#tw nonhuman character

[krazyforkicks]

Continued from here

Next chapter, I will be changing character names. Please let me know if you would like me to edit the previous posts to reflect the changes as well! Next installment, soldier will be Aryan (meaning Warrior/Honorable). The entity will be getting a name soon as well.

CW: Inhuman character, refusal to answer questions, mention of drugging/poison

Soldier awoke to the sound of the door closing. They whipped their head around to see who had entered, but there was no one.

There was, however, a relatively large tray of a variety of foods sitting on the nightstand. Tentatively, Soldier investigated the plate, daring to eat a little, but too scared of being poisoned or drugged to eat more than a few pieces. They didn't touch the accompanying drink.

They felt much better— stronger and more refreshed. It was only then that the thought occurred to them. How long had they slept? The hunger in their stomach was vicious, only made more acute by the small amount they had eaten.

Quietly, Soldier sat on the bed for a long while, waiting to see if the entity would enter of their own accord. Strangely, they... didn't.

What felt like hours passed before Soldier finally worked up the courage to open the door again. Just as before, the entity stood and made their way to the door, still in the same almost human form as before.

"You're awake again. Do you feel rested?"

"What are you?" Soldier asked, wary.

The entity looked to consider the question for a moment. "That is... perhaps a question for another time. I'm not human. But of course you already knew that. I apologize, I know that my answer is not satisfactory, but I do hope that you will accept an answer to a previous question instead."

"... What previous question?"

"You asked me what makes me say my people are happy. I would like to show you, if you're strong enough." The entity extended a hand to Soldier. "Will you accompany me outside?"

After a moment of hesitation, Soldier reluctantly took the not‐quite-human hand. The entity's smile made Soldier flinch.

[fungus-no69]

hope lovecraft is rolling in his grave as I write this. I hope more people write about eldritch horrors being gay and shit. lovecraftian gay sex… (i do not write smut)

Context: it is a beautiful day in rapechestershire and you are a horrible monstrosity

Content: Body horror I guess, reader is a little petty (deserved), dol typical bullying, brief and non graphic gore in Kylar’s, mentioned animal death in Remy’s (you are Eating The Cows), some spoilers for Ivory Wraith’s lore

Remembering to oxidise your body is a burden, making your heart beat is a chore, remembering to move the rest of your vessel with your expressions is tiring. What do animals even need these rigid pieces of flesh for?

…though you quickly realised the value of muscles when your meat began to droop around your faux bones which is something you’re fairly certain does not happen to mortals.

Of course, you can’t maintain a full rest while above water in this fashion. You’ve come to learn that humans do not particularly enjoy a mass of greasy limbs, mottled flesh and gunky mucus spread on the floor. 'Sleeping' is nice though, as limited as your opportunities are. Humans are fickle creatures and that also applies to their sleeping habits.

Nonetheless. You need to practise your human-form-making skills. And what better way to learn about appearing more human than to attend the industry of learning itself?

Whitney:

Why this blonde mortal took an interest in you? You're not sure.

One day they were there and they never left

They’re always poking at your vessel. Rude…

Thanks to them and their lackeys you had to learn how to fake falling over when punched because apparently it’s strange to just stand there and take a hit without flinching.

They know somethings wrong with you but they can’t put their finger on it, this leads to even more bullying

Most of their harassment is about how you look and act apart from the straight up sexual assault.

They once saw you slip up on your transformation because it was a particularly irritating day and you briefly reintroduced your habit of scaring off others by posturing.

Not your finest moment, I say. They passed out because your mutilated structure was too much for their poor human mind to handle.

Thankfully you can help them forget the incident or write it off as some weird drug induced hallucination. (by distracting them with something inconvenient when they wake up. Like an ice cube in their mouth. Or a cut to their gums.)

You can’t let something like that happen again

Sydney:

You don't know why they're looking at you weirdly. You have the correct amount of teeth this time. You checked.

They help you out when people ask you stupid questions like 'are you a ventriloquist?' 'how can you bend that far?' and 'hey where'd your elbows go?'

It’s always awkward to dismiss yourself during those encounters, considering your ‘schoolmates’ don’t tend to let things go and are rather fixated on following their more malicious instincts towards you than letting you leave. So Sydney’s help is appreciated.

You leave little gifts for them in the library. A book you found in the lake and dried, the foot of a rabbit (humans find that lucky right?), little shiny objects you discover while walking around.

You’re far from weak or incapable but Sydney’s interventions make keeping up the act more bearable.

Over time they find that they become enamoured with you and that’s terrifying to them. One, because they’ve never felt like this before and two, Jordan seems to disapprove of you in some way? They don’t explain why but they warn Sydney about you. Which raises some issues which you don't completely understand for all of your infinite (old) wisdom.

As they become more corrupted, they get a bit more pushy with their ‘subtle’ questions about you- thankfully they never nag for too long.

You fear that Sydney, loyal and kind Sydney, will leave you when they find your true nature. That they will find you repulsive like many before them.

Thus, you will hide your true nature from them. No matter how often they ask or the fact that they know something is off- you can never let them confirm those suspicions.

Kylar:

You see the way the shadows loom over this mortal- they are more connected to the other worlds than they realise.

This draws you to them in a way, having someone who is more connected to your home than everyone around you. And them to you, though you suspect this may have happened regardless of your identity.

Kylar is another anomaly in a sea of others who look different but are fundamentally indiscernible. If you were to cut open a human and pry open their ribcage, you would find the same thing in each one. But not yours. And perhaps not Kylar’s.

They seem to feel a strange compulsion to protect you. You’ve seen this type of behaviour with Sydney and maybe Whitney to an extent, but never to the intensity that a knife was procured.

You understand that the utensil is sharp but you're a little bit confused to why the students run away when they see it? Stabbing someone requires strength and you're fairly certain Kylar is not very strong.

Surprisingly, they were the first one to ask about why you speak the way you do. When asked what they meant they told you that you speak in a very formal manner. Your expression must have made a change in some way because they quickly apologise profusely for offending you. It doesn't.

If you sulk about it a little then that's nobody's business other than your own.

Harper:

You get sent to the asylum for your silly behaviour (crimes and general strangeness that does not pass for mentally healthy) and Harper tries to gaslight you "there are no tentacles they aren't real" explain this.

You don’t have a firm grasp on human behaviour yet, especially when it comes to being polite but c'mon. Even you know this guy is a weirdo.

They will inevitably learn about your true nature regardless of how hard you conceal it.

Hypnotism doesn’t work on you, your blood is too dark and thin to resemble a human’s, sometimes you forget to make your heart beat etc.

They’re not as freaked out as you thought they’d be but they do want to run some tests on you

You say no thank you because even if it’s just for ‘personal research’ you don’t want your inhumanity on record (and Harper’s a creep)

They attempt to blackmail you in a sense but you stand strong on your opinion. Who would they tell and even then, who would believe them? And then there’s the fact that there is no human nor invention that can contain or incapacitate you.

You may meet them on your vacation to Remy’s farm, they’re initially confused to see you there but just as easily accept it. As much as they want to understand you- you’re not exactly human, so they don’t expect you to act by the rules of humans.

It would almost be nice if they didn’t finish their little spiel by dragging you to a stage. Stares make your epidermis feel like there’s little bugs underneath it and you feel the urge to peel it off to escape the unpleasant sensation. You don’t, because that would reveal you.

You end your holiday by trashing their office.

Remy:

You originally came across their farm because you were hungry. Remy, of course, noticed the dwindling population of their cows and went to investigate. Lo and behold- they found you.

They don’t know for sure if you’re involved in the missing cows but they suspect you’ve stolen them or something. Not that you ate them.

You allow yourself to be captured, you could annihilate these puny humans if you wanted to but something tells you this place will grant you rest and food.

The fact they stole your clothes was mildly irritating but you can easily get some when you return 'home'. What do humans call it? The five finger discount? You're not sure what having five fingers has to do with saving currency but you appreciate it regardless.

You don’t develop transformations. You lack the biology to do so, but seeing other cattle develop their features tips you off to the fact you’re supposed to be gaining ears and such so you try to replicate them…

The farmhand who opens your stable in the morning almost shits their pants

You don’t try again after that.

Remy is wondering why their cattle are STILL disappearing.

Ivory Wraith:

They are much similar to yourself, tethered to this mortal realm through an object. Though their emotions are a bit more… uncontrollable than yours.

But perhaps that came with being human. Formerly, you suppose. Not that you would know what it’s like to be human.

They know your existence is eternal, will last for much longer than their own given their own circumstances.

Inevitably, they belong to this world and you do not.

Nonetheless you understand each other to a point, with both of you being non human and somewhat incorporeal.

They vaguely recognise you from long ago, a painting or two within the temple depicting a monster. They had never really examined it, being too unsettled to do so.

They also remember that during the schism, they felt the presence of something much larger than themself. They suspect it may be you, though they’re not certain.

No matter, you're here now.

…

It is the first time you have felt desire for something other than rest in centuries.

You have never been one to want. You do not experience emotion as deeply as mortals (or former mortals) do, somehow simultaneously deeper but so shallowly. You do not feel affection, and even if you have, it has surely been so long since then that you have forgotten. And yet…

You think this strange feeling in your fleshy midsection is the closest to love you can get.

[toyybox]

It’s everyone’s favourite angel, Onyx from The Winged Servant by @rainbowsandwhumperflies 💝 He’s so cute I love him, go read TWS now!!

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

a predatory creature who mimics the sound of their previous victim as to lure another (potential) victims in. so — as a group of the surviving characters hide from the creature — they are forced to listen to the sound of their dead friend, from the mouth of the creature, screaming in excruciating pain during their final moment when they were mauled to death by said creature.

the surviving characters know their friend is already dead, and that it’s the creature mimicking their friend’s voice, but it’s still extremely hard to hear how scared their friend was, and to not rush out of their hiding spot towards the direction in which the sound comes from (knowing it wasn’t going to be their friend but instead they’d be running right towards the creature) as the creature keeps on howling in their dead friend’s voice.

special thanks to Annihilation for the inspiration behind this juicy trope. literally my most favorite scene from the movie.

[kabie-whump]

✧･ﾟ Ripe, About to Fall - Part 11 ✧･ﾟ

This is an 18+ slowish burn pet-whump story with added romance.

Title from 'Liquid Smooth' by Mitski

Series First | Previous Summary: Ventis still isn't talking, and Athos takes advantage of it. Theodore visits Athos and has a chat with Ventis. Content: non-con oral onscreen, beating mentions, degradation, trauma-induced muteness?, character death mention, (let me know if I missed a tag I'm brain soup right now)

Onthyes does not belong to me. He was created by my wonderful gf @sapphicccici and I have kidnapped him.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Ventis’s whole body ached as he sat at his master’s feet. It’s been at least two years since he was last beaten as badly as he was yesterday, but still not a word escaped his lips. 

He didn’t really know why he wasn’t talking. He’d like to believe it to be a brave act of rebellion, except he really did want to give in. He didn’t like being beaten up, didn’t like the threat in Athos’s eyes every time he responded to a question with a nod or shake of his head. Ventis was a lot of things, but he wouldn’t consider himself to be brave.

But the words just wouldn’t leave his lips, no matter how desperately he tried to convince them to.

At least he didn’t have to wear such revealing clothing today, since Athos wanted to keep the worst of the bruises hidden.

“He really is beautiful, Mr. Landleigh. You’re a lucky man.”

Ventis blinked himself out of his thoughts, glancing up at the source of the words. Dwen. One of Athos’s newest business partners - a man probably only ten years older than Ventis. He stood out in a room otherwise filled with people old enough to be Ventis’s parents or even grandparents. Dwen was a hungry young man in more ways than one, and he never kept his eyes to himself.

“Indeed,” Athos hummed, reaching down to pat Venits’s head. Ventis couldn’t help but lean into the touch, finding comfort in the gentleness despite its source. “He requires a fair amount of training and upkeep, but he’s certainly worth the trouble.”

“I’ve been considering getting a pet of my own. You do nothing but rave about yours. But I fear it would be challenging to find one that lives up to him.”

Ventis looks up at Athos, watching a smirk cross the man’s face. The look that means he’s up to something, and Ventis isn’t going to like it.

Athos ran his fingertips along Ventis’s cheek lovingly. “Isn’t that sweet, treasure? My friend here envies your rare beauty. Do you want to give him a taste of what it’s like to own you?”

Ventis swallowed hard, shaking his head. He knew exactly what Athos meant. Athos had let his friends use him before, but it was a rare occurrence and only when he was particularly upset with him.

 “Hm. I don’t hear a ‘no’.” Athos said with a grin. “That’s very generous of you, darling.” He stood, grabbing Ventis by a horn and dragging him over to kneel in front of Dwen.

Dwen smiled down at Ventis, his hands moving to his belt. 

Ventis’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

“I know you haven’t been feeling well recently,” Athos said, leaning down to speak softly into Ventis’s ear. “If you aren’t up for this, just tell me. I can make it all stop.”

Ventis shook his head again, pleading with his eyes. 

Athos’s lips were still set in a smile, but his eyes shone with disappointment. “Oh, you don’t want to stop? Alright then. He’s all yours, Dwen.”

Ventis steeled himself as Athos returned to his seat and struck up a casual conversation with his other partners. He could deal with this. He had plenty of experience. It wouldn’t kill him, and his veins were thumming with Nightspill, helpfully numbing the sharper of his emotions. 

I’m fine. I can handle this.

Dwen’s hand found Ventis’s hair, guiding him in closer until his lips touched hot flesh.

Just tune it out. 

Ventis closed his eyes, praying that Dwen would at least be gentle. Not that anyone ever was. His training took over and he opened his mouth. His fangs dug into the scarred-over spots on the inside of his lips. Better they pierce his own skin than the skin of his master, and the taste of blood wasn’t too bad once he got used to it.

Ugh. He needs to bathe.

Ventis focused on shutting down his need to breathe. He wouldn’t (couldn’t) choke, thanks to his elemental ancestry. That didn’t stop his throat from burning at the slight stretch. He clenched his fists in his lap.

Dwen let out a shaky groan, his hands grabbing for his horns to pull him even closer. “He’s… cold,” Dwen said with a chuckle. “Even on the inside. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“An air genasi quirk,” Athos quipped. “Not every man’s cup of tea, but I find it quite enjoyable. If it’s too bothersome I have a fix for that.”

Ventis couldn’t help but whimper at the thought. The ‘fix’ in question involved him chugging scalding hot water. He hadn’t been able to swallow without pain for a week after the last time. 

“It’s alright. He’s plenty tight, so I don’t mind it.”

Thank the gods.

Luckily, Dwen didn’t last long. The men Athos lended him to rarely did. As awful as his situation was, Ventis found himself somewhat prideful of his skill in this area. He couldn’t step outside on his own, but at least he could deliver a world-shattering orgasm in mere minutes when he needed to. 

