouse with Black Mask's people. Back when this all started. 

 Jason's mind was racing when Dick groaned, eyes cracking open, "Wha—Jay?"

 "Yeah, it's me Dickie. I'm here."

 "What—What happened?"

 Jason sighed, "What do you remember?"

 Dick's brows furrowed in thought, "I...I had to go undercover..."

 "Why didn't you tell me?" Jason asked.

 Recognition flashed in his brother's eyes, He seemed to be getting his energy back.

 "There was no time, Roman kidnapped me, I had to play along."

 "But—there had to have been some time you could have explained the situation to me…"

 "Would you believe me if I had?" Dick's gaze was piercing.

 “I—yeah, okay, that’s fair.” Jason paused, “Were you going to tell me that you went undercover to save my a**? Or were you just going to keep letting me hate you?”

 Dick was silent.

 Jason continued, “I mean, sure. Maybe I wouldn’t have believed you. But maybe I would have. You weren’t even going to give me the choice.” Something occurred to him then. “We didn’t give you the chance to explain about Spyral…was that situation similar to this?” 

 Dick sighed, “I’m not up for having this conversation right now. Maybe later, after I wake up.”

 He burrowed further into the couch, closing his eyes.

 “One more thing,” Jason said, unwilling to let it end just like that. “Those scars…”

 Dick’s smile was bitter and darkly amused, “You didn’t think playing spy was all fun and games, did you? Everyone was out to get me. See here?” Dick half-heartedly lifted up his arm, “A cannibal took a chunk out of it. Congratulations, you’re the first to notice.”

 “I’m sorry,” Jason murmured to him, long after he’d fallen asleep. 

 The two words were long overdue.