#whumptober isn’t meant to be perfect all the time right??

[smilesrobotlover]

Whumptober day 31- emptiness, setbacks, take it easy

Read day 30

Happy Halloween!!! Thank you so much for sticking with me with month! This was a fun challenge and I’m so proud of myself for pushing through it 😊 I hope you guys like this one, it’s kinda mid imo but it’s pretty intense I suppose.

Warnings: stabbing, blood loss, hopelessness, kind of an unhappy ending oops 😬 everything’s fine tho it’s fine

~~~~~~~

Age couldn’t help but hum along with Kass, Benji, and Linebeck’s music. They were playing some of Linebeck’s sea shanties, and it was getting more and more chaotic. Kass and Linebeck were remarkable singers, but Benji was pretty terrible, but they all sung loudly, laughing like maniacs at the end of every song. Age listened to them, laughing along whenever they erupted into laughter after a song. Age’s father walked up to them, looking like a mess and very frustrated.

“What are you all doing?” He asked angrily, a pitchfork resting on his shoulder while his prosthetic arm rested on his hip.

“Singing!” Kass answered, “care to join us?”

“No! I’m too busy working on the farm! No thanks to any of you!”

Benji gave an awkward chuckle but looked away while plucking his guitar. Linebeck gave a sigh and leaned back.

“Ammon, I’m a sailor, not a farmer,” he said, and the others nodded.

“Well I’m a soldier! But I’m still trying to make sure Talon’s farm doesn’t get ruined!” Ammon shouted.

“Man, I don’t get why both Talon and Rusl had to leave the farm,” Benji muttered, continuing to pluck his guitar. “They’re the farmers, we don’t know what we’re doing.”

Ammon sighed. “Talon is understandable, I’m not sure why Rusl left as well, but no matter! It doesn’t mean that you can just sit around lazing the day away!” He shot a look at Age, who sat up straight quickly. “What are you doing?”

“Ah– uh– I’m sorry father, I was just resting,” Age said quickly, and Ammon narrowed his eyes at him.

“Goddesses, what do you want from us Ammon?” Linebeck asked.

“I want some help! This farm work isn’t easy to do!”

Kass stood up, walking over to Ammon who was seething. “Now now, Ammon, tell us what to do and we will try to help. I’m sorry,” Kass said gently, which calmed Ammon down. Age was almost surprised at how calm Kass was in every situation, he was perfect for dealing with Wild’s… well… wild personality.

“Right, right,” Ammon let out a sigh. “I could use help grooming the horses, I’ve milked the cows, but if someone could feed the cuccos and clean the house, that’d be great, and also–”

“LOOK OUT!”

Age’s father was interrupted by Wild, who was chasing a round pig that was sprinting towards the men. They all shot up and moved out of the way as the pig nearly plowed through them, watching it run and stop just outside the ranch.

“Hey, don’t move towards it all at once,” Wild said breathlessly, resting his hands on his knees.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Link,” Kass said, “did that piglet escape?”

“Yeah, and I need to hurry and grab it before the others escape too!”

Linebeck let out a sigh of relief and crossed his arms. “You’ll never catch a pig by chasing it kid, you need to sneak up behind it, and then grab it before it knows what’s going on.”

“Oh great! You can catch it while I keep an eye on the other pigs!” Wild suggested with a smile. Linebeck looked at him in surprise.

“W-what? Noooo no no no my Link was always the pig catcher not me.”

“No, I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Ammon grinned, “Make yourself useful.”

Linebeck frowned then took off his overcoat, throwing it somewhere safe as he hesitantly walked over to the pig.

“Oh I need to watch this,” Benji said, running after the sailor. Age grinned and followed as well as his father grumbled. Linebeck was a good distance away from the pig, crouching down and crawling from behind the pig, being as quiet as possible. Benji snorted and Linebeck shot him a glare, cautiously moving closer to the pig.

“Oy, I thought you guys were going to help with the farm wor–”

“Yeah yeah, after this Ammon, shut up,” Benji interrupted, not taking his eyes off of Linebeck.

Ammon grumbled again, but he stayed with the others as they watched Linebeck. The sailor was close to the pig, and he quickly went to grab it, but it slipped out of his fingers, jumping over his head and onto his back. Linebeck let out a yelp as he went face first into the ground, getting dirt and mud all over himself. The others started laughing as he attempted to wrestle the pig, getting more and more dirty. Finally, he grabbed the pig and held it over his head, panting and glaring at the laughing group.

“Weren’t you guys going to do farm work?” He yelled. He looked at Wild who was still with the group. “Weren’t you going to keep an eye on the pigs?”

Wild scratched the back of his head while Benji snorted laughing. “It’s not my fault you’re so entertaining to watch.”

Linebeck grumbled and marched right past them, heading to the pig pen. “If one of those pigs escaped I’m not catching it!”

They all watched as Linebeck grumbled, and Kass smiled at Wild.

“It’s best to leave him alone while he blows off some steam.”

Wild shrugged. “Well, he can deal with the pigs then, if he’s gonna be such a grump.”

Kass chuckled and Wild’s gaze lingered over to Ammon, who was also watching him blankly. Kass quickly jumped in front of them, blocking off the view.