He returned to his place in front of Athos, subtly stretching his sore knees as a nearby servant rushed over to fix his hair and wipe his face clean and polish the fingerprints off of his horns. Ventis’s tongue ran over the twin spots inside his upper lip where his fangs had inevitably pierced the skin. The blood masked Dwen’s taste well. Still, he was grateful when Athos offered him a sip of wine.

The guests left soon after, leaving Ventis and Athos alone. Ventis looked up at his master, unable to stop himself from glaring at the man.

“I asked you if you wanted it,” Athos said with a shrug. “You didn’t say no.”

The two spent the next couple of hours outside in the garden, in a sitting area under the shade of a tree. Ventis allowed himself to enjoy it - the taste of fresh fruit on his tongue, the sounds of wind rustling leaves and soft flutter of Athos turning the pages of his book, the scent of roses. Seated at his master’s feat like always, Ventis rested his head against his thigh and closed his eyes, clinging to the sliver of peace.

Ventis heard a servant appear and have a short conversation with Athos, but he didn’t care to decipher the words. The servant left and Ventis started to drift off, lulled towards sleep by Athos’s fingers in his hair.

Then, “Ah, the young Lord Riinturuth returns!”

Ventis sat up straight with a jolt, his eyes snapping open. There, escorted by the butler, was his younger brother, Theodore. Ventis squinted at him, curious about why he had returned after that awful dinner, but Theodore made a point of not even glancing in his direction. His eyes were on Athos alone.

“Come, sit down! What brings you back to my humble manor, my Lord?”

Anyone else would find Athos’s voice nothing aside from welcoming, but Ventis knew better. He knew that edge of caution hiding under his words. 

Theodore sat in a plush chair and the butler poured him a glass of wine. “Please, just call me Theodore, Mr. Landleigh. There is no need for formalities with me. I come to you today as little more than a student.”

Ventis resisted the urge to snort. Theodore was never the ‘student’ type. He’d always been more interested in hunting and fighting and honing his magic.

“Oh? You intrigue me, Theodore. Do go on.”

“Well, I have a request for you. You are an influential person in this city, which is why my father wanted us to have dinner together at the start of my stay here. But the truth is, he looks down upon those who find their power through economic pursuits. To him, business is too fickle of a thing to rest your legacy on.”

Athos hummed, displeased.

“But I could not help but respect you, sir,” Theodore pressed on. “Being born into power is one thing, but having the ability to take it for yourself? To me, that is much more impressive. My time in Nimbria was only meant for me to study leadership with the Venturas, but I believe it would benefit me to learn from you as well. If you will have me, I would love to observe your business practices from time to time. And in return I can promise that your business will always have a friend in my kingdom’s ports.”

Athos considered Theodore with a raised brow. “And you are certain that this proposition has nothing to do with your long lost brother here?” Athos’s hand rested atop Ventis’s head.

Theodore’s eyes flicked to Ventis for a second before he fixed his gaze on Athos once more. “I can assure you, sir, that he means nothing to me. It is thanks to his absence from home that I was able to ascend to my position as our father’s heir. Our shared past will cause no issue.”

Athos hummed, absentmindedly stroking Ventis’s hair as he thought. “Very well. I have no children of my own, so maybe it will do me some good to have an eager young mind to shape.”

“Thank you, sir. You will not regret this.”

The two sat and chatted for a while as Ventis tried to come to terms with the fact that his brother would be coming by even more after this. Had he not been humiliated enough already?

“Ventis, go fetch more wine,” Athos said after he and Theodore had finished off what was left of the previous bottle.

Ventis stood with a short nod and walked inside.

Moments later, as he was just passing through the doorway into the servant’s corridors, a hand grabbed his arm. He gasped sharply as the fingers dug into bruises. Ventis turned, his eyes going wide when he saw his brother staring back at him.

“Jasper,” Theodore said, his voice low. “I’m here to rescue you.”

Ventis took a small step back, shaking Theodore’s hand off of his arm. Why was everyone trying to save him all of a sudden? More importantly, why would Theodore want to save him? They’ve always been rivals. Theodore said himself just earlier today that Ventis’s absence had been good for him. Ventis couldn’t believe for a second that Theodore actually cared what happened to him. His actions five years ago had proven that all too well.

How was Ventis supposed to believe that the very same person who had singlehandedly ruined his life actually wanted to help him?

Theodore definitely saw the blatant disbelief and confusion on Ventis’s face. He leaned in closer, dropping his voice even lower.

“Listen, brother. While you are still under Landleigh’s thumb, Onthyes Ventura will not train me, and that is the entire reason I am in this city in the first place. I am helping you whether you want me to or not, so I suggest you make this easy on both of us and not be so fucking stubborn for once.”

Ventis’s heart stopped.

“Onthyes is alive?”

Those were the first words he had spoken in days. They came out as a broken whisper. A tiny sliver of hope in a world that had seemed so dark for so long.

Theodore looked taken aback. “Yes, of course he is.”

“I…” Ventis sunk to the ground, squatting on his heels and threading his fingers through his hair. His breaths came with far too much difficulty and his vision blurred. “I thought he was dead.”

Suddenly, everything was different. There was hope. And Ventis didn’t know what to do with it. He choked out a sob, covering his face with both hands.

“Jas- Ventis?” He could feel Theodore getting closer and squatting down in front of him. 

“How?” Ventis croaked. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“After he failed to rescue you, his guard friends knocked him out and left him there. They didn’t kill him.”

“I-If you’re lying, Theo-”

“I’m not lying. He can’t come to see you himself, obviously, so I’ve come in his place. I will get close with Landleigh, and at the first opportunity I will get you out of here. But you have to work with me. You have to trust me.”

Ventis glared at Theodore through his tears. “Trust you? After what you did to me? Are you joking?”

Annoyance flashed across Theodore’s face before he schooled his expression back into neutrality. “You’re still on about that? It was five years ago. I was fourteen. Grow up and move on.”

“Move on?” Ventis hissed. “That would be easy for you, wouldn’t it? You’re not the one who…” he trailed off, not wanting to say the word. They both knew what it was anyway, and it hung between them, unspoken.

Died.

“You came out fine in the end,” Theodore muttered. “I am not responsible for the way you decided to cope.”

Ventis glared at the wall behind Theodore. “I do not want your help.”

“You do not have a choice. Onthyes is useless to me without you.”

Theodore extended a hand down to Ventis. Ventis glared at it, then rose to his feet on his own.

“Like it or not,” Theodore continued, “I am currently your only hope of seeing him again. I can not force you to cooperate with your own rescue, but I would encourage you to think it over.”

With that he left Ventis alone, headed for the exit. Ventis took a moment to collect himself, scrubbing tears away with his sleeves, before he resumed his journey to the wine celler. 

When he returned to Athos’s side with a fresh bottle the man’s eyes searched his face immediately. Ventis glanced away with hope that he wouldn’t notice his watery, red rimmed eyes. 

Athos took Ventis by the chin, forcing his face up towards his own. There was a little smile on his face as he brushed his thumb across Ventis’s bottom lip.

“You look beautiful today, treasure,” Athos said gently.

“Thank you, master.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Next

I'm sorry this one took so long omg. I'm at a point in this story where I just want to skip to the recovery but I gotta get there first, so I keep writing scenes for the future because that's more exciting to me right now. Luckily, that means I'm impatient and Ventis is probably going to get out in the next chapter or two! Yay!

@scp-1296 @sapphicccici @acer-gaysimpstuff @morning-star-whump @yeetmyskeet

@sleepyiswhumping @bitchaknso @unicornbeck @wounds-seen-and-unseen @3-2-whump

@looptheloup @rainydaywhump

[mxmorbidmidnight]

Here's a snapshot from my novel I'm working on, warning for vampirism (meaning violence, consumption of blood, general nonchalance towards killing).

if you're into mythology, gothic interests and literature and nonhumanity you might enjoy this project I'm working on. The characters are disabled and queer (written by myself, a disabled and queer author). Majority are aromantic

[whumpitisthen]

A True Sacrifice

It's an exceptionally quiet day at the facility today. The corridors are empty, the guards are sparse and the cafeteria buzzes with a nervous anticipation.

The slop the staff have the gall to call food has never been quite this well received. While usually most of the captives find distracting each other with idle chatter more pleasant than chowing down on the watery stew, today no one even looks another in the eyes. Everyone is hunched over their own trays and concentrate on only that, whispering to their neighbouring chairs if they must. No one is absent.

He sits at the end of a mostly empty table, watching two women share worried looks, looking over their shoulders for danger. The guards stand at attention, a serious look on all their faces. The black armoured uniforms and powerful looking rifles, while not exactly unexpected to see, are certainly an upgrade to the batons and the lighter padded outfits they usually have on. They do not communicate with each other either, only murmur into their radios once in a while, keeping their concealed eyes trained on the inmates.

He had heard too, of course. He heard about what is meant to go down today.

He has learned to both love and despise things like this — uncommon things. On the one hand, every day is the exact same — same food, same chores, same tests, same abuse. Unpleasant and mind-numbingly boring; and so when something scary enough happens that even the guards don their full security gear, he finds a particular interest in the careful air that settles over them.

On the other hand, nothing good ever comes from disorder. Not when everyone is warned in advance for an upcoming 'event'. Not when nearly every doctor, assistant and low ranking security officer has left the building, and only the most highly trained special forces remain, locked in a room with all the prisoners. Not when the name of that creature is mentioned in the report.

There are many unexplainable phenomena that exist between these four walls. Some of them are harmless, simply illogical items that humanity does not understand just yet, and so they keep them here until they do. A lot of them are harmful, yet not fully understood, so they are kept for examination as well as safety concerning the rest of the world. There are even some creatures, some that seem friendly or non-violent at worst, but are nevertheless held here for the nature of their bodies or their abilities or whatever else the scientists deem them unfit to be let free for.

And then some of them are downright dangerous, evil beings. Ones who need to be kept locked up and closely monitored, because all they know is destruction. Ones that find their purpose in deliberately hurting humans or anything living. Efficient killers, chaotic entities, spirits of another time or even dimension who almost resemble humans, but are twisted in their minds, harming those they meet, even if hurting isn't their intention. Plagues, contained disasters, beasts, hypnotic objects, a hive mind. He has been lucky enough not to be sent to visit any of them so far. He has heard horror stories from some of the older, more experienced prisoners, and was allowed to read some of their files every once in a while by a doctor who seemed just as fascinated by these things as him. Just the thought of being in the vicinity of some of these subjects sends a violent chill down his spine.

Well, he has been lucky so far. Maybe he will remain lucky enough to avoid today's guest as well?

The lights flicker, and any idle noise that may have existed before then is sucked out of the air. Every captive is frozen stiff, hesitantly jerking their heads in all directions wide-eyed, looking for guidance. He, for one. chooses to lean on his elbows and hunch over, walking through a prayer in his head. He can feel it approaching.

He had read the note left on his wall over and over; a small, torn, yellowed piece of paper with dark spots and browning ink. Unsure of who could have left it there, he settled on it being a normal occurrence in this place, and that maybe one of the friendlier creatures decided to leave him with some advice. He hopes it's advice, anyway.

"It exists in laws set by your kind only as long as it remains entertained. It has been knocking on its door for a week, louder every day. Its observers are terrified!

Tomorrow, it will ask for more entertainment."

The lights flicker again, three times in a row, and now people are starting to panic. Everyone was told to stay still, quiet and calm — if they want to survive. Normal people would at least question that casual threat on their lives, but most prisoners here have already learned that if you are ordered to follow such strange rules that come from the researchers, there is most definitely a very good reason you were, and should do your best to do as they say. If they tell you you cannot, say, look inside an inconspicuous red book with a gash on its cover set on a pedestal in the middle of the cell it's placed in, you better not, because chances are, someone before you has, and whatever happened to them was bad enough to warrant a warning for those that follow. He, regrettably, has had first-hand experience with that one. The things he saw on those pages still haunt him to this day, mixing into vivid night terrors every time he closes his eyes. He hasn't disobeyed anyone since then.

Despite all that, warnings are truly useless when primal instincts take over. He can pick out a couple of people starting to break down in fear, who are promptly held close by other captives — not entirely out of worry for them, more so out of concern for the collective them. It's best to help out the weak link in case their own skins are on the line and they become collateral damage because of one idiot who couldn't just sit still like he was told.

The guard closest to him talks into his radio, and in the quiet, he can pick out that even the soldier's voice is shaking with nerves. He wonders if all these armoured, scary looking guys will even be able to do anything if shit hits the fan. This doesn't seem like the kind of experiment that can be fixed with some guns and ammo if it goes wrong. If it was, there would be hundreds of the guys and the doctors would at least be present in the vicinity. They must be here for another reason; maybe to observe what happens inside while the scientists are away.

One thing they were all told was that once the lights go out, it will enter the room, and that once it does, everyone is absolutely prohibited from moving or reacting to anything at all until the lights are back on. No exceptions. They were told to just squeeze their eyes shut, keep their lips sealed and bear it until it's over. If they can do that, nothing will happen to them.

Then they were told that one of them won't make it out.

That's when it all came together in his head. He knows exactly which creature will visit today. He knows why it's visiting and how horrible the consequences of being picked by it are. He knows exactly what that note meant.

This is a subject that cannot be contained. Not by humans, not by any specific material, not by any spell or limit or whatever else. It has no weakness to be exploited, nor does it have a special connection to anything that could be manipulated. It exists outside of the laws set for people in this world, including but not limited to the very laws of physics. The only reason it remains here and obeys the rules of the facility is because it is playful and conceited, and it fancies a bit of fun more than senseless, endless tyranny over this world. It likes messing with people, hurting them and distressing them greatly with its presence. It finds humans fascinating. It is confident they cannot do anything about its existence or actions, but it finds living without consequences far too boring and predictable. No fun at all.

So, it made a deal with humans. It would act in accordance with the rules set for it by humanity for as long as they can entertain it. It will remain in its cell, it will not hurt anyone, it will not cause problems on purpose, it will not show itself at all — remaining a shadow dwelling monster instead, making it so that as long as there is light, it cannot cause mischief. All that on the principle of  playing a fair game, of course. This makes controlling it not only possible, but easy. Unless, of course, the rules of the game are not adhered to well enough. Or it decides to bend some rules or find loopholes. It would not be the first time.

The price? A sacrificial lamb. It will be provided with one human of its choice, who it will ‘play’ with as much as it wants. However, its definition of fun and play are very different from what one might expect — it wishes only to bring that person to the very brink over and over, stretching them thinner and breaking them down to tiny pieces that it can build into something different and observe. And then, once that human breaks one too many times from the constant relentless torture and bending of the mind — if they even manage to survive for that long, — it tears them apart and demands another one. It will leave its cell to look for a new toy from the collection of prisoners provided by its captors. The deal seemed miraculously beneficial at the time to everyone, and it probably still remains so to this day. After all, what's one dead human every once in a while in exchange for control over what some believe to be the devil himself?

The young man reminisces about the note. It said the beast has been banging on its door for a week, getting louder and louder each day. It must have been getting very impatient after having finally snuffed out another life and waiting to be sent someone new. He heard it’s always a surprise when it decides it has grown bored. Sometimes it only takes a few days for the sacrifice to be tortured to death, other times it keeps its playthings around for months, slowly consuming them on a level no one could ever understand but them and their tormentor. It meticulously morphs them into something they never wanted to be and forces them into a corner by repetition and pain. It leaves him nauseous, the thought of what the poor guy who is chosen will be made to go through. This is an anomaly; there is no telling if the first chosen will even make it out of this room.

Now, the lights in the hallway leading to the cafeteria dim, flickering erratically until they finally die out one by one. It's like watching it approach in real time, not by seeing its body walk, only the darkness that follows it grow. Not long before it reaches the double doors — locked to keep everyone inside in the event of panic taking over and chaos ensuing, — he makes the conscious decision to take a deep breath and relax as much as he possibly can. He lays his head on top of the table in front of him, forehead warming the metal surface. He then surrounds himself with his arms tightly, building a little tent of warmth and protection to hopefully block out any sound or sight that may distress him. Maybe he can just completely ignore everything around him. Maybe it will be over quicker than he thinks. Maybe it won't even look his way if he can make himself small and unassuming enough, just quickly snatches up someone else and leaves right after, returning to its cell forever and he will never see it again. It's possible. That's the best he can hope for.

His heart stutters in unison with everyone else's when the last light outside goes out with a droning buzz, concealing what must be eyes peering in through the windows at the top. In the deathly silence, three slow, innocent knocks ring loud against every eardrum.

It is here. 

"May I come in?" — follows its intimidating voice soon after. A grin can be heard through its low, throaty timbre, twisted humour dripping from its tongue. It sounds like it finds the notion of obeying powerless creatures like humans amusing. Like someone pretending to be invested in playing house with their niece, struggling to keep a straight face as they play along in something so juvenile.

None of the guards react, while the captives only plant their hands firmer to their mouths. You'd have to be some special kind of stupidly arrogant to think anything you say will be taken seriously by this thing. He supposes if such arrogance exists, it would be found among the head professors here. They must think themselves deities to be fucking around with supernatural destructive entities like this one without fear.

To his surprise, the hesitant footsteps of the guard next to him reach his ears, fading towards the entrance. Are they actually going to open the door for it? A tremendous amount of concentration is required to squash any thoughts coalescing in his brain of making a run for it and slipping out through the door while it's unlocked. Even if he somehow miraculously got through it, what would it solve? He would get shot before he makes it that far, and if not, then he will be running right into the clutches of a monster. Nevertheless, his desperate mind tries convincing itself that there is a way out of this.

"Aw, really now... Is there no one willing to play with me? I'll behave, I promise," — it all but whines, but he can feel its impatience growing. He has never been more aware of the hairs on the back of his neck than now as they prickle and lift with the shiver that runs down his back. Maybe it is for the best that one of the security officers grew a pair and decided to join in on the game of pretend, if only so it will stop hauntingly musing and clawing at that damn door. — "Oh! Hello there, little one. Are you lost?"

The guard says nothing in response, completely ignoring its mockery. He hears the keycard sliding into its slot on the wall, unlocking the doors with a sharp electric shriek. With great hesitance, and an audible inhale, the soldier reaches for the horizontal bar to push down on and open up the way inside for the menacing thing, stepping off to the side in tandem with the swing of the door hinges.

As the door is pulled open, there is only a blink of massive, sharp claws latching onto it before the light bulbs inside the cafeteria explode at once, drowning everything in near complete darkness, leaving only the red hue of the emergency lighting painting the walls with bloody shadows. A small commotion breaks out, the dramatic change in surroundings managing to freak out a few people, causing a bit of a scene towards the leftmost corner from where he sits. Listening to others panic only serves to scare him more, but he manages to keep it all under his skin, trying to distract himself from his quickly rising heart rate by self soothing motions. Around and ‘round, over and over again his thumb travels the sleeve of his prison uniform. Slow circles. He concentrates on trying to do the most perfect circle he can on the smooth fabric.

The small panic is ignored by the creature for now in favour of focusing on the valiant effort from the guard who was brave enough to approach it. It must appreciate the gesture.

It breathes out a chuckle that barely sounds human at all. — "What a brave little soldier you are. Thank you for letting me in, Brandon. Lovely to see you again."

It knows the guard? As far as the prisoner knows, no one here wears name badges at all except for him and the other captives. It could be that he guards the creature's cell, and they have interacted before. Perhaps seen each other. However, that still does not explain how it could know his name when no one is allowed to talk to it.

"Tell me — is your wife still ill? Have you managed to scrape together enough money to save her yet?" — It coos at the armoured guard, enunciating each word to draw out the hurtful sentence. This seems like an incredibly intimate, serious conversation to be having right now. Something tells him that it's not that the two have been chatting away with each other when nobody's looking, more so that it just knows much more about the people residing here than it lets on. The way it phrased the question seems too mean-spirited and mocking to be genuine, and the sympathetic drawl it used was less than convincing.

"Now, what is that expression for? I'm merely curious." — The guard must gesture or nod in some way, because though he says nothing in response, the prisoner can hear the heavy, languid steps of the creature entering the cafeteria finally, huffing in dramatic annoyance. That grin does not leave its mouth. — "Alright, alright. Don't let me distract you from your very important job."

The doors close and the telltale buzzer of the lock sliding back into place seals the fate of each captive in the room.

For the first time since it got here, it finally acknowledges the presence of the crowd of people anticipating their possible deaths sitting in neat rows at long lines of tables. He can only hope no one is dumb enough to act out; there is no telling what it will do if it is displeased. — "Awe, just look at you all. Trembling in your boots, like newborn kittens."

As it stalks deeper into the room, he listens to Brandon move back to his position next to him. He catches the clicking of his armour sheets knocking into each other from his shivering, despite him standing completely still. Even through the mask it's obvious how hard he is trying to keep it together, taking long, deep breaths in order to keep calm. The captive wonders if it was an allotted job to open the door for the creature, or if he really just thought it best to play along with its games.

"No need to be so scared… After all, I'm the most harmless thing in this facility. Perfectly contained and controlled. Predictable!" — It bangs on one of the tables right after 'predictable', jerking everyone in the cafeteria terribly. It giggles to itself in delight. Despite the warning the prisoners received about not reacting to anything it does, it has yet to punish failure to follow rules. And truthfully, everyone flinched, including the security personnel surrounding the room. It pauses, glancing from prisoner head to prisoner head, then passes over the guards once, waiting a good few seconds before continuing. — "You are all so well-behaved — were you expecting me? Did you know I would come out to play today?"

The way it saunters through the room like it belongs anywhere near here is almost disorienting. Somehow he is the one who feels like he doesn't belong. And truly, he doesn't. He wouldn't be here if he wasn't in the wrong place at the wrong time on that fateful day. He wouldn't be here if that one guard didn't see him sneaking out of his cell a few weeks ago. He would be free, finishing up university and truly starting out his adult life. He wishes every day for a miracle, but he doesn't even know what kind of miracle would be able to save him. One that could destroy this whole damn building, let everyone who was kidnapped against their will free, while also trapping all the abnormal, dangerous curiosities and experiments it holds safely deep below the surface.

The next time the thing speaks, its voice comes from a radically different direction from where he heard its footsteps leading. — "I did warn them in advance... It can't be that I frightened them so much they ran off, can it? There is not another soul in this whole place but us, little lambs."

A sharp gasp and a sob, somewhere to his far right. There is the subtle whisper of the uniforms the captives wear, the noise it makes as it is twisted. It has someone. Has it grabbed them? He wants to see what's happening so bad, but he wants to stay alive more. He keeps his head down and his eyes shut. — "It's so nice of them to leave me such a lovely gift."

"No, please, please — "

"It's just unfortunate that they had wasted my time — and yet more unfortunate that they didn't even come to watch me some more, as they so like to do."

It must have made its choice. He prepares himself for the death wail and desperate pleading of the poor soul, expecting the monster to latch into them and drag them away back to its own cell soon. He tries to plug his ears and curl up as tight as possible, to somehow block out the terrible, traumatising event and be glad it wasn't him that was chosen. What a morbid, inhumane thought. The only thing more shameful than being happy for another's misfortune is the fact he feels absolutely no shame for thinking like that.

“Hmm… I was really looking forward to showing them this."

The screech of agony comes and grows in volume so quickly he barely has time to jam his fingers deeper into his ears before it ends. Abruptly. A sickening crunch and a splash of liquid hitting the linoleum floor, then silence. Deathly silence. No one dares to utter a word. What happened? Is it over? He certainly won't be the one to risk asking.

Long enough goes by for one of his fellow captives to ask instead of him, tears audible in her voice. He would be lying if he wasn't close to bawling as well. — "I-Is it over?" — comes the innocent whisper. When her voice isn't immediately answered with violence and death, he dares to open up his fingers just a little to look through the cracks. She would not have been able to even finish that sentence if it wasn't over, right?

He sees a massive shadow cross the room right in front of him, blocking out the red light beating down on his face for only a split second. It moved inhumanely fast. It was inhumanely tall. It also had at least three more pairs of long limbs than a human would, each ending in too many bladed fingers.

It's gone before he could even squeeze his eyes shut again, already out of sight. It moves rapidly and without a sound — a horrible chill freezes his body in place at the primal fear that takes hold of him. He prays it didn't catch him flinching so violently.

Right after he concludes that it is definitely not gone yet, it answers the question for her, —

"I am afraid I am not done just yet."

The same woman who spoke up now screams for her life, her desperate cry only overpowered by the creature's demented laughter as it tears her apart without as much as another word. All that remains is the latter half of her corpse, fallen to the ground with a dull, final thud. This is bad, this is very bad. It must have killed its first chosen as well, — is he just meant to sit there until his turn comes? Just hope that his shivering and gasping of terror won't be too loud for it to end him? How long is he meant to stay like this?

Its long, deep sigh is filled to the brim with contentment. — "You break so easily..."

A shot goes off then, deafening like the screeching, roaring guffaws it lets out as it bends to dodge the bullet, leaping away into a corner swiftly. It clicks its tongue, probably at the one who shot at it. Its voice drops to a low growl that resembles the purr of a carnivore. — "Aww, did I break a rule? Did I make the big, scary humans angry?"

More shots follow in rapid succession, exploding from all angles, more and more of the guards lifting their respective guns to join in. Now the captives are made to scream from the added stress, frightened not only by the creature's antics, but from the gunfire as well. Some almost hope to get shot rather than ripped in twain by it. If any bullets reach at all they do not hurt it, as the only reaction it gives is uncontrollable laughter and mockery.

Worst of all, he can't even tell who's still alive anymore. Between the bullets and the creature roaming the floor, there's no way nobody is caught in the crossfire. A stray bullet catches his shoulder, singing his skin on its way. He cries out, gripping at it, but luckily it is more busy jumping from prisoner to prisoner to use them as living shields than with punishing them for their understandable reactions one by one. Something sounds almost bitter in its voice as it speaks between the rain of bullets.

"You almost got me!"

A muffled cry and the sound of a heavy rifle hitting the floor.

"Go on, make me obey!"

Ripping of armour, of flesh.

"Show me how scary you can be!"

Something bangs on the table in front of him with a sickening crunch.

"Oh, you shot your own. How sad."

In the end, when the fire dies down and silence stretches between drips of blood, no one dares to say a word. Whoever is still alive has either passed out from injuries or overstimulation, or has receded so deep inside their own minds that they still twitch and quake at echoes of long gone fire. He feels closer to the latter, unable to even move an inch if he tried, ears ringing like a church bell.

The room now strongly smells of gunpowder and blood. Most of the soldiers are dead, only a couple hiding away in corners, injured or just terrified, and a single one standing stock still, hands clasped tightly around his gun. He can hear him gasping for air.

It wanders between the corpses as if it was skipping through a meadow of flowers. It seems just as peaceful too.

"Mmm..." — It stops somewhere in the middle of the room, cocking its head to the side. It coughs out a snicker. — "Now you seem disappointed in me."

It's talking to someone again, but who? He's sure he's the only one left conscious after all that. His toes curl with the thought that it is talking to him.

"Oh, could it be?" — It sounds giddy, growing louder, condescending. It stretches every syllable threateningly, playful. His guts tie themselves in knots at its awful tone. — "I can hear you, Doctor! Brandon, you didn't tell me you had her on the line!"

If he concentrates, he can just barely pick out the tiny voice yelling orders at Brandon from his radio. He is obviously not following them, clutching that heavy piece of metal in his hands like his last lifeline, hugging it close instead of defending himself with it. He does not move, but the creature doesn't mind walking closer to him instead, kicking corpses out of the way nonchalantly. — "She has caught it all, has she? Doctorrrr, why didn't you show up today? I was looking forward to seeing you."

It is coming closer again, closer to Brandon most likely. He wonders just what in the actual hell this guy did to have made friends with something like it. One wrong move is enough for it to tear out your throat, and yet it treats him like a dear friend compared to everyone else. The tip of his rifle still burns from all the lead he shot its way prior to it killing off most of his colleagues.

The radio has become suspiciously quiet.

"You left me this delicious gift, but didn't even come to see me? Brandon, tell her to come visit me!" — It is right next to him, talking to Brandon — it's just his luck that he managed to sit next to the murder demon's only buddy.

Brandon says nothing. It's voice darkens then, purring out these words, — "I truly would have loved to see you today, doctor. It's a shame you weren't here. I would have been more than happy to let you join in on the fun. I would have loved to show you the consequences of your carelessness in person."

The radio sparks to life again, her voice coming hurriedly, — yelling at Brandon to shoot it now now now — but not much more makes it out before it grips the black box and tears it off of the guard, whispering right into it to make sure the one on the other side listens well, — “Next time you need someone to test your new toys out on, make sure they actually work before you piss me off. See you on Monday, love.”

Whichever scientist it is talking to starts yelling again, voice distorting with the steadily increasing pressure it uses to crush the small device in its hand. The last dying static that makes it out of the speaker is snuffed out viciously, causing both other men to flinch when it shoves the thing into the wall right next to Brandon's head, shattering it to pieces and letting the plastic shards fall to the blood covered floor. It's silent once again.