“Let’s go help with the horses! You like horses don’t you?” He suggested, and Wild agreed, the two walking towards the horses. Age sighed sadly. Ever since Wild met his father, he’d been pretending that he didn’t exist, but there were moments where he watched him for too long, and he would spiral. Thankfully, Kass was helping him through it, but it was very hard on his father. Age gave his father a small smile, who smiled back, but it quickly disappeared.

“Uh, ok, what the heck happened?” Benji asked, plucking his guitar strings. “Why are you and Kass avoiding each other?”

Ammon shook his head. “Me and Kass aren’t avoiding each other, it’s just… Wild.”

“Oh, right, your twin,” Benji looked at Age who shrugged.

“He’s not my twin, we’re… technically the same person.” Age sighed. “It’s hard to explain, but he’s from a timeline where evil won, he’s been asleep for a hundred years and… um…” Age looked at his father who was staring ahead.

“Oh, I get it now,” Benji said softly. Age gave him an awkward smile.

“Yeah…”

It was silent for a long moment until Ammon moved away.

“Let’s finish the chores, alright?” He said softly, and the other two followed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hey! Hyrule, can you hear me?”

Hyrule groaned as consciousness began to return to him. He opened his eyes and saw everyone huddled around him, with Windy holding a magic potion.

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely Benji’s kid,” a man next to Twilight chuckled. Hyrule frowned.

“How d’ya know m’ dad?” He said weakly, his words slurring. The man grinned at Time, who was next to a woman with red hair.

“Well he knows his dad, that’s good,” another man he didn’t recognize with a big nose said. “Are ya good to drink this potion, little one?”

Hyrule squinted at Windy who started to uncork the bottle. He nodded and let the others sit him up. He drank the potion carefully, being able to drink it himself as he felt his strength return to him.

“Thank the goddesses you’re doing’ better, Hyrule,” Windy said when he finished the bottle. “We were getting worried about you!”

Hyrule smiled, then looked at the people he didn’t know. “Who are they?” He asked, pointing at all four of them.

“Hyrule, this is my father-in-law Talon, and my wife, Malon,” Time introduced the both of them.

“Huh, Malon and Talon, that’s cute.”

Talon chuckled. “Gotta keep that Lon Lon name, yeah?”

Malon laughed and nodded. Hyrule smiled and looked over at the man who was side hugging Twilight.

“Oh! Hyrule, this is my pa, Rusl.”

Rusl waved at him and Hyrule tilted his head.

“You don’t look like him.”

“I’m adopted.”

Hyrule made an “oh” sound and looked at the serious looking man behind the colors.

“This is our father!” Red introduced him. The man gave a nod at Hyrule.

“The name is Leon.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Hyrule smiled at them, and Windy grabbed his arm, helping him up. “Uh, so you mentioned my dad?”

“Oh yes!” Talon pointed to a ranch in the distance, “He’ll be so happy to see you!”

“Is that where he is?”

“Yep! At Lon Lon ranch! We’re almost there!”

Hyrule nodded. “Now I get the Lon Lon name…”

Time chuckled and nudged him towards the ranch. “C’mon, we don’t want to dawdle now do we? Let’s find your father.”

Hyrule grinned, beginning to register the idea of seeing his father again. He truthfully didn’t know him very well, he was separated from him when he was ten years old, being apart from him for so long that he almost forgot everything about him. He’d only just reunited with him, and though it felt weird calling him father, he still found familiar comfort in him, and he was excited to see him again. He started walking, still feeling weak, but determination to see his father again kept him going. When they reached the entrance, Hyrule jogged towards the horses despite his dizziness, and he looked around, spotting Wild next to a giant bird man.

“WILD!” He yelled out, sprinting towards him, but he felt his legs weaken, and he suddenly started to fall face first into the grass. He let out a yelp, but something caught him and helped him up. He looked at his savior confused, and grinned when he recognized his father, beaming at him.

“Orchid!” he cried, and pulled him into a tight hug. Hyrule buried his face in his neck and melted into the embrace.

“H-hey dad,” he mumbled, his voice wavering. He got a lump in his throat and he blinked back the tears when his dad started running his hand through his curly hair.

“I’m so happy to see you safe, Orchid. Too many times we’ve been separated.”

“Yeah.”

The two held each other for a while until he heard people come up behind him. He saw Wild and the bird man who were smiling.

“Oh my goodness!” The birdman looked at the two. “I can see the family resemblance!”

Benji chuckled and gestured to Kass. “Orchid, this is Kass. Kass, Wild, this is my son, Orchid.”

Wild narrowed his eyes. “‘Orchid’? Is that like… your real name?”

Hyrule nodded shyly, and Wild chuckled.

“Why didn’t you say that when we came up with nicknames? I’m sure it beats ‘Hyrule’.”

Hyrule shrugged. “I don’t know… Um… you have a bird for a dad?”

Wild looked at Kass in shock, and he laughed nervously. “No! No! He’s uh… he’s Kass and he’s a good friend! Has great songs. Can dance really well too.”

It grew silent and they all glanced at each other awkwardly. Time walked up to them and smiled at Wild.

“Wild! You're here! Are the others at the ranch as well?” He asked, with everyone else joining them (and Twilight scolding Hyrule for running off). Wild shook his head.