So the fuckers were watching. Of course they were, nothing happens in this godforsaken place without their knowledge. However, what the demon meant was clear — the scientists have displeased it by making it wait despite their agreement, angered it when they didn't even come in to witness its retribution in person out of cowardice — proving they knew fully well they had messed up — and then made it furious when they opened fire as soon as it began doling out more pain than they thought it should. All that, banking on these new weapons being sufficient enough to stop it. It’s all clear to him now — it decided to hold this horrifying spectacle as a punishment and as a warning in response to the arrogance that had let the researchers slip up and forget their place. Now, of course, the ones paying for it are people like him, with no control over the situation, not people like that doctor watching from a safe distance from what must be another lab, or even her own home, free of all consequences for her rash actions.

Well, free for now. He doubts it will forget her disrespect come Monday. If he was in her place, he would quit and never return.

"What do you think, my darling Brandon? Shall I make the message more prominent?" — Its spine creaks like a firecracker. He imagines the massive thing hovering over the cornered soldier with a scary grin, daring him to shoot it so it can make him regret he was ever born in the blink of an eye. The last bastion of this toy castle, standing between a wall and a creature that could tear down this entire building, if only it wanted to.

No shots are fired, no screams are heard. A loud metallic bang on the floor — Brandon dropping his weapon. The creature hums a pleasant sound after nearly a minute of unsettling eye-contact and only the sound of their own breathing, finally snickering and backing off of the terrified guard. It seems satisfied. — “Atta boy. I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Brandon’s quivering lips part behind the mask of his helmet, letting past a shaky exhale. He pushes himself back further, searching for balance on the wall behind him with his knees feeling like they could buckle at any moment. Though he is a special case, he is far from immune to the vicious whims of the horrific creature.

The monster begins wandering the room once again, surveying the darkness for prisoners that may still be alive. Its demeanour has changed, though; it seems much more irritable, less playful. It is no longer hiding its heavy footsteps, and it no longer taunts and mocks neither Brandon, nor anyone else. He doesn't know if the change is a good or a bad thing. He's only glad it hadn't noticed him yet.

It finds a possible candidate for itself  but kills them off in the same moment when said candidate jumps to their feet in a blind panic and tries to run from it. It sends an arm through their abdomen, lifting them up towards the ceiling and tossing them into a wall, no doubt shattering their spine and killing them. The way it kills does not become any less terrifying, no matter how many times he has to listen to bones crack and flesh rip. It sighs, moving on. — “Disappointing. Awfully disappointing.”

Another life snuffed out not a minute later — it's almost dismissive with how carelessly it sends bodies flying through the air like puppets. No one seems to be able to satisfy it. It’s like it has lost interest in playing along. That isn't exactly surprising, if he thinks about it. If he was such an all-powerful, menacing beast with no kryptonite, and his fun was ruined by the people he had made a deal with out of boredom, he probably wouldn't stick to the rules either, but ignore them and look for other ways to amuse himself.

However, stuck with his thoughts as he is, the only thing he could truly concentrate on is one question: what if no one will be chosen by it today? It can surely just break out of here and look for more meat, if not just completely abandon the agreement and go on a merciless hunting spree. That would be disastrous, maybe irreversible. He can only hope that if he is killed today, unable to please it, it will at least find the motherfucker who kidnapped him and kill them too. All of them.

Bodies that still have a soul in them are scarce. The mental fortitude he needs to stay so still and quiet as he listens to it smashing someone's skull into a wall just a couple tables over has become even scarcer. He's going to die here. He will. It doesn't want a prisoner like him, it just wants to destroy. No rules tie it down until the doctors repent, and to repent they might have to give their lives. It's just going to kill off each leftover prisoner one by one; probably Brandon too once it runs out of defenceless captives.

“Is this it? This is what I was made to wait for?” — It comes up behind another man and doesn't even wait for him to react, snapping his neck in one quick motion. — “What a waste of my time. This is getting more and more boring, Brandon, and you know how I get when I'm bored.”

As if demonstrating, it snaps the arm of a person lying on the ground, already injured from a gunshot just to hear them wail. Once it heard enough, it tears off the whole limb, and moves onto the next one, not letting up until their body finally gives out. The prisoner can't see any of it, but he can more than sufficiently imagine it from the horrid sounds.

He can hear frustration clear as day in its otherwise emotionless voice. This is the end. It's only a matter of time before it finds him. At least he won't be taken by it, tortured for god knows how long; and he takes solace in that. His death will be brutal, but quick. Maybe he should just get its attention and be done with it.

He considers it, but his train of thought is swiftly interrupted. — “May I make a suggestion?”

It's a timid, yet loud, hesitant voice muffled by a padded helmet. No one but silence answers it. The beast stops in its tracks, pausing for just a moment. He cannot believe he heard that right. The first thing he feels is bitterness, for he really will be left all alone when the creature eliminates this suicidal soldier before him.

“Brandonnn…” — it sings at him, a vile, dangerous melody crawling with unsaid intentions. However, to his surprise, it doesn't instantly leap across the floor to tackle the guard and behead him for breaking a rule. Instead, its eyes find Brandon, humming to him from what sounds to be across the room. It brings small relief to hear that smile having returned to its face. If nothing else, at least it's interested again.  — “You are being very brave today. You aren't supposed to speak to me, don't you know? It's very dangerous.”

It purrs at him knowingly, but doesn't pounce on him. Not yet. What could Brandon's plan be? Distraction? Self-sacrifice? Maybe the monster whisperer can find a way to calm it down after all. He holds his breath, praying that whatever the guard is about to do doesn't end in more carnage.

“Well, seeing as, uh, we're all breaking the rules, I thought I'd, I'd join in.” — It's unusual to hear a prison guard so nervous; usually they sound either bored and emotionless, or antagonistic as they drag captives off to help out with deadly experiments that are too dangerous for more important people to take part in. It's hard to feel righteous joy at listening to one of the people who routinely treats all like him as less than human finally being on the receiving end of the cruelty of a subject like this when he may be next; but he can't say it's impossible. Every stutter makes both men more anxious, and the monster more intrigued.

The creature starts walking towards him at a languid pace. The guard tenses. — “You just can't help playing with fire.” — He can almost hear Brandon's heart pounding from where he cowers. The silence is deafening. — “And what may your suggestion be?”

He hesitates to answer. It’s approaching him, now closing in on him much too quick to think clearly. Like a timer, counting down with each step towards his death. Like convincing the Grim Reaper to grant him more time.

As it steps up to him, towering over the man in a terribly intimidating fashion, he forces himself to answer it in the smallest, most strained little voice he has ever heard from a guard, — “I think you would like this one.”

The confusion is quickly overridden by terror. It can't be. Brandon can't do this to him. It's not hard to imagine what the offering could be, but he still tries to come up with a different answer. Breathing becomes a challenge. The creature's curiosity has been peaked, however. It looks towards where Brandon points with a questioning hum.

The prisoner can feel its gaze landing on him. Its voice travels towards him while it addresses the guard.

“I am very curious why you think I would.”

For a moment, hope reappears in his heart. He at the very least managed to put it in a better mood and distracted it, but that is not enough to save anyone, especially not him, now that he drew attention to him like this. Everyone is still just as stuck, but maybe a miracle could happen, and he manages to convince it to go after someone else — the doctor, for example. Whichever one pissed it off so bad.

Brandon swallows thick as he thinks of the right words to say next. The longer he talks, the more his hope of ever getting out of this in one piece diminishes. — “He, he has been behaving perfectly this whole time. He has been quiet, and still, and, and I know you like the ones that, uh… that are easy on the eyes, as well as obedient.”

The creature is laser focused on every word he says, equal parts amusement and something darker lurking beneath. — “I must say, it is nice to hear your voice. A welcome change. Keep talking for me. Convince me.”

It turns away from Brandon to scrutinise the captive’s quivering body instead, burning holes into the top of his head. Though he cannot see what's going on, he can hear it very well, and when it starts walking over to him, he gags on a sob and his breaths become irregular.

“Right, uhh — I've seen him around a lot. He's new, but he's never really been a troublemaker. He, uh, seems smart, a bookworm. A loner. I heard he was a top student at a nearby academy before he was brought here. I always see him reading reports and docs. I'm sure he's read yours too. Maybe he could be… interesting, to play with. Right?” — This was humiliating, dehumanising and evil. With every word it became harder to stay still, yet easier to lose himself in despair. Brandon is basically killing him in the most roundabout, terrifying way. It seems to be considering this option, thinking it over. — “Come on, what else…  And, uhh, I spoke to him once. I think you'd like his voice, he's got this soft, light way of speaking. Maybe it sounds good as he… screams. You know? He cries easily too. I've heard from one of the others that he's a crybaby. He isn't used to pain. His life was pretty easy as far as I know, so he bruises easily. I think he, uhh, he could… entertain you for a little bit?”

“Mmm. Is that so…” — It's behind him, it's right behind him, what is he meant to do? He no longer supports Brandon's idea, and he downright despises it once the demon starts touching him. He feels its long fingers wrap around his shoulder, teasing at his neck. It purrs as it listens to Brandon, clearly delighted by some of the things he says about him in this awful, uncomfortable, much too personal rant. — “Oh, that does sound very enticing. And he is indeed very well behaved. I barely noticed him at all.”

As it leans over him to observe from up close, he gives up entirely on trying to survive, jerking away from those awful, dangerous claws with a whimper; to the delight of the monster. He doesn't want to be chosen, he really doesn't, he can't do this, he can't — but he can't even force a single plea out of his throat. He is frozen solid, yet pliable in its embrace as it circles him, inspects him, smells him. Possibly worst of all, he can't even bring himself to be angry with Brandon. He probably would have tried something similar in his place. However painful it feels to be betrayed by someone who seemed to be on his side, it is still for the greater good to sacrifice one for the lives of many. He just never expected to be sacrificed himself. He assumed there must be another from the hundred other prisoners next to him that would be a better choice, and found crucial comfort in that.

He tries to avoid looking at it as it pulls and nags at him. Its frigid claws freeze his lungs and burn his skin. This fear is unlike anything he has ever felt before. Debilitating, primal, fit for a prey animal in the clutches of a predator. It makes alien sounds that resemble giddiness, digging through his hair eagerly, grabbing onto a stray lock and jerking it hard enough to wrench his head to the side, keeping him bent like that. Its words chill him to the bone as it murmurs into his ear. — “You lasted so, so long, little lamb. If only your shepherd dog could have scared off the wolf on his own, huh? His owner is not here to help, and he is too cowardly to give up his life to save yours. How sad.”

It does not sound sad whatsoever; it sounds wicked and excited. It completely suffocates him with all those limbs, feeling every part of him. He has never felt so many hands on him at once. It's awful, he can't even fight off any of them before they have him by the wrists and ankles and waist and neck and chest and he is completely defenceless against all of it. He feels himself being lifted into the air and there are even more hands touching him, coming to caress his face and knot his hair, and when he opens his mouth to scream a desperate wail of helplessness, fingers enter his mouth to push on his tongue and explore his molars.

Brandon has gone quiet, averting his eyes and trying his best to ignore what he has done. It's for the greater good, that's all that matters. And he might keep his job after all, despite his failure to follow orders from his boss. If he returns in one piece and with a successfully tamed monster back in its cell chewing on its newest victim, perhaps he will be excused for it.

When it finally seems satisfied, it simply drops him, uncaring of the height he was held at. He lands painfully on his front, scraping his chin off the floor. He tries to clamber away immediately, blindly backing away from it, but those hands return sooner than expected, gripping him by the neck to keep him in place.

It forces him to look in its eyes. It has awful, terrifying, coal black orbs that pierce him right through. Whatever it is looking for in his teary expression, it finds it, because it grins with sharp teeth and takes hold of one of his wrists again, dragging him along with itself. It walks right past Brandon, tearing the doors open with no issue. It pauses in the doorway, turning to the guard once more.

“Thank you for helping me choose, my dear Brandon. I hope to see you again soon,” — it says, waving him goodbye. It wastes no time to return to its cell, a newly reignited curiosity pulling it towards the corridor. Brandon succeeded in exciting it. Ideas of torment materialise in its head already as it listens to the poor prisoner sob, pulling at the fingers gripping him tight.

In a moment they are both gone. The lights brighten, the danger is gone. The few people who survived this encounter are saved. Brandon escorts them back to their cells, one by one, taking the time to let quiet tears fall as he shuffles through the sea of dead. He does not have the peace of mind to write a report nor to notify anyone about it being over for another couple hours. And in reality, it isn't over. It never is. The prisoner will die sooner or later, and then he will have to do this again and again and again. He will have to live with his choices, and if it comes down to it, he will have to make the same decision again.

The next day, as he stands outside the cell door, listening to the unending wailing and begging coming from behind the solid steel, he will have to convince himself that this is better. That he made the right choice. He will cry and apologise over and over again to the locked metal gate.

And it will be listening to him, satisfied with its one true victim's pain.

<3

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane's Pets Chapter 97: Miracle (Season Finale)

TWs in tags

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Puppy regrets nodding about Bunny killing Master almost immediately after she does it. This is what anger does, makes her act irrationally in ways that will get others hurt. She shouldn't have encouraged him, it can only make things worse.

She shakes her head immediately after she nods, but Bunny doesn't seem nearly as impacted by that as he was by her nod.

Master lets her and Bunny bring Kitty upstairs and take care of them. They’re hardly injured at all. Just some acid burns on their toes. It’ll make it hard to walk, but Puppy won’t mind helping.

They’re really out of it, so she and Bunny get them set up all cozy on the couch with some snacks.

“I’m sorry.” Bunny whispers over and over to them. “I’m so sorry, I won’t let this happen ever again.”

After Kitty’s settled in, Bunny pulls Puppy aside.

“I think you’re really brave, you know. And strong. And I want you to know I love you no matter what happens.”

He's going to do something really stupid. That's the only reason he'd say that.

Her worry must be visible on her face, because Bunny looks sad.

"It's all going to be okay." He hugs her tightly, then runs off to his room. He can't use his hands, so hopefully he won't be able to do anything too stupid…

She really doesn't want to have to watch him get his hands and tongue cut off. She should supervise him, just to make sure he didn't find a way to cast without hands, but Kitty also needs supervision.

She thinks that if Kitty tries to get themself hurt, she'd be able to stop them, but she's not sure about Bunny. So she stays in the living room where she knows she can be useful, as much as leaving Bunny to his own devices pains her.

~~

You've just had the most wonderful idea.

Everything has magic in it, first of all. Barron (you'll just have to push through the discomfort and think about it) and its books tended to only use twigs, leaves, and rocks, but theoretically anything could be used to cast, especially if it's less refined and closer to nature. And Puppy communicated to you that Jane's blood is important… it only makes sense to use that to cast. You're a genius!

If you manage to kill her, you probably won't be able to cast anymore, but you're okay with that. Magic no longer existing is a small price to pay in order to be free of Jane.

Oh, does that have something to do with how she's not usually affected by magic? If she was made immortal by the same thing that made magic possible, it doesn't seem too crazy to think she wouldn't be impacted by magic in the same way everything else is…

Wait. Wait wait wait wait- her blood has to do with her immortality. Her immortality has to do with the creation of magic, which means that her immortality (and therefore blood) is connected to why magic doesn't work on her the same way. So maybe, if she had enough normal blood in her body… magic might work normally on her, and she might be able to die!

"Jane! Jane! I have an idea on how to kill you! Jane!"

Jane appears sitting on your bed. "My stupid Bunny has an idea? Don't hurt yourself."

"Shut up. Have you ever tried to replace your blood with a mortal's?"

"Yes. Do you really think no one's thought of that before you?"

That's a bit demoralizing, but you continue. "Have you ever had someone cast magic on you while there was mortal blood in you? Oh, oh! And had someone cast using your blood, at the same time? So like, there's a spell on the normal blood and a spell on the immortal blood?"

Jane blinks. "I… not at the same time…" She regains her composure swiftly. "But I have tried those separately. Why would doing them at the same time work?"

You've got her. There's no way she won't want to try. "Well it would probably be impossible to replace all your blood with mortal blood, so it makes sense why that one wouldn't work on its own. As for using your blood to cast… well, did it have any effect when you tried it on its own? Or did nothing happen at all, like when I tried to make you intangible?"

"Nothing happened." Jane is sounding more and more annoyed.

"What spells did you try? I guess that since your blood works different it wouldn't be able to cast the same things the same way…"

"...What makes you so sure that my blood works different?"

Shit, you don't want to get Puppy in trouble. "It doesn't matter. What spells did you try?"

She rolls her eyes, but luckily she doesn't seem to care enough to push it. Maybe she already knew, or figured it out (did you ask Puppy while Jane could've been listening? You can't remember). "Any spell that had even a tiny chance of killing me."

"Hmm… and you cast it? Or did someone else?"

"Someone else. I can't cast, at least not the way mages can. Which I know because I tried, many times."

Oh, it's a good thing you asked, since she talks about it saying 'I' instead of 'we.' You suppose it does make sense for her to think about mortals that helped her in the past as just extensions of herself.

Another idea is starting to form. You've been forcing yourself to think about Barron a lot lately, and its death (along with the others') is fresh in your mind after thinking Kitty was dead. You think 'what would Barron do?' You think about your first time meeting it. 

"Well… your blood, uh, makes more of itself only while it's inside your body, right? So maybe using it to cast would only work if it was still inside your body? I could… I could carve a rune into a rock, then like… cut you open and put it inside you and cast, so that it would have the normal magic of the rock and the weird magic of your blood." Man, this is a pretty gory conversation… Living here has really desensitized you.

Jane tilts her head to the side. "...worth a shot."

"Wha- you've never tried that before?" You were expecting to have to give more justifications as to why it would be different this time.

"I have reason to believe my blood maintains its properties while it's outside my body, but you're right that it only replicates while it's in my veins. So it's worth a shot, even if nothing comes of it. Come downstairs."

Jane vanishes.

This could go very, very bad, but you leave your room and go down the stairs to the basement anyway, purposefully avoiding looking at Puppy and Kitty's reactions.

Jane is setting up some kind of scary looking contraption. You instinctually step back when you see it.

"Relax, it's not for you. You've seen how instantaneous my healing is, this is to hold my arm open while you… hey, your hands are still broken! Go grab Kitty and Puppy, you can instruct them on how to carve your runes or whatever. That works out better anyway, I'd have to cut off your hands if you did it yourself, or no one would believe my threats again."

You run back upstairs. You can't stop the smile starting to form on your face. This might work. This might actually work! Even Jane thinks it might work!

"You guys need to come downstairs. Not for a punishment! Probably. I suggested a way to maybe kill Jane and she agreed! But I need your help cause I can't use my hands right now. Um, Puppy, could you help me get supplies from my room?"

She looks skeptical, but follows anyway. Kitty wordlessly goes down the stairs into the basement, walking on their heels.

You direct Puppy on what materials to grab, and then you and her go down into the basement too.

Jane is sitting in a chair that wasn't there before, with the scary contraption beside her. "Alright! Tell them what to do. You two, do what Bunny says for now."

You take a moment to gather your thoughts. Your plan is complicated, so you're afraid you'll miss a step. 

You direct Puppy on what rune to draw on a leaf (you've decided engraving a rock would take too long) and have tell Kitty how to cast a healing spell with the stuff you've already got prepared. Their magic makes you taste sour candy.

You feel the bones in your hands mend. "Perfect, thank you Kitty. First I want to try casting with your blood. I want to see if it can do things like healing and teleporting, since those are the magic things you can do."

Jane scoffs. "My magic doesn't heal me. It keeps me in the state I was right before- it keeps me in this specific state. To call any of my powers healing is ridiculous, the entire point is for me to suffer."

You gasp. She said that so casually, like it wasn't the last piece of the puzzle. Has she said that before? Maybe she has, and you didn't realize the importance.

She's tried so many different ways to kill herself. If the purpose of her magic isn't to make people miserable, what could it possibly be?

Magic responds strongly to intention. Her blood, her magic… what if it only works if the end result is more suffering? 

Okay, drop the replacing some of her blood with yours idea. You just need her blood. "Do you have, like, a bloodbag in your void?"

"I have everything in my void." Jane sets up a blood draw quickly herself. "Will that be enough?"

You nod. You shouldn't need much at all. You know why using her blood to cast didn't work when she tried it before…

Well, you don't know. Which is why this first step is important. You set the blood bag aside. "Puppy, hand me that leaf you drew on like I told you."

She hands you the leaf, her expression unreadable.

Jane laughs. "You know that if this doesn't kill me I'll have to cut off your hands and tongue, right? Since you're casting it yourself."

"Yep." You examine Jane's contraption. "So how does this work?"

"It'll cut and hold the flesh open while you stick the leaf in there. You'll have to do it as fast as possible. Are you ready?" She puts her arm in the contraption and holds down a lever.

You position the leaf right above where it looks like the contraption will cut. "Ready."

She releases the lever and the contraption slices and pulls, ripping skin and then muscle and holding the rip open. You can see the flesh trying to reunite, straining against the contraption. Ew. Jane doesn't flinch.

You thrust the leaf forward into the wound (ew ew ew ew) and chant the spell words, then yank your hand away and pull the contraption off. Her skin mends around the leaf.

Magic responds to intention. Usually that means that it doesn't work unless you have the right intentions, but it can benefit you too. You want the force-field to hold her in place while leaving a hole for magic to get through, and it does. Instead of being a sphere around her, it's shaped the same as her so that she can't move, with a hole over her chest.

"...why did you do that?" Jane looks more confused than anything.

She teleports, but once she reappears across the room the force-field is still around her. It worked! You can't cast spells on her, but you can cast spells on the area around her, and since the leaf's inside her it will move with her, so the spell is always on the area around her! And she can't teleport it out, and she can't cut it out because she can't move her arms. It really worked! So long as you keep the spell up, she won't be able to hurt anyone.

You watch as the realization dawns on her. "Ha ha. So clever. Except the spell will still only work until you lose focus, and with your brain damage I doubt I'll have to wait long… And if I told my Puppy to attack you, she would, and you'd lose focus even faster."

"I know. I just needed… insurance. I need you to not be able to hurt anyone while I try this. Sit back down, I think my idea will work."

She appears back in the chair and rolls her eyes. You pick the blood bag back up.

"Puppy… I need you to cast this spell for me. You… her magic, it only causes suffering right?"

She nods hesitantly.

"That's it's purpose?"

She nods again, and you feel giddy. You were right! Puppy confirmed it!

"So if we want to cast with her blood, it has to be to cause suffering. And I think… you're the only one who can try to kill Jane and see it as a cause of suffering. I think that you're the only one here who's even capable of processing Jane's death as a bad thing." You're not positive, but based on the way she acts around Jane, and some of the things that Kitty's told you… it's possible. Her hatred for Jane doesn't seem to be as strong as yours and Kitty's, at the very least.

Tears well up in her eyes, and she nods slowly.

You hand her the blood bag. "Okay, I need you to, like, fingerpaint with the blood." You describe the rune to her and she dutifully paints it on the floor.

"And then… you need to say the spell words." There are probably other ways to cast without the ability to speak, but you don't know them.

Jane has been watching silently, but when Puppy looks at her pleadingly she speaks up. "I'm not going to give you permission to speak. If you actually think this is going to work, you don't need my permission, because I won't be able to punish you. And if you don't think it'll work… you have no reason to do it."

Tears stream down Puppy's face. You don't know what to do– if it doesn't work, you don't want Puppy getting hurt because of you.

Kitty has been mostly quiet, but now they speak up. "...Puppy. You've got this. If it doesn't work… we'll keep trying, and she won't be able to hurt you– or anyone, because of the forcefield. And… if your worry is about us getting hurt… we're willing to risk that. Right, Bunny?"

"Right."

"Please, Puppy… I can't do this anymore. I can't– I wouldn't be able to go on knowing that we had a chance and we didn't take it. Please."

Puppy wipes her eyes, unclips and removes her muzzle, and hesitantly takes off her collar. Jane doesn't say anything.

You quickly tell her the spell words, and she repeats them. Her tears mix with the blood on the ground.

When she's finished, Jane goes unnaturally still. Her eyes lose focus. Despite how hopeful you were, your first thought is oh, she's fucking with us.

If it worked… she shouldn't be able to heal (or whatever she wants to call it) anymore, right?

You take one of the many knives laid out in the basement and drive it through the hole in the forcefield, into her chest, then pull it out. The wound doesn't heal.

"Guys- guys!" You drop the forcefield and slit her throat. It bleeds and it keeps bleeding and there's not even the slightest pull bringing the flesh back together.

"She's dead. Jane is dead. She's- she's-"

It doesn't feel all that different to when you killed other people under her orders. You feel kind of… numb. Everything feels too quiet. You've daydreamed about this for so long, but you don't feel triumphant like you expected. Just… tired.

And you always pictured dying right after. Sacrificing your and Jane's life for Puppy and Kitty's. But you're alive. You're alive and Jane is dead.

A/N: Everything so far has built up to this... I hope it's at least a little good! Let me know if I should tag anything else, or if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list! Season 4 will begin April 22nd at 5:00PM EST.

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @thecosmicmap @quins-whump-stuff

@fuckcapitalismasshole

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Nightingale's Song

Sigh Not So | Secrets Hid Away | Shed Tears Aplenty | Fire Down Below | Rolling Down | Won't You Go My Way? | The Seas No More | The Nightingale's Song |

CW: Dehumanizing language, use of ‘it’ as pronoun for nonhuman whumpee, sadistic whumper, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, fade-to-black noncon implied, magical whump, captivity, minor side character death

-

One year after the events of The Seas No More

Gilly, fingers itching to close around the old biddy’s skinny neck, settled for laying the cool compress over her forehead, taking pains to look like nothing so much as the devoted tenant helping his landlady through some terrible mysterious illness. 

It had been a very, very long eight months or so since he'd started this little act, feigning devotion and care for the old woman, and it was with very real relief that he finally saw the end in sight.

Mrs. Neumann’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her little yappy dog running circles below her where she was laid out on the chaise in her less-fashionable front room. It stopped, now and then, to lick at her fingers, and then ran in circles again. 

“Water, please, Gilly,” Mrs. Neumann croaked, and he smiled solicitously as he tipped the cup to her lips, allowing her only a few sips before pulling it back away. “Thank you, you sweet young man.” Her cold bony fingers closed around his wrist and Gilly suppressed a shudder only with effort. "You have been so good to me, in these hard days..." Her eyes, when they met his, were strangely foggy, as if covered with a sort of film that stood between her and the world. “You have been such a boon to an old woman with no one to care for her. There is some infection, I should think… We must send for the doctor, mustn’t we?”

“The doctor has already come and gone,” Gilly said, leaning close and half-shouting in the hopes she could hear anything he said. Her mouth worked aimlessly, and he gave her more water, although it didn't seem to help. “Do you not remember?” Her hearing had gotten even worse since her illness had taken hold of her - or since the siren's song had convinced her that she was ill, anyway - and soon enough, he thought, all this shouting could finally cease. 

“Oh, he did?,” Mrs. Neumann quavered, eyes watering. But then she seemed to forget her emotions and looked to the side. “I suppose so… He must have. Oh, but Gilly, who is singing? The voice is so fine…”

In the corner, Gilly’s siren sang, plaintive and mournful, as he’d been ordered to. He hadn’t wanted to turn his song to Gilly's will, but with a year of careful teaching he had taught the creature to obey him without hesitation, and they were finally ready to put Gilly’s plan into motion.

It began here.

His future would start here at Mrs. Neumann’s sickbed, where beneath the notes of the lovely song were the commands being worked into the elderly widow’s malleable little mind while she burned with unchecked fever. 

The doctor came and said there is nothing to be done now but rest. Gilly Wentworth cares for you now. Leave him everything you have. He deserves all you have and more. 

He deserves everything. 

“He's a friend,” Gilly replied to her question, shouting right against her ear and getting almost no sign she was aware of him at all. Her eyes shifted, moving as if following the notes of Areyto’s beautiful song. The clouds over her irises were thickening. “He sings well indeed! It was a miracle I found him!"

“As the hart on the mountain so was my love brave,” The siren sang, powerful tenor rising and falling. Its eyes were distant, its body relaxed in a way it never was otherwise. But even Gilly could see that the siren loved the act of using its voice, not only for luring wayward sailors but simply to sing at all. “So handsome, manly and clever. So kind and sincere and he loved me so dear - oh, Edwin, thy equal was never..."

“How beautiful,” Mrs. Neumann whispered, lips barely moving. He watched the fog on her eyes overtake them entirely as the spell in the siren’s voice took hold of her. “Oh, Gilly, you have done more than anyone could ever be asked to do for me… it's a pity, what happened with your father… you should have kept your riches…"

“Yes,” Gilly whispered, leaning closer. “Yes, I should have…"

"A pity," The old woman repeated, reaching blindly for him, unable now to see anything but what the siren commanded. "Such a pity… you deserve everything…"

Gilly shivered with anticipation, breathing harder. "Yes, yes, I do…"

Even the little yappy dog had gone silent, now, head cocked with its ears up as it listened, seated on the ground. Gilly wondered idly if the dog would try to give him all its stupid little bones or something, if the siren’s magic could speak to the hearts of animals, too. 

It didn't work on animals, everyone knew that. But then it wasn't supposed to work on women, either, and here was Mrs. Neumann wholly ensorcelled by it.

He would have to go see Atabei, and tell her, after this was over.

“You have been such a good and kind gentleman…” She murmured, and he held her hand in both of his, soft papery wrinkled skin cradled between his palms. “I will leave you everything, everything you deserve…”

“Yes," Gilly repeated, more insistently this time, leaning even closer. He could smell her now, the rosewater she dabbed at her neck and wrists each day like clockwork when she rose, the sour note of her sweat beneath. It wouldn’t be long now.

As soon as she signed.

“But now he is dead and gone to death’s bed,” The siren continued, “He’s cut down like a rose in full bloom. He’s fallen asleep and left me here to weep by the sweet silver light of the moon…”

Mrs. Neumann’s mouth had fallen open, a look of serenity overtaking her features entirely but for the clouds over her eyes. Gilly left her for the moment and went over to a table near to the door, grabbing the sheaf of papers there, an inkwell and pen. He returned, settled himself back next to her, and began to speak to her in a soft voice.

She heard, somewhere, deep beneath the deafness that had come on her with age and the siren’s song. The siren commanded her to hear him, so she did.

He explained how important it was that she leave her wealth to someone who would use it wisely, that her friends and the church could not be trusted with it - only Gilly Wentworth, who cared for her so faithfully, deserved her fortune.

She nodded, and wept a little at the selfless nature of such a man, and then she took the pen.

The old woman signed every paper he gave her, her signature unmistakably her own and unwavering, even though she never looked directly at any of the words. He’d had these drawn up himself by a solicitor who had remarked, also, on the fine quality of his friend’s singing, before his own eyes had clouded.

When they had left the solicitor's office, the man had remembered no such song, only Gilly himself, and how kind he was to care so for an old woman alone in the world.

He would file the papers, once Mrs. Neumann finally kicked over the bucket and went on to the endless pile of her previous beloved yappy dogs in the sky, waiting for their mistress to greet them. Really, it wasn’t like she was doing anything with her wealth anyway. 

Gilly intended to do quite a lot with her wealth.

“Roll on, silver moon, guide the traveler’s way when the nightingale’s song is in tune,” The siren’s voice shifted, went so painfully sad that tears welled in Mrs. Neumann’s eyes, moved by the mourning the siren could mimic but, Gilly thought, not actually fully feel. “Never more with my lover shall I stray by the sweet silver light of the moon…”

She signed.

And she signed.

And she signed.

When he had all he needed, he put the sheaf of papers back, poured a glass of a scarlet liquid into a crystal cordial glass, and then set it into Mrs. Neumann’s hands, closing her fingers around it. She didn’t seem to notice, frozen in place by the strength and power of the siren’s song. 

Smiling, Gilly walked slowly towards the corner where his captive magic creature stood, lit by the strong yellow sun coming in the windows. Despite the immensity of emotion in its song, there was an emptiness in its dark eyes that sent a thrill down Gilly’s spine and pooled a greedy heat within him begging to be released. The sun touched the edges of its black curls and turned them to gold, shone warm on smooth brown skin.

Naked, it was a vision, an ancient statue brought to life by the favor - or curse - of ancient gods. Gilly came to a stop beside it, looking over its finely-formed face, the imprints of his fingers still, eternally, written clearly in purples and reds around the slim column of its neck. His eyes moved down, following the complicated swell of magical symbols that held it firmly in check, bound it without question to his will. The siren looked down and away from him, the song… shifting just a little. 

The note of wistful loss that the words called for became something stronger but far more painful to hear, a wailing plea to the heavens for help trapped within its perfect pitch. And yet no help could come.

Not for such a monster, not with the magic keeping it still for Gilly’s every touch, for as long as he commanded it to be. 

“His grave I will seek until morning appears and weep for my lover so brave…”

Gilly laid his hand against the siren’s face, palm to its cheek, and its voice wavered a little as its dark eyes closed.

“I’ll embrace cold turf and wash with my tears the flowers that bloom o’er his grave…”

With avid delight and no small amount of desire he followed the trail of a tear that ran down its other cheek and settled at the corner of its mouth. He touched his thumb to the spot and then licked the salt off it. To see the creature at its wicked work was… truly beautiful to behold. To know that it wept because it could do nothing but obey him - him, Gilly Wentworth, just a man in a world full of men and yet now one of the most powerful men alive - was… incredible.

Awe-inspiring.

And they had only just begun.

“Never again shall my bosom know joy,” The siren’s voice dipped to low, a hushed and mournful lament. “With my Edwin I hope to be soon. Lovers shall weep o’er where we both sleep by thy sweet silver light, bonny moon.”

Gilly checked back on Mrs. Neumann, and smiled. She stared off into space, her chest moving fitfully with emotion. The money, the house, the horses even… all of it would be Gilly’s very, very soon.

Really, it was like she was investing in him.

Just like everyone else was going to do.

Pity she wouldn’t see the returns.

“Have her drink what’s in the cup,” He whispered. The siren took a breath and obeyed, changing its power minutely.

“Roll on, silver moon, guide the traveler’s way when the nightingale’s song is in tune…”

Gilly watched as Mrs. Neumann, seemingly in a trance, lifted the cup to her lips and drank it all, swallow after swallow, some of the liquid running from the corners of her mouth to wet her hair and the chaise beneath her. 

He smiled.

“And never, never more with my lover I’ll stray by thy silver light, bonny moon…”

The final note hung in the air, as Mrs. Neumann’s eyes slowly closed. She relaxed back into the chaise, her hand dropping, the cup clinking onto the floor and rolling away, the last drops of poison spilling like water to evaporate and leave no trace of themselves behind.

Gilly exhaled, then walked with purpose back to the siren. 

It raised its eyes, briefly, to meet his just as he grabbed it by the arms and shoved its back against the wall. A gilded mirror hanging next to it crashed to the ground, cracking into pieces, and the little dog took to yapping again. 

It stared at him with naked, unhidden fear. 

“Good,” Gilly murmured, an inch from its false man’s face. Uneven breath on its lips, those eyes like pools of deep water locked on his. There were still red welts on its back, new ones thanks to Gilly discovering that even its pain sounded pretty, and he enjoyed the soft sound the siren made as its back was ground against the wallpaper.

He put one hand around its neck, thumb pressing just over its pulse, and felt it flutter and jump under his touch as the siren bared its neck to him, as he had taught it always to do. To defy even this touch would result in a misery the stupid sea creature could not bear. Even the dumbest animals could be trained, after all. Even the stupidest, most stubbornly beautiful man-shaped things could learn. 

Its voice was thin and airy. “M-Master-... please-"

“You did wonderfully,” He breathed. “A perfect tool for my will. Now we must find someone to take the dog - it’s irritating but I won’t leave it to starve here, will I? I’m not so heartless as all that - and then we’ll sell the house and the horses and all this nonsense and frippery she keeps… and then we’ll be on our way, won’t we?” He leaned forward, speaking against the siren’s ear just to feel the way its body shivered against his. “You and I. Now. Kneel for me.”

“Yes, master.” Its voice went dull. Its mimicry lost its shine, and everything fell flat from its mouth like heavy stone. It always spoke like that, when he commanded it to its knees. 

Gilly didn’t mind. 

Behind him, as the poison took hold, he heard Mrs. Neumann's breath go suddenly rapid and rasping, heard her fall from the chaise to the floor, arms and legs rigid, muscles spasming.

It would only last a few moments.

Then she would slip into unconsciousness and finally to her death, and Gilly would be one step closer to everything he'd ever wanted.

He let go and stepped back, watching the siren gracefully sink down onto Mrs. Neumann’s expensive woven rug.

Gilly put a hand in its hair, gripped tight enough to make it whimper with the pain when he pulled its head back. “I need to write a letter to Atabei." His other hand worked at his breeches, and his eyes took in the way the thing shuddered at the sight with greedy, rising lust. "Have to tell her it worked on a woman. I should see if it works on other women... Need to tell Beibei I finally have the coins to come see her for a visit. Be dressed in real finery, for once."

"Yes, master."

"Sssshhh. Open your mouth for me."

He closed his eyes, buried both hands in the siren’s thick hair, and gave himself over to his triumph and the perfect pleasure of the siren’s tears. 

-

Taglist: @burtlederp  @finder-of-rings  @theelvishcowgirl  @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump  @bloodinkandashes  @squishablesunbeam  @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings

Covers @whumptober prompts 13, 14, 15

[emcscared-whumps]

SHIFTING PHASES - Part 1

[PREVIEW] Chapter 7: No Wish Without a Price

Shifting Phases Masterpost

Here's the next chapter! This is the last chapter I will be previewing for a while, but, since I don't post as I write, I wanted to give you guys something a little more to chew on, you deserve it for being so patient with me :)

Big shoutout once more to @whump-cravings for beta'ing this chapter <3<3 Thons feedback has helped me improve my writing out of sight, thankyou <3<3<3

Previous

CONTENT and WARNINGS: Beating, blackmail, bullying (school bully, but they're out of school), drowning (attempted, but is a big focus), emotional whump/angst, guns, mer whumpee, transformation, vague threat of sexual assault (not explicitly said, but still definitely happens). All characters present are 18 or over. wc: ~4.8k

Pete's Perspective

He’d really fucked up, back under the whitebeam.

For weeks now, Pete had been pushing Burton’s limits, intentionally or not, whether by hiding money, lashing out to escape a particularly painful hold, or something else. Burton’s patience had been thinning already; he’d barely needed one more reason to corner Pete somewhere far from help.

Pete had given him three.

And Burton’s reprimand under the whitebeam was the final straw.

“L-Liz, ye s-ssshould go,” Pete stammered, shoulders pinching high as his heart began to race. He couldn’t drag her into his problems again; he couldn’t bear the thought of another friend getting hurt because of him. He swallowed as Burton smirked and stepped close, and shivered when a hand snaked around his shoulder. Tension lined every muscle. With his eyes, he begged Liz to listen, please; it’d be so much worse for them both if she fought.

She didn’t even acknowledge him.

“You should listen to your silly little boyfriend, Dovey,” Burton smiled. “This isn’t your business.”

“If ye think I’m dumb enough ta just leave Pete alone with you sacks of shit, ye’re dead wrong,” Liz said, stance firming up.

“Liz, d—don’t—” Pete started, but was cut off by a sudden, painful pressure ensnaring his neck. Burton’s large hand had wrapped around the edge of Pete’s scarf and yanked back, leashing him with the knitted fabric. A couple of sharp, experimental tugs forced Pete’s hands to his neck, as if by testing the hold, Burton dared him to resist.

“Go,” Burton said darkly.

“Make me,” Liz snarled.

Burton let out a low growl and shoved Pete into the group. The eager, grasping hands of one were quick to snatch the scarf and reapply the pressure while the others grabbed his arms and shoulders, wrestling him firmly into their hold. Pete coughed weakly as the fabric pulled tighter still. Through wet eyes, he watched Burton prowl over to Liz and rasped thinly, “D-don’t—Liz—” Every movement, every syllable hurt. How could fabric so soft be so unyielding? His fingers dug in against his neck as he tried to give himself the barest room to breathe. “Don’t, hhhk, don’t f-fight…! ‘S’not wor—th… it!

…I’m not worth it…

“Listen to him cry!” one mocked.

Another laughed, “Wah, wah, p-p-p-p-please! Lizzy, come s-s-s-save me, I’m sc-c-c-c-cared!”

This was funny to them.

Burton towered over Liz. “Last chance, Millen,” he said, “Leave.”

But still, she did not back down.

Inwardly, Pete cursed her fearlessness; the two of them were badly outnumbered—this was hardly the time to fight, but she couldn’t see that, or the yellow and black handgun that appeared at her temple. Pete opened his mouth to cry a warning, but his scarf cinched too tight to speak, making him squirm despite the pain. Colette’s thumb hovered over the safety.

Pete jerked, panic and dread shooting through him. He tried again to wriggle free. Don’t hurt her!

Liz froze, but flashed her teeth in a wicked grin. “Too chicken ta fight me fer real, Colette?” she said, turning slowly to face the hunter’s handgun, and the young lady behind it. “And what are ye gonna do with darts that don’t work on humans?”

“Oh, these ain’t darts, Dovey.”

The strength drained from Pete’s legs and the gang easily forced him to his knees with a hand on his head. Blood roared in his ears, yet colour drained from his cheeks. The missing bullets, the small, dark object that Colette had snuck from Miss Moore’s bag... He should’ve said something. Mentally, he kicked himself, stupid. STUPID. His cowardice was going to kill them both! The scarf grew tighter still; he had to fight to make his voice form anything more than pathetic, gurgling whines. “Liz pl-pl’sse, d-don’t—Liz—don’t r-res-ssist…!” ‘S’not worth—“ he choked. He couldn’t breathe. “Le’go…!” he gasped.

Liz’s expression darkened.

Oh Powers, no, no—!

In a split second, Liz slapped the barrel of the gun away, launched her fist toward Colette’s chin in a vicious uppercut, and howled, “Let him GO!”

Colette gave an enraged shriek as the two tussled. Liz’s fists flew, catching her face and stomach while Colette’s rings grazed Liz’s cheek as her hand flew to her hair with lightning speed. Liz nearly screamed when Colette yanked her head back, nearly tearing out her fiery red curls. Above them, the gun’s muzzle swayed aloft, bobbing almost forgotten above their heads.

Liz fought hard, catching Colette’s wrist in a vice grip. Her arm shook with the effort of keeping her opponent in place, but she staunchly resisted every plot to gain the upper hand, and snarled through gritted teeth when her hair pulled tight.

They staggered further from the fountain, but Burton, in his pursuit of a front-row seat, stepped into Pete’s line of view. The girls yelled, but he couldn’t see what triggered furious caterwauling.

Boots slid over stone, fabric suddenly shifted, and—

CRACK!

The muzzle flash was as blinding as the shouts and resounding shot were deafening. Amidst the chaos, the boys’ hold on Pete slackened, allowing him to drag in a desperate breath and wail, “LIZ!”

His stomach lurched; from the corner of his eye, he saw Burton move in—towards Liz, who laid on the ground below Colette.

Nothing the boys could do would stop Pete from struggling. Fuelled by terrified fury, he writhed and kicked against their hold, and through the bruising pain, wrenched his scarf from their hands. The release was sudden, but he had no time to stop; one final buck let him bury his elbow into someone’s ribs and launch himself away, toppling another to the ground. With his full weight behind him, he sent a clumsy punch flying into Burton’s face. Hot pain bloomed across his knuckles.

The punch connected with a muted crack, jerking Burton’s head to the side. Pete drew back his shaking hand, cradling it as it throbbed.

A hush fell over both sides.

Burton slowly turned on Pete, wiping his jaw and working it slowly. He eyed the dark smear on his hand before lifting his wrathful gaze to Pete, baring his teeth like a hound denied its fun far too many times; and, like the prey it hunted, Pete shrunk back with eyes as wide as saucers.

“B—B—Burto—” he began to plead.

Burton stormed forward, seizing Pete’s arm in a bruising grip and wrestled him back into the gang’s hold, heedless of Pete’s frantic thrashing and yelling. A stray backwards kick caught one of his assailants in the leg, throwing him off balance. As he fell, his sudden weight almost pulled him free, but one wobbly kick could never have been enough.

A fist slammed into Pete’s gut, leaving him coughing and choking against the spasms of his diaphragm. Not a second later, his arms were again pinned tightly behind his back. Between wheezing pants, Pete let out a whine at the sudden, painful strain on his shoulders.

Liz growled again, spitting and cussing up at Colette who stood triumphantly over her, “I’ll make ye sorry,” she seethed, “I’ll fuckin’ kill all ye useless wank stains. Ye’re dirt, Burton.”

Pete gasped with relief. It was like a massive weight had lifted off his chest, and he could finally breathe again; Liz was okay, she was alive.

It didn’t last long though. Anxiety quickly resumed its grip on his heart when his eyes found the gun still strained down at Liz.

“Try it, bitch,” Colette sneered, victory turning her voice smarmy. She flicked off the safety the second Liz twitched to strike. “Ah-uh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Dovey.”

Liz bared her teeth in a snarl, but laid still. “Ye’re a fuckin’ coward, Colette,” she spat, “ye’re pissweak, ye’re nothin’, that’s why ye need the gun. Can’t beat me on yer own. How does it feel provin’ that I’m better than you even when ye win, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Colette snapped and spat on Liz, “slag.”

Liz’s features twisted with disgust, but before she could retaliate, Colette yanked her up by the arm and half-dragged her back along the path. Liz yelled as she went, but Pete couldn’t discern the words over his heaving breaths and roaring blood in his ears. He just hoped she had enough sense to stay away—the guilt of getting her caught up tonight weighed on him enough.

…And, after this… he would want to stagger home and tend his wounds alone.

Once they were gone, Burton seized Pete’s throat with one hand and buried his other in his wiry auburn hair. “Since when did you have a death-wish, Spencer?” he said, fury melting into sadistic triumph. In the dim light, his eyes glittered with the obvious glee of Pete’s thundering pulse beneath his palm. “You know what happens when you resist.”

“Y—d-don’t—ye w-wouldn’t—! Pl—please, don’t!” Pete choked out.

Burton smiled. “You can let go now,” he said to the boys holding him, “I think he got all uppity because his girlfriend was involved; he knows better than to make things worse.”

“Hey, what’re’ye talkin’ about, Burton? What’d’ye mean?” asked one, though he and his friend did as they were told and released Pete’s arms, leaving him to stumble forward toward Burton.

In less than a second, the bastard had a cruel grip on his shirt and wrist. “Let’s just say I know a dirty, little, secret,” he replied, shifting his weight, forcing Pete to move with him… back toward the fountain.

Pete’s pulse quickened, his stomach dropped, and his blood turned to ice. He shook his head. He had to run, had to get away as quickly as he could—but he’d never be strong or fast enough to escape, if he was even able to stand by the time Burton was done. But, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t actually—! It’d be too far; Pete would die! Surely he knew that!

“It really would be a shame if your silly little friends were to find out,” he said, digging his nails into the fresh burns on Pete’s palm, drawing a choked yelp. “Oh, but I wonder what your mummy would think. Are you scared she won’t love you anymore, Petey?”

Pete squirmed against his grip, holding back panicked tears and biting out, “No! Sh-she would—she would!”

“I’m not so sure about that, Petey, and I don’t think you are either,” he purred before leaning close and whispering in to his ear, “looney.”

She would! She—she has to—she’s my ma!

“She could never love a worm like you.”

Tears streamed down Pete’s cheeks. “Ye’re wrong!” he cried, and surged forward, slamming his head into Burton’s with a sickening crack.

Burton howled and grabbed Pete’s neck again, squeezing tight and moving his other hand to his hair. Pete screamed and choked, clawing at his neck with blunt nails and stumbled back with a sudden push. Suddenly, he was moving, going down, down—

A blinding lightning bolt of pain seared across his vision.

Pete cried out, writhing on the ground, kicking at Burton’s legs, anything to make him let go. His head throbbed with sharp, stabbing pain.

“Oh, does that hurt, worm?”

Pete’s lips parted, but little more than a squeak escaped. Yes! Yes! So much—let go—!

“Stop struggling and I’ll let go,” Burton said.

It took every ounce of strength in Pete to stop fighting the agonising, choking pressure at his neck, but when he did, Burton kept his word and let up, though still kept him pinned to cold stone with a knee at his chest. “That’s better isn’t it,” Burton said. “You’re starting to remember your place, Spencer.”

“Woah… he’s just… laying there. What the fuck Burton,” breathed one of the boys who now stood behind him. “How do you get him to do that?”

Burton merely smiled down at Pete, who gulped, ducking his chin.

The other said, “I bet he’d let you do anything,” and made a crude, terrifying gesture.

Pete tensed and his eyes grew wide, but he didn’t dare twitch with Burton atop him to feel the slightest hint of resistance. Burton didn’t move either. Their eyes met only briefly, though it felt far longer than the fleeting second it was. Pete expected to find cruel hunger in those earthy depths. Instead, there was an odd, unreadable expression that cast his features further into shadow.

Pete swallowed.

Burton’s eyes moved to the side to catch his other friend in his peripheral, face twisting as if he’d tasted something foul.

Before he knew it, Pete was being dragged upright by the hair. Each yank drew another pathetic yelp, but he dared not resist, not even when the tension tore small wounds in his scalp. “No,” Burton said flatly. “He’ll listen to this.” With his full weight behind him, Burton violently shoved Pete’s head down to the water’s rippling surface.

A short scream forced itself from Pete’s chest. He managed to catch himself on the cold, stone edge with a strained grunt, but Burton did not let up. He pressed his head down further until he was so close, he could smell the faint, crisp scent of water, could feel the coolness radiating from it. Pete was in no position to fight, but still he resisted, gulping down air, holding his position with all his strength despite the terror that lit his nerves on fire and threatened to send him down. He shook under the strain. Burton could easily force Pete’s head into the water, but didn’t, toying with him; and he was entirely at Burton’s mercy.

“No—nonono, n-no, don’t,” Pete stammered, eyes wide.

“What’s the matter, Pete, afraid of a little water?”

Pete couldn’t think. With his mind frozen by panic, he could only utter a single, frightened plea; “Burton, d-don’t, p-please—”

“You should’ve thought about that before you humiliated me in front of everyone and jeopardised my school record,” Burton said with a growl, and plunged Pete into the icy water below.

Horror and adrenaline shot through Pete’s body, shocked by the cold. He didn’t even have the chance to scream; instead, he was forced to clamp his mouth shut and expel the water before it rushed down his throat from a reflexive breath in. Pete fought again—he had to get out—but Burton’s hold stayed firm.

In that position, bent over the fountain with the bastard pressing his head and shoulders down, it was impossible to get back up. His muscles burnt with the strain of resistance. He needed air. How long could he hold out for? He’d lose everything if he gave in now.

Without warning, Burton jerked Pete’s head, tearing loose more auburn strands.

His lungs burnt. It took everything in him not to breathe, the water beckoning him with its cool, relieving caress, but the precious few seconds he had left were running out. Darkness crept across his vision.

Burton… let me up, please…

He did not.

He’ll let me up… right…? Powers, he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t let me die, would he…?

Pete would be as good as dead if Burton held him down too long, he had to know that. He had to. Even though Pete was fairly sure Burton didn’t have it in him to kill, a spark of doubt flickered in his mind; just how valuable was his punching bag?

His consciousness was slipping.

After what felt like an eternity, wind finally hit Pete’s face, turning the chilly water clinging to his skin bitingly cold. He hung limply from Burton’s tearing hold, mouth gaping desperately, trying vainly to swallow down as much air as he could. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed Burton watching him, with glittering eyes and parted, upturned lips. Pete couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t make a single sound, he couldn’t breathe—

Pete tried harder still to drag in breaths, but his lungs remained stubbornly sealed, instead forcing air through the set of gills that flared beneath his scarf. It was enough to delay the darkness that threatened to swallow him, but not to relieve the burn of his muscles. Pete blinked hard and gasped again, a wet, horribly choked sound. His lungs loosened the tiniest fraction for a split second, allowing a minute wisp of fresh air past before closing again. Tears streamed down his cheeks, indistinguishable from the water dripping down his face that he blindly mopped up with his sleeves. Thankfully, only the tips of his hair were soaked.

“Aw, what’s wrong, runt?” Burton sneered.

Between his body’s weak attempts at coughing and his instinctual fight for air, “C—C—” were the only sounds Pete could manage.

“Can’t speak either?” Burton jeered, encouraging the others to join his fun.

Finally, the last of his strength ebbed, and he faltered, stumbling in Burton’s grip, teeth bared in a grimace at the tear of more hair. His world tilted and faded. Dimly, Pete heard the muted laughter and shouts from around him, but they drifted further away every second. He could barely hear Burton speak; “I can fix that for ya,” he said, spinning Pete to face him. Despite how distant he sounded, the steam of his breath rolled against Pete’s face.

Pete folded when a fist sunk brutally into his stomach. All at  once, he wanted to cough, retch, and try again to gasp for air. He found himself on his hands and knees with his head resting on the cold stone. More tears streamed down his face, this time, from the violent coughing that gripped his chest between the ragged, wheezing breaths that signalled his body’s switch to air.

Pain blossomed where the punch connected.

It hurt. He’d probably find a dark welt later. His limbs were weak, his stomach churned, and he shook so badly he almost crumpled the rest of the way down, but the immense relief of the cool air he gulped down outweighed it all. Thank the Powers, he thought over and over, thank the Powers, thankyou.

The respite was short-lived.

More pain exploded across Pete’s cheek, swiftly followed by the dull crack of his head colliding with the fountain’s ornate stone wall behind him and the dull thud of his body hitting the ground. Pete groaned. Everywhere ached and throbbed.

Burton kneeled in front of him, dragging his head up once more to take in the sorry sight before him, to relish the power he held so tightly in his fist. He hissed, “Don’t ever cross me again.”

Pete made a choked sound, unable to control his trembling. He couldn’t stand bending to Burton’s every whim, allowing himself to be beaten and robbed at every turn without so much as a word of protest. Shame heated his cheeks, but what more could he do when this was the furthest fighting would take him? There was nothing he could do, not when he stood to lose so much more than his dignity and lunch credits. “Y—yes, yes Burt-t—Burton,” he wheezed, voice breaking into coughs.

“Good lad,” Burton said, carelessly releasing Pete’s head to roughly pat his cheek before standing, “Let’s go. I think he’s learnt his lesson.”

It was over. It was over.

The notion repeated in Pete’s mind while his body sagged with relief and exhaustion, still heaving, drinking down the air with ragged pants as if he’d been starved for a lifetime. He was thankful that Burton hadn’t taken it as far as he could’ve; it would’ve been so easy—just a couple more seconds was all it would’ve taken. Though the fountain’s cool wall at his side steadied him as he regained his breath, his heart skipped beats at the thought, sending a weakening queasiness through him. Footsteps crunched along the frosty grass, continuing until they clacked unmistakable along the cobblestone surrounding the fountain.

Burton yelled, “Enough! I said enough! Don’t you dare, you stupid pricks’ll drown ‘im!” but the footsteps continued, their owners cooing.

Pete tried to stand, to crack open his eyes to see his assailants and run the other way, but the sudden, intense light of the moon blinded him to all but hazy silhouettes. They grabbed him easily, mocking Burton, “Only a pussy would walk away now, Burton, you’re not chicken, are you? The bitch is so easy to push around! But if you insist, we’ll have a turn with ‘im.”

Every vein in Pete’s body iced over. Their turn.

Before he knew it, Pete was yelping in protest as the boys ripped off his scarf with bruising force and dropped it to the ground to be trampled and forgotten. “No—Help!” he cried, “Burton!”

“Aw,” said one, “Pete doesn’t want his poor scarf ruined!”

Burton yelled again, but no help came.

Once again, Pete was plunged into the frigid waters far deeper than Burton had ever forced him. Credits gleamed on the bottom, their rectangular faces glimmering with reflected moonlight broken only by the waves of Pete’s struggles. Two of them, no doubt, belonged to him and Liz. They were beautiful, like the quiet moment they shared before… this. If not for the hands buried painfully in his hair, or the danger of the position he was in, Pete could easily have felt at peace among the silvery wishes.

It took even less time for his lungs to scream for air, for him to start struggling ever more desperately; he couldn’t withstand this again, but he could only scrabble uselessly against their hold. They yanked his head back up, holding him up for a second before thrusting him back down.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t take that precious chance, that invaluable sliver of time to steal a breath and save himself. Their hands were so close—how could they miss the glaring difference between him and them? Someone cussed when Pete struggled again, clumsily kicking his leg out behind him. As punishment, they shook him. Pete’s lungs burned. He needed to breathe; it took all his strength to hold the little air he had left. His gills ached, begging to take over and keep him alive, but he couldn’t let that happen; he couldn’t give in, he couldn’t. If he failed, he’d die. Pete placed his hand on the bottom and pushed hard.

Another violent jolt shook Pete’s world, sending the last of his breath bubbling to the surface, torn from his grasp. With empty lungs and exhaustion weighing heavily on his limbs, his assailant’s weight pressed his chest further into the hard rim of the fountain, though the pain seemed far away. His eyes drooped. Darkness crept from the corners of his vision. Pete’s struggles died down further, but none of Burton’s gang seemed to notice until Pete’s hand slipped with another jerk, sinking him.

Pete had no choice but to surrender.

Cold, relieving, terrifying water rushed down his jaw to his gills, and he opened his mouth to greet it. Greedily, he gulped it down, gills flaring with each deep, shaky gasp, and as he did, the sensation of impending change flooded every corner of his body.

I’m goin’ ta die.

Slowly, Pete’s features began to change. The tips of his ears grew pointed, poking above the water to meet icy air, and the webbing between his fingers grew further and further. Under his sleeves, fins began to protrude from his skin and press against the fabric of his shirt, and scales slowly emerged to cover the skin of his hands and forearms, but still, the cruel hands of the humans held him down. How long would it take for them to notice the strength drain from him? His legs buckled from under him, too weak to take his weight. Unease permeated the atmosphere above him, punctuated by the loosening and changing grip.

It took multiple of Burton’s gang to haul Pete from the water by the scruff of his coat. They expected him to move, to keep struggling, but Pete hung limp in their grasp, too exhausted to do more than curb the loll of his head and weakly gasp for air.

“What the fuck? Is he dead?!” one exclaimed. “He wasn’t under long enough!”

“Oh my Powers,” said another, “look.”

Pete shuddered when fingers brushed his gills. Tears streamed down his cheeks, indistinguishable from the water that ran down from his hair. At the base of his spine, a thick tail pushed itself out over the waistband of his jeans, and his legs were more than halfway fins. There was no way out.

“Shit,” Burton breathed.

When Pete opened his mouth to beg for mercy, all that came out was a bout of hoarse coughs and horribly choked gasps for air. He brought a scaled, webbed hand to the wrist of whoever was closer, but his grip was too weak to pull them off. Instead, they yelped, and Pete felt himself drop. It took a moment for his mind to register the sudden, splitting pain at his forehead, and the warmth dripping from his hairline to his brow from where he slammed against stone. Everything spun. His whole head ached, his ears rang, and he could barely make his eyes focus on the figure that lingered while the others fled, leaving him to finish shifting on the ground. Pete could barely see his silhouette, but the voice, unusually perturbed, belonged to Burton, who swore again at the way Pete’s long, pointed ears drooped, and a weak, gurgling whine caught in his throat after another bout of wheezing coughs. He too turned and fled, discarding Pete as if he were a broken toy.

Pete was so weak. Along his still-growing tail, glimmering, snow white scales surfaced, mottled by an orange hue identical to the colour of the fins that grew from the small of his back and tip of his tail… and the ones where his legs used to be.

He couldn’t move.

Small sobs built in Pete’s chest. Blindly, he turned his head, searching for his satchel. He needed the small towel he kept inside it, but like this, he couldn’t see more than a foot ahead. The cobblestone was chilly beneath his hands as he groped along it, hoping, praying to the Powers that his hand would brush against it, but it never did. He cried. His world still spun, and his head throbbed harder still; it felt warm. Pete didn’t realise he’d fallen back to the stone again, he just hurt. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t even tell which way was up. For a while, Pete laid there, trying and failing to control the overwhelmed tempo of his ragged breaths and stifle his anguished sobs until the mist that seeped through the shadows finally crawled across the open ground, obscuring all but the closest objects.

Where was Liz? She was there earlier. She’d been hurt. Pete tried again to get up, only for the slipperiness of his scales to yank his hand from under him, sending him crashing back down. He heaved another sob, curling his arms around his head, bracing himself against the sharp ache that lanced through his skull. The lone gunshot echoed in his mind in time with each throb, over and over, tormenting him—he needed to get up and find her, help her, make sure she was safe, but he was too weak, too useless to be anything but a burden. He couldn’t remember when the shot rang out, if it was before or after she was dragged away.

He was so tired. The uncertainty weighed heavily on his soul.

How long he spent splayed out on the cobbled surround, propped awkwardly against the wall of the fountain shivering, he couldn’t be sure, but it was long enough for him to wonder if there was any real reason for him to try to get up anymore when all he did was hurt people. As the haze that blanketed his mind grew thicker, his consciousness drifted, he found himself hoping above everything else that Liz was okay. She had to be okay. She always was.

…Where was she…?

“Liz…?” Pete whimpered, but there was no reply.

Pete needed something too, he had somewhere to be, but the thought, as easily as it came, slipped from his mind. He was so, so tired. Maybe if he closed his eyes, he’d remember… Maybe he’d wake up in his bed warm and safe and not hurting, and this was all a dream.

Where was he…?

A long sigh escaped his cold, battered body, eyes finally drooping shut. Several pairs of booted footsteps jogged over frozen grass.

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If you would like to be added or removed, please let me know <3 More info [here]

[glitziiegutz]

Juicy 👅

[ideatradingpost]

misc ms paint character designs

(thanks for submitting to the idea trading post)

[dysphoric-culture-is]

Dysphoric culture is relating so much to a character that looks like you IRL that you end up headcanoning them as trans

Dysphoric culture is!

Also, you can project onto whatever characters you want anon, even if they don't look like you. If it brings you comfort to have all your favorite characters be trans then good for you!

[fennthetalkingdog]

Heyo, so um... I wrote a really long thing. But because homophobia and transphobia is mentioned (not endorsed or condoned, but I used a couple of quotes so I don't know if that counts as being explicit about it?), here's your warning now!

You know, one of the biggest challenges of being trans, for me, is realizing that not everyone's out to get me. Granted, I was set up for failure from the beginning; both of my parents were (and still are) homophobic and transphobic, and though they wouldn't throw me out of the house or disown me for it, they heavily disapprove of it in general. And that was a traumatizing experience for me, as a kid that has such a close relationship with them that I tell them everything even now. To open up to the people I love the most and be told, "No you can't be trans," or to admit to both them and myself about a crush and be told, "But that's ungodly." And besides my brief experience with the general queer community, barely enough to realize that being queer and trans was a thing that you could be, that was my first main experience with being queer, and it set the tone for almost every other interaction between me and queerness for years. Every time it came up, I stiffened, preparing myself for someone to argue it didn't exist or that queer people were just maliciously tricking others for some reason or another, and even when my school friends and teachers accepted me immediately, I couldn't relax and was stuck thinking, "But when will everything go wrong??"

Cut to a few years after and you have me, in college, going by my chosen name on literally everything that's not legal and (a lot of times) openly telling folks my pronouns. But it's taken a lot of character development to even get here. It took me a month going to early college and being completely away from my parents to realize that people actually won't care too much and will just use your chosen name and whatever pronouns you ask for (even neopronouns, to some extent; though there will be a lot of stumbling and questions involved, people close to you will be willing to go through that even just for your comfort). It took me until literally a few months ago to fully come to terms with the fact that people automatically (and accidentally) misgendering you isn't malicious at all, and in fact they'll often feel kinda upset if you don't correct them. And also, you don't need to tell everyone your pronouns. (I've taken to not correcting people who I'm not especially close to, especially because even though I am a boy, none of my body is changed and I can't blame others for assuming. Plus some people find connection in a shared identity [like being the only two girls in a group], and I don't have to feel pressured to correct them and break [or at least somewhat fray] that. But other people have different boundaries and comfort levels.) It didn't take me long to get comfortable with being feminine once I realized I was trans, but it took me so much longer to realize that if you tell the people around you that you're a boy, they won't see you as a girl just because you dress or act more feminine one day versus another.

But for all this to happen, you need to tell people about your identity; be comfortable with answering questions about (almost) anything and everything, because people might be confused and it's best to approach that with an open mind rather than a closed and boobytrapped one. My wonderful college friends are a great example of that—they consistently call me a boy and make man jokes and call my hawaiian shirts dad shirts and call me a femboy on my feminine days. But months before now, I had to have a bunch of conversations with one about how I saw myself, my relationship with gender and sex, what body modifications were involved in my view of myself, and more. (Some of these conversations are more than you'd just give a plain friend, but I didn't mind getting a little personal so that was my boundary. Also there were many days when I felt myself getting reflexively defensive and I had to leave, think about the topic for a week or so, and come back with a calmer mind.) And even now I still give my friends feedback on what pronouns feel good, if how and when they use them feels nice (since I like having my pronouns mixed), etc. because I've had to teach myself that showing that I like something won't get me scorned or ridiculed. It's a very, very slow process and it involves learning just as much about yourself as it does telling that to other people, but let me tell you it's so rewarding.

Now, there are still times when people are legitimately homophobic/transphobic to me. Like, I haven't even come out to my parents yet, despite literally telling one of their sisters that I'm nonbinary, because I know that I likely will never be able to change their views and I don't want to put myself through that pain again. So when I hear them talk about queerness (which doesn't happen often, thank goodness, but still occasionally does), I still prepare myself for the worst. But part of my healing was restricting that response to just them and people who have already proven themselves to be queerphobic. I don't want to be a person that gives someone a bad experience with the queer community just because I'm defensive thanks to my own experiences, because though I can't control them, I would never want to be someone that, even unknowingly, causes someone else pain.

(And yes, a major factor in my ability to even come to this conclusion is the fact that I'm no longer constantly living with my parents. I waited 2 and a half years to finally not be under their roof, and during that time that was all I was doing: waiting. It's only been since I could leave that I could truly process everything and try to form thoughts on the matter because I'm no longer just trying to survive. So I'm not talking mainly to those people who are still waiting, but still, if you're stuck having to wait, don't feel bad that you can't grow. Sometimes all you can do is wait, and in the end, that's just as important.)

So yeah, that's the mindset that I've been trying to build over the past year or so of finally being free to be myself. And I'm trying to carry it on to other parts of my life (the autism/ADHD, the nonhumanity, the blackness) just because it's a happier and more productive way to spend my life than constantly being on the lookout for bigots and avoiding people who could just be ignorant. Because I can't control them, but I can control me, and I don't want a bigot to decide how happy I live my life even after they're gone.

[a-walking-human-disaster]

"Be Human"

Prompt Credit To @whump-in-the-closet! Amazing person. Prompt Post Used: Elf Whumpee

CW/TW: Possible Gore, Noncon Body Modifications, Imprisonment Also contains mentioned starvation, implied neglect of needs (like lack of water I guess), and past torture. There is also a description of throwing up.

Enjoy! - This is my first attempt to write whump, so sorry if it's bad.

Contains: Elf Whumpee & Human Whumper

❝You draw too much attention with those,❞ WHUMPER hissed as they stood outside the cell.

The cell door clicked open, and WHUMPER entered the cell, grabbing WHUMPEE by the wrist. WHUMPEE barely reacted to the action, limp as they were dragged out of the cell. They did not even have the energy to fight back even if they wanted. WHUMPEE's arm burned as it was pulled across the hard stone ground, with stray rocks stabbing them in the ribs.

Scars and bruises covered their body as a constant reminder of what happened in the past when they tried to fight back. Their deprived and starved form was not hard to move around due to the lack of weight. They let out a couple sounds of pain from their dry throat that ached with each soft sound that escaped their cut-up lips.

WHUMPEE was tossed forward into an empty room with nothing but a dirty floor. WHUMPER locked the door behind them, crouching down to WHUMPEE. They grabbed them by their hair, yanking their head onto their lap. WHUMPEE just whimpered silently as they watched WUMPER with wide eyes.

WHUMPER pulls out a jagged knife, pressing it against the base of WHUMPEE's right ear, "I've been meaning to remove these eyesores. You do not deserve any extra attention."

WHUMPEE feels their heart drop as they used some of the last strength they had to struggle. They did not want to even think of what WHUMPER had planned let alone feel it in action. WHUMPER clicked their tongue as they wrapped their free hand around WHUMPEE's neck, just enough to prevent movement.

The knife slowly was dragged upwards on the edge of WHUMPEE's ear, making them shake violently. WHUMPER grinned as they applied some pressure on the knife. It slowly started to break through the flesh, WHUMPEE shutting their eyes tightly. Tears started to burn in their eyes but they tried to blink them back. WHUMPEE did not want to give WHUMPER the satisfaction of seeing them cry.

WHUMPER starts to pull the knife back and forth through the flesh, using it as some sort of saw on their ear. The blood began to soak the side of WHUMPEE's head, dripping down the neck. WHUMPEE shifted and squirmed only to let out sounds of pain since WHUMPER would apply more pressure to the knife with every movement.

Once WHUMPER was done with the first ear, WHUMPEE's neck was stained with blood, and the top of their shirt had some red stains as well. WHUMPER pulled the remains left off, wiping the blood off their hand onto WHUMPEE's shirt.

"Stop fighting me, you're just making it harder for both of us," WHUMPER grumbled as they moved WHUMPEE to access the next ear. WHUMPEE was crying from the pain, on the verge of blacking out from the blood loss. As WHUMPER began on the next ear, WHUMPEE could feel their stomach twisting as their vision blurred. WHUMPER had barely broken through the outside of the ear with the knife when WHUMPEE passed out. from the pain and blood loss.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

WHUMPEE woke up in their cell, clothes, and neck still covered in their dry blood. They reached up to their ears, with some effort. Their ears were rounded, the flesh still bleeding out slightly and raw. Tears were already streaming down their cheeks as they processed the information.

Their stomach flipped as they curled up, hands grasping at their ears. The bile clawed up their throat, their mouth-watering. They tried to keep their mouth shut, refusing to let the bubbling liquid out of their mouth. But the feeling of fresh blood staining their fingers made them gag, and they lost the battle.

The bile slipped out their mouth, coating the ground in a clear white liquid. They hacked it up for a minute, leaving them curled up holding their stomach. Not only did their ears hurt but now their stomach ached. Their head was rested against the wall, smearing some blood on the crumbled stone wall.

★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★

672 Words According To Google Docs. Thank you for reading! And thanks again to @whump-in-the-closet for letting people use their prompts!

[kabie-whump]

WoW Birthday Whump Day 12

Prompt: Magic exhaustion / Collapsed / “So tired…” Content: fantasy whump, killing monsters, blood

“There’s too many of them!”

It’s almost impossible to hear Shayah’s words over the roar of wind and screeching of monsters. Onthyes looks over at her and is smacked in the face by a leathery wing. He’s not quite sure what these things are - bats from hell, maybe. Each one about the length of his arm, equipped with sharp fangs and claws and huge wings. 

He cuts the bat out of the air with a swing of his sword, just in time to catch sight of Shayah going down under a pile of them. He rushes towards her, only to be blocked off by three more, crowding him and gnashing their teeth. 

“Cover your ears!”

Onthyes has fought by Ventis’s side long enough to do so without asking questions. He freezes, dropping his sword, clamping his hands over his ears, and getting low to the ground. He hopes Shayah is able to do the same.

Even with his ears covered, the sound is deafening. Onthyes opens his eyes, squinting against blinding purple light as a storm explodes from Ventis’s body. Lightning arches out from him at all angles, leaping from bat to bat as they scramble, slamming into each other blindly and clawing at their own ears. There’s a series of thawcks as they fall to the ground, and then silence. 

Onthyes stands and collects his sword, his ears ringing. He goes to Shayah first, praying that Ventis had been able to intervene before the bats tore her throat out. 

She’s already sitting up, and Onthyes lets out a sigh of relief. She’s covered head to toe in scratches and her ears are bleeding, but nothing seems leathal. 

“I’m alright,” she says before Onthyes can even ask. “Nice one, breezy. Didn’t know you had that in you.”

“Me neither…”

Onthyes turns sharply, concerned at the weakness in Ventis’s voice, just in time to watch him fall to the ground.

Shayah curses in orcish as Onthyes dashes to his side, collecting his limp body from the pile of bodies he had landed on and holding him in his lap. 

Ventis’s face is pale, his eyes fluttering and barely open, his nose starting to leak blood. 

“Ventis.” Onthyes cups his cheek, rubbing it gently with his thumb. “Can you hear me?”

His brow scrunches and he lets out a low groan. “So tired…” 

Onthyes would rather see him exhausted than injured any day. “I’m sure you are, my friend. That was impressive.”

“Mmm. Thanks.” His eyes fall closed completely.

Onthyes presses his fingers to Ventis’s pulse, just to be sure. It’s weak but still there. 

“Just sleep,” he says softly, using the already red sleeve of his shirt to wipe blood from under Ventis’s nose. “We’ve got you.”

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