“Just me and Age.”

“Oh my!” Talon chuckled at the sight of Wild. “You must be Ammon’s kid huh?”

Wild’s smirk faded, and a sense of unease filled the air. Hyrule looked at his dad who had a blank expression on his face, then at Kass who had his wings resting on Wild’s shoulders, who surprisingly looked upset. Talon looked at everyone’s reactions and frowned.

“Was it something I said?”

“No, no Talon you’re alright um,” Kass looked back at the horses he and Wild were taking care of, “let’s finish the job, shall we?”

Wild nodded and ran over to the horses. Hyrule watched, realizing who Ammon is. The group knew about Wild and Age’s situation, but Hyrule always forgot about how serious of a situation it was, and how much it affected Wild. Benji looked at Talon and the others, who all looked concerned.

“It’s complicated, Talon, so don’t worry about it.” Benji looked at Windy and smiled warmly. “So you must be Linebeck’s then, huh?”

Windy’s dark expression lit up. “Yes! Where is he?”

“Over at the pig pen. Careful though, he’s kinda pissed off right now.”

Windy giggled. “When is he not? I’m gonna go find him!” The little sailor turned and sprinted in the wrong direction.

“The pig pen is the other way,” Benji called out to him, and Windy quickly turned around and sprinted in the correct direction. Everyone laughed at him as he ran by, clearly excited to see his own dad. Or at least, Hyrule assumed this Linebeck guy was his dad.

“Well, guys, how about we find Ammon and his kid and make some introductions,” Benji started, eyeing the different Links, “I’ve been dying to meet your guys' kids.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Linebeck finished washing all the mud and dirt off of him, grumbling about the stains on his pale shirt. He put his hair in a ponytail and watched the pigs play around. They seemed to be fine, no risk of another one getting out, but he wasn’t in the mood to see the others. He’d be forced to do farmwork, and he hated farmwork. He grabbed his coat and shook it off, making sure it wasn’t dirty, until one of the pigs gave a desperate squeal and he spun around, looking at it weird.

“What’s wrong with you?”

The pigs started to back away into the corner of the pen and Linebeck frowned.

“What are you pigs doing?”

He knelt down and tilted his head at the pig’s strange behavior, but something cold and sharp touched his neck, and he froze.

“Scream and I’ll slit your throat,” the familiar voice of the man who’s caused this mess whispered in his ear.

“You,” Linebeck growled, not moving with the knife up against his throat.

“You know, it took me a long time to find you and your friends, and to find you here, goddesses, it's infuriating,” the puppeteer sneered, and Linebeck rolled his eyes.

“What do you want, you big baby.”

The puppeteer scoffed. “You and your friends have been nothing but a thorn in my side! Always trying to ruin my plans and getting in my way! And then you suddenly disappear, somewhere where I can’t find you,” the puppeteer spun Linebeck around with his sword pointed at his neck. Linebeck glared at the one eyed mask he wore. “I’ve had enough of you, and I want nothing more than to kill you all.”

“So then kill me, why are you monologing when you have me right here with your pretty little knife pressed up against my neck?”

The puppeteer didn’t say anything, his grip tightening on Linebeck’s shoulder. He looked behind him, checking to see if anyone was there, and he returned his attention to his hostage. “I had no idea that the Links were all your sons,” his head tilted, “perhaps you all could be of some use to me.”

Linebeck’s eyes widened. “If you think you’re gonna use me against my kid—“

“These Links have truthfully been a pain as well, and if using their family to get them to listen is what I have to do, then so be it. If it’ll mean making you all suffer, then so be it.”

Linebeck kicked the puppeteer in the chest as hard as he could, trying to dig his heels in his ribs. The puppeteer grunted as he fell back, holding his side, but before he could do anything else, a battle cry was heard, and he jumped away before Link was able to slash him with his sword.

Wait, Link.

Link?

“Link!” Linebeck shouted, not believing his eyes when he saw the boy that he’s been looking for standing right in front of him, pointing his sword against the puppeteer.

“Oh, you’re here too. Isn’t that just convenient,” the puppeteer snarled and swung his sword at Link, who blocked it with his own. The two fought, Link being calm and collected while the puppeteer was enraged and messy. Linebeck just watched the two of them, his heart beating a mile per second.

Come on you idiot, help him! He thought to himself, looking around for anything that he could use as a weapon, but he found nothing. When he looked back at the two, the puppeteer had grabbed Link and threw him over his shoulder. Link landed with a painful thud, and he let out a cry.

“Link!” Linebeck called out again, more worry in his voice. Goddesses, why couldn’t he do anything to help him? Why was he so useless?

“You know what? I don’t need all you Links to be alive!” The puppeteer shouted, pointing his sword at Link, “I can make do without one!”

Linebeck gasped and finally moved. He sprinted towards the puppeteer as he thrusted his sword at Link, and he jumped over his kid, trying to tackle the puppeteer before he stabbed him and—

Linebeck grunted as he felt pain explode through his abdomen. He was face to face with the puppeteer, and when he looked down, his sword sunken deep into his stomach.

“Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen,” the puppeteer said breathlessly, and he kicked Linebeck to the ground, pulling the sword out of him.

“Linebeck!” He heard Link scream, and he saw him enter his vision, horror apparent on his face. Linebeck groaned at the pain, and felt the world spin around him as he felt the hot blood pouring out of him. He heard shouts and swords clanging, but Link stayed by his side, putting pressure on his wound. Linebeck stared at him, the boy that he was stuck with for so many months, the boy that saved his life countless times, the boy that he’s spent hours stargazing on his ship. Tears poured out of his eyes, and he reached out to him.

“L-Link,” he said, struggling to speak. Link turned to him and looked over his face.

“Linebeck, I—I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he started to cry as the blood poured out of his wound.

“I’m—I’m glad you’re alright, green monkey,” Linebeck reached out to cradle his round face, but he saw the blood all over his hands, and a wave of nausea and dizziness overwhelmed him. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting his hand drop. “Oh goddesses…”

He heard people talking, and another set of hands helped with the pressure.

“We need Hyrule! He’s losing a lot of blood!”

“Hyrule is busy right now, Windy, I’m sorry.”

“But he’s going to die!”

Linebeck heard rummaging and cursing, then a cheer.

“I have a red potion! It’ll have to do alright?”

Someone lifted up his head and he opened his eyes, seeing Rusl sitting over him.

“Ok, Linebeck, I need you to drink this,” he said, and he put the red potion to his lips. Linebeck tried to do just that, and as he sipped the potion, he felt a warm tingly feeling go through his body as some of the pain left his body. He felt like he’d been drinking the potion for forever though, and Linebeck couldn’t drink it anymore. He suddenly went limp, and Rusl cursed under his breath. “You’re not done, keep going, please.”

Linebeck felt the world go dark around him, and the voices grew muffled. He heard shouting and crying, then darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Age groaned as another wave of monsters charged him and his father. He didn’t know what happened, he was greeting his friends when the puppeteer arrived and sent monsters after them. The Gerudo guards, Time, and Talon took Malon inside, and the two men guarded the home, Hyrule and Benji were fighting off a pack of Lizalfos, Rusl and Twilight ran off to help Linebeck who got hurt, Kass and Wild were busy with bokoblins, and Leon and the colors all went after the puppeteer. He and his father were being bombarded with wizzrobes, and they were never ending.

“When did the puppeteer show up?” His father grunted as he killed a wizzrobe.

“No idea, he always shows up at the worst times!”

The wave of wizzrobes were finally killed by the two, and Age spotted the puppeteer running from Leon.

“C’mon.” Age took off where they were, and soon the puppeteer was surrounded.

“Nowhere to run you bastard,” Leon growled, pointing his sword at the puppeteer. The others copied him, pointing their swords so that the puppeteer had nowhere to run.

“What are you going to do now that I’m caught, hm?” The puppeteer asked, tilting his head. “Are you gonna get on your knees and beg me to take you home?”

Leon grabbed his throat and slammed him against the wall. “Shut up! Make the monsters go away or else I’ll–”

“What? You’ll torture me? Not very virtuous, first knight.”

Leon tightened his hold on his neck, and Age glanced at his father, who looked mortified. All the colors had unease written on their faces, and Leon sighed, loosening his grip. But when his hand pulled away slightly, Age saw goop fall off his neck. Leon jumped away as the puppet melted, and he spun around.

“That was a decoy! Where is the puppeteer?”

They all looked around frantically, and Age spotted the real puppeteer watching them. He lifted his hands, and a bright light assaulted his eyes. He yelled out in pain, feeling his skin burn from the light.

“Link!” He heard his father call out, and he felt a hand grab his arm. He reached out and embraced the person near him, feeling the world around him spin and change.

And then he opened his eyes.

He was lying on his back, and he knew that he was no longer in Lon Lon ranch. He sat up, noting that he was in a forest with thin trees littering the ground, and he saw the colors, calling out for their father. He looked around, confused on where his own father was. He was right there. Age was hugging him, he remembered. Where was he? He shot up and looked around frantically, but his father was gone, as was Leon. Age heard loud sobbing suddenly, and he searched for whoever was crying. Green spotted Age and ran up to him, with the others following.

“Age! What happened? Where’s my father?”

“I don’t know. My father is missing too.”

Red was crying and he stared in the direction where the sobbing was coming from. “Did we… did the puppeteer teleport us away?”

“Obviously you idiot!” Blue shouted. “The ranch looks nothing like this place!”

“Hey hey,” Age rested his hands on the two, speaking in a gentle voice, “let’s try to find the others, alright? The last thing we need to do is fight each other.”

Blue grumbled and followed Age when he jogged in the direction of the sobbing. There was a small clearing with fallen trees, and they saw Hyrule and Time huddled up next to each other, the traveler looked upset, while Time looked devastated. His head was resting in his hands as he stared blankly at Twilight, who was holding a sobbing Windy. Twilight was rubbing his back and whispering reassurances to him as he cried.

“What happened?” Red asked, and Twilight gave him a solemn look.

“He… his father got stabbed, but it’ll be alright. He drank half a red potion, which is better than nothing,” he said firmly, mostly to Windy than anyone else, but the sailor continued to cry. Age winced at every sob he made, Windy was such a strong young man. Seeing him this hysterical, it was hard to watch. The group heard running and they flinched when someone arrived, but it was just Wild. He looked relieved to see everyone, but he still had a desperate look in his eye.

“The puppeteer is nearby, we need to go. Now.”

Time stood up, fury apparent on his face. “Good, then I can deal with him once and for all.”

Age ran up to him and stopped him from moving any further. “He’s too strong for you, we need to see if we can find the others, alright?”

“That man took me from my home twice. My wife could give birth soon and I won’t be able to be there for her!” Time snapped, his voice cracking at the end. Age took a deep breath and rested his hands on his arms.

“I know, I know, but think about it, he sent us away from Lon Lon so we’d be away from everyone. He wants to isolate us, we must stay together and find help. We—“ he gestured to Windy “—are not ready for a fight against the puppeteer.”

Time glared at him for a moment, then the anger left his eyes, and helplessness took over as he stumbled back. Age grabbed him and held him steady.

“Woah, hey, take it easy, Time.”

Time let out a shaky breath and sat back down next to Hyrule. “Malon…” he whispered, burying his face in his hands.

“Guys… I know it’s hard, but we need to leave.” Wild looked behind him. “The puppeteer can’t find us like this.”

Everyone nodded and stood up with Twilight helping Windy, who was shaking. Wild and Age stayed in the back, listening for anything that could be chasing them, while watching the upset heroes in front of them. Age only hoped that their fathers were safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where’s Link?”

Malon’s voice was shaking as Rusl put a bloody and unconscious Linebeck on the table. Benji stood near Talon, who was shaking pretty badly, looking confused and hurt. He had a deep scratch on his arm, and he stared at Linebeck in horror. It was chaos since the puppeteer attacked, Benji was with his son one second, and the next, he was gone. All the Links were gone, along with the puppeteer and his monsters. The men’s focus went to Linebeck who was practically dying from being stabbed. Rusl said that he drank some of the red potion, but the wound wasn’t fully healed, and he lost a lot of blood. Talon went to try to help, but Benji stopped him.

“Talon, maybe you should sit this one out,” he said softly.

“B-b-but he’ll d-die and I h-have to do something–”

“You’re shaking, and this is way out of your league, you know it.”

Talon took in a shaky breath, and Risa stepped up. “We can take care of him, you voe should go outside, alright?”

Talon nodded and headed for the door, with Malon following, asking where Link was. Benji looked at Linebeck who was pale and unmoving. He sent a quick prayer for his recovery, and went outside.

The men were all devastated in one way or another. Leon was cussing out and kicking the ground in fury, Ammon and Kass were comforting Talon and Malon, who were panicking, and Rusl…

The farmer went outside, and silent tears went down his face. Benji stared at him for a moment, then walked over to him, wrapping him in a hug. Rusl didn’t say anything, he just melted into the embrace and cried silently. Benji should be upset too, he’d lost his son three times now. First time, Orchid was only ten-years-old. Living with the guilt of losing him and possibly subjecting him to a terrible life was hard, but to see him alive and well six years later, it was a miracle. And then the puppeteer stole him away, and it felt like he lost him all over again. But now…. He just felt empty. He buried his face in Rusl’s shoulder and let out a sigh.

Now what were they going to do? They were back to square one, and this time, they weren’t in the same dimension as the Links. He thought that everything was going to be ok when he saw Orchid, but that didn’t last. It never did. He could tell the others felt a sense of hopelessness for finding their sons as well. And on top of that, they didn’t know if Linebeck was going to make it or not.

Their only hope was for some miracle to happen, but Benji didn’t think it would happen anytime soon. He just prayed that his son would at least be alright.

Please let him be alright…

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 7 - Obsession

Surprise! I haven't forgotten that this story exists lol. This piece takes place immediately after Cadence's first captivity, before she moves and changes her name and hair, so it's a prequel to the main canon. If you're new to this series, it does sound like I'm implying noncon a couple of times in this, but Oliver does not do noncon.

Taglist: @justplainwhump , @whump-ventures

Masterlist

No. 7: “I paced around for hours on empty; I jumped at the slightest of sounds.”

Contains: lady whump, long term captivity, conditioned whumpee, stalker, creepy/intimate whumper, fear of recapture

.

.

He’d let her go.

He’d let her go, and Cadence still can’t figure out why. Days and weeks and months of pain and torment and making sure that she knows without a doubt, in nearly every possible way, that she belongs to him, then he just…let her go.

It doesn’t make sense.

It has to be some kind of trick, right? There’s no way he’s done with her. He didn’t grow tired of her, he was still doing the same exact things up until this morning, including whispering in her ear how perfect she is and how she’ll always be his. In fact, he told her as he was dropping her off in the middle of this unfamiliar street that he’d see her again soon.

So it can’t be over. He’s watching her somehow right now, she has no doubt. This is just another one of his games. She never expected him to go this far, to actually let her outside the warehouse where he’s been keeping her all of this time, but he does love his games. Loves to find new ways to mess with her head, to watch her struggle and attempt in vain to hold on to the tiny little slivers of hope and dignity that she has left, only to fall further into his clutches each time.

This time, she gets the feeling he wants to build up her hope. He wants her to believe that she’s actually free, so that he can laugh and feel more powerful than ever when he swoops back in and snatches her up again.

Well, she doesn’t believe it. She’s not going to believe it, ever. He did his job well, she knows who she belongs to, it’s carved into her skin and the deepest recesses of her mind. There’s absolutely no way that he’ll leave her alone for long.

So she walks aimlessly, waiting for him to appear. The sun is far too bright, too warm. She hasn’t even seen the sun in…how long has it been, anyway? It doesn’t matter, because it isn’t over. She’s going back any minute now. There’s no need to count the days, to think about what could be, to try and find anyone to tell her story to. She knows better. If she tells anyone, they meet the same fate as her. 

A car drives by, and Cadence nearly jumps out of her skin. She nearly forgot that life existed out here, in the real world. That people were still driving around, going to work, running errands, going home to their families and friends and sleeping soundly in their own beds every night. She used to have that kind of life, too. She doesn’t remember what it was like, anymore.

The farther she walks, the noisier it gets, and she flinches at each sound. Every car she expects to be his. Every corner she passes, she’s sure he’s waiting around. 

Instead, she finds herself wandering alone down a street she actually recognizes. These stores and restaurants are ones she’s been to before. Back when she had a normal life. Back before she belonged to him. 

A real, live person passes her on the sidewalk, wrinkling their nose and eyebrows in her direction. She knows why. He likes to show her herself in the mirror. She looks like a ghost. She feels like a ghost, haunting her own past.

Cadence turns onto a quieter street and keeps waiting for him to show up. Only, he doesn’t. The too-bright, too-warm sun begins sinking behind the distant skyscrapers, but she’s still alone. This is lasting much longer than she’d expected. Then again, his games aren’t meant to be easily understood, and he has no reason to worry about leaving her out here. He knows just how well trained she is. He’s confident in his work, confident that she’ll behave even without his constant presence.

Darkness falls. She has no energy left, didn’t really have any when she started walking hours ago, but she doesn’t know what else to do. It’s only when she realizes she’s been slowly edging her way toward her old apartment that she realizes that’s probably where he is. He knows where it is, after all. He showed her pictures one time of himself inside of it - lying in her bed, sitting on her couch, eating at her table. That has to be it. He’s waiting on her to give in, to go home, to decide he’s not coming back and try to go back to life before him.

So that’s what she does. There’s no use fighting it. She’s not enjoying any of this taste of freedom, anyway, she might as well end this game as soon as possible so that she doesn’t have to suffer through the anticipation anymore. Doing what he wants is always the best solution.

It hurts, dragging herself up the stairs to the second floor apartment, but she arrives at the door and stares for a long moment. Her floral wreath is still on the door, her worn welcome mat sitting neatly underneath it. She’d half expected someone else to have moved in. Why hasn’t someone else moved in? Yes, she knew he’d been here at some point partway through her time with him, so it was clearly still hers then, but it hadn’t clicked until now that she hasn’t been paying rent for quite some time and there’s no reason she shouldn’t have been evicted. 

It has something to do with him, she’s sure. 

She has no key. If he dropped her off close enough for her to walk here and made sure that it still belonged to her, though, then he must have intended for her to get inside. She tries the knob, it’s locked. Stooping down with a cringe and hitched breath, she looks underneath the mat. Sure enough, there’s a brass key. 

The apartment is dark, and smells musty. Her heart is in her throat, waiting for him to step out and smile at her. She waits a moment in the darkness, then reaches over with a shaking hand and flips the light on, wincing at the sudden brightness. Almost immediately she turns it back off, then back on again. One is too dark, the other too bright. But she’d rather be able to see him coming, so on it stays. 

All of her things are still here. Besides the thick layer of dust, it looks exactly like she left it. Over there is the kitchen and the small table where he sat and ate his meal. Closer by is the sofa where he lounged, propping his feet on the coffee table. In the next room is the queen sized bed that he laid across, resting his head on the pillow. 

That’s probably where he’s waiting now. She walks in, heart pounding, and flicks that light on, too. But it’s empty. Her bed is made, her empty glass still sitting on the bedside table. She goes to the bathroom, there’s nothing there. Checks the closets, the back deck, under the bed and inside the shower, moving quickly and frantically now. 

He’s not here. She was sure he would be here waiting for her.

But again, he has all the power. Of course it wouldn’t be anything that she would expect. He’ll be here, though. He’ll come back for her. She belongs to him. She’ll never be free of him, he told her so. Refusing to get her hopes up is the only way that she can beat him, even if it does mean she’s playing right into his hand by continuing to believe everything he says about her.

It really doesn’t matter what she does. He always wins.

She might as well sit and rest a little while she waits for him. She looks at the bed, then the couch, then picks a spot against the living room wall to sink to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. 

He’ll be back soon.

[buckyismybicycle]

Pairing: Bucky-centric/Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers  Rating: Mature for graphic themes Tags: Azzano (but also: Torture, POW, Hurt No Comfort, Blood, Poisoning, Temporary Hearing Loss, PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Angst, Whump, Vomiting) Summary:  A glimpse into Bucky's time in captivity after Azzano. For: @whumptober​ Day 16: “No one’s coming”, @cabottombingo​ A2: “Tortured for Information” and @buckybarnesbingo​ C5: “Dyin’ Ain’t so Bad”

“Sergeant! Sergeant!”

The calls for him fade behind as he’s marched away from his men — and so many others — by the stoic guards.

Bucky would love nothing more than to punch them right in the head but cuffed, starved, and near delirious, he isn’t quite in the right state to take them both on. Bummer.

He’d still try, given the chance.

A cold chill sweeps over his body as they lead him to the next room, where a lone, metal table awaits him. At first glance he can spot the straps meant to hold him down, the trolley with a metal pan on, meant to hold whatever torture devices they intend to use on him.

The doors behind him slam shut, muffling the cries of the other soldiers.

He knows what’s about to come — pain. Nothing but pain. This is where he needs to find his resolve, steel himself for the next part.

His men were good men. He hadn’t known them long — such was war — but he knew them enough. They said he wasn’t supposed to get attached, but Bucky wasn’t that type of fellow. Knowing about their families waiting for them at home was what kept him fighting as hard as he did. So they could all go home to their loved ones.

So he could go home to Steve.

Sorry, Stevie.

When they undo his restraints to put him down, he takes a shot at one of the guards, because he figures why the hell not. It’s a gleeful feeling, to feel the connection of his fist to the guard’s face, but it doesn’t last long.

The second guard is on him in an instant, and the pain is something he’s never felt before. His entire body locks up, seizes like he has no control and drops him to the ground in under a second.

What the —?

He just manages to land on his back, looking up in horror. Blue. His eyes catch the blue flickers of the guard’s baton. He’s never even heard of a stun baton let alone seen one but that blue is something evil.

He used to love the colour blue — the sapphire of Steve’s eyes.

But now it’s become the colour of his nightmares, the colour that stares down at him. It’s the same blue from those tanks that rolled into Azzano, the same blue from the beams that disintegrated men before his very eyes.

Johnson, who had a wife and daughter. Ryan, who had just gotten engaged.

They had been right beside him. Hell, it had almost been him. Then, they’d simply vanished without a trace like they never existed at all. Their clothes, their weapons – their tags, even – there was nothing to send home.

The memory sends a new wave of chills down his spine and before he knows it, even his teeth are chattering. Maybe, it’s a testament to how cold the room is. Or, maybe this is just how men feel right before they die.

The soldiers from this faction – whoever the hell they were – were stone-faced and tight-lipped, never uttering a word. Yet, it wasn’t them that Bucky was afraid of, but the short, stocky scientist that joins them. By all means, he looked frail, weaker than the average man, someone Bucky could easily take down in a fight.

But, there was something about his beady little eyes and the way they lit up when he was inspecting Bucky that unnerved him. He goes from feeling like cattle being lined up for slaughter to feeling like a bug under a microscope.

“You are a fine specimen… Perfect test subject… Yes.. Good… Good.”

Bucky knows the “doctor”, if he even is one, is talking to himself and it gives him chills to hear how gleeful he sounds. His voice is too light, too pleased, for war. He takes joy in the suffering and that makes Bucky sick to his stomach.

“You will make the perfect Fist of Hydra,” the doctor rambles, adjusting the light to shine in Bucky’s face and causing him to squint.

Hydra?

He wants to ask, but they train soldiers for this part. Capture. Torture. Or, at least, they trained them on what to do and say. Give them nothing. Name, rank, number – that’s all they were supposed to say.

What they didn’t train him for was how to handle the excruciating pain, how to not beg for them to end his life. How to stop himself from trying to end his own life. He keeps it all inside, even as it slowly kills him.

He’s never heard of the enemy using chemical torture – didn’t even know that was a thing – until they shove tubes in his arms, mystery fluids pumping through them. Groans of agony slip through his gritted teeth without his permission as his body tries to reject it all.

He’s afraid — so, very, very afraid. He nearly breaks, over and over, but every time he gets to that ledge, Steve’s face pops into his mind. Whether it’s Steve’s smile that brings him back or he’s just too stubborn to die, as Steve always said, he’s not sure.

“How do you feel, Sergeant?” The voice doesn’t belong to Steve.

“Barnes, J-James Buchanan. S-sergeant. Three two f-five five sev-ven zero –”

His teeth won’t stop chattering, his body cramping up from the shivering that wracks through his entire skeleton, it seems. He hurts everywhere. Every joint burns, every muscle feels torn – he swears he can even feel his bones ache.

Bucky’s vision isn't so great right now, blurry at times and spotty at best, but he can still see the sinister smile on the doctor’s face.

“Well enough to talk, that’s a good sign.”

Yet, the doctor doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t ask what the plans are for the army, doesn’t ask for the camp location, or the number of soldiers. Whatever was being done to Bucky is also being carefully documented, and Bucky’s stomach sinks impossibly further because the truth becomes painfully clear to him.

He isn’t being tortured for information. He’s being tortured as an experiment.

This time, he turns his head and throws up bile, with nothing in his stomach, the acidity yet another burn amongst the many.

Time passes in a mixture of syrupy, slow movements filled with bursts of hyperactive speed. It feels like wading through mud and then being thrown on the Cyclone.

Coney Island… Steve. Stevie. Ste…

It’s minutes or hours later, until the doctor pats his sweaty cheek.

“You are doing well, Soldat. Now, we begin the real test.”

If Bucky could remember how to speak, he might have begged for them to just kill him already, training be damned. Dying doesn’t seem like the worst option at this point.

They inject something else in him now, a dark, vile-looking thing that Bucky knows can only be something horrendous.

He’s pretty sure it’s poison. He’s never been poisoned before but this has got to be it. It feels like a creeping burn, like acid in his veins, rotting his blood. He screams — not for the first time, not for the last time. His throat is dry, and he’s honestly surprised there’s anything left in him to still cry but a tear runs down his temple.

A sharp ringing fills the room, and he thinks he’s been deafened for a moment. There’s a jolt of pain in his eardrums and then he feels something warm dribbling down his neck.

Blood, his delirious mind supplies as his body convulses from the agony.

“You live, Soldat. That is good.”

“Barnes… James.. Bu…”

He doesn’t remember if he finishes the sentence. The experiment continues — or repeats? Both.

He’s lost count of how many times he’s been through this, how many things they’ve put into his body, how many times he wakes to find himself stuck in the same nightmare.

The doctor still smiles, as if Bucky were his early Christmas present.

God, please… please, no… more.

“I am pleased, Soldat. Rest now, regain your strength. We begin anew in the morning.”

The words are a bit muffled in Bucky’s ears but he still nearly cracks his teeth as he bites back the urge to whimper. He feels like he’s lying on a bed of needles, with rats nipping at his flesh.

The lights shut off, the sound of doors sliding open and closed again signaling the doctor’s exit.

It’s dark, it’s cold, it’s quiet because his hearing hasn’t returned just yet. He’s alone. He has nothing.

Even when he had nothing, he used to have Steve, but even Steve isn’t with him this time. The fear gives way for cold, hard truths.

This is war. Soldiers get left behind. There’s no one coming for him.

There’s going to be a letter sent home to his parents, saying he’d been captured or presumed dead. Then they’d have to tell Steve.

He sees it all in his mind, clear as day, all the way up to his own funeral.

He lets out a quiet sob, but it hurts to even cry, every breath feeling like a stab to the lungs. Soon, he loses feeling in his fingertips. Then, it’s his toes, and like a slow-rolling tide it spreads further and further up his limbs.

Whatever they’ve done to him will surely take him before the morning.

Good, he thinks.

The last thing he wants is to be turned into a monster working for these bastards.

[homerforsure]

Whumptober No.7

helplessness / numbness / blindness

***

Buck’s thinking about the strawberries sitting in his fridge. It’s the end of the season already and this is probably the last perfect batch he’ll be able to find. Christopher loves strawberries. Buck loves strawberries too, which is why, most weekends from March through May, he’s trying to remember how to take apart and clean the fiddly pieces of his pink and green strawberry corer. Eddie rolls his eyes at Buck’s assortment of gadgets, “You know you can just use a knife for that right?” but Buck likes to have the right tool for the job. He likes to lay them all out while cooking so they’re in easy reach. He holds out his hand and calls for a whisk and Christopher giggles and puts it in his hand like he’s a surg-

The corer makes quicker work of the strawberries than the knife does anyway. Pulls the center out cleanly and efficiently. When Buck uses a knife he always makes a mess. Especially with the tiny, sweet strawberries he prefers. No matter how careful he is, he ends up with blood staining his hands, his clothes, washing red down the sink of the hospital bathroom. He has one cutting board that’s permanently pink in the center from all of the fruit juice that’s soaked into it over the years. 

The strawberries might go bad. He meant to give some to Maddie. She likes them with cheesecake filling and he was going to go over there and drop a few off and then make a strawberry crisp for Christopher and Eddie. Buck isn’t a baker generally, but he can handle a crisp. Or could have if the strawberries weren’t going bad. He thought he’d have time to make it. There seemed like so much time. If he’d known it might be running out he-

He sucks in a breath, hard. Hard enough to pull back the reins on his racing heart. 

The sound brings attention to him. A woman in scrubs behind a desk looks over  and then whispers to a coworker who wasn’t there when Buck came in. Who doesn’t know. Who didn’t see the way he wandered helplessly through the halls, trying to follow the black tile line on the floor and the red splattered one that ran parallel to it. The way he’d followed after the nurse who finally stopped him and brought him where he needed to be, first to a staff bathroom and then here to this waiting room. 

Buck’s been cored. Eddie collapsed to the pavement and it was like a metal claw reaching into his rib cage and pulling out his beating heart, cleanly and efficiently. There’s a hole dead center in his chest. The edges of it are pink and raw and ragged. Buck can feel it abstractly, with a distant sense of pain, his breath whistling through the empty space.

The pain is dull. It’s all been dull since the surge of adrenaline wore off. That blitz of terror and action that took too long to kick his body into gear and that might not have been enough. He might be out of time. He-

He should be doing something. The weight of everything Buck should be doing presses in on him. It shouts, imploringly, but muffled, as if it’s coming from another room. He can sense it, just around the outskirts of his consciousness but he doesn’t have the strength to look up and acknowledge it. 

Buck stares at his hands. He picks at his fingernails, flaking away bits of rust, pulling and pulling until blood beads strawberry red on his cuticle. 

So violently red.  

Buck should be doing something. There’s pain and urgency waiting for him just beyond the fog that’s clouding his mind. But he can’t look at them yet. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

[yusuke-of-valla]

Two Knights' Tango

Whumptober Day 1 Prompt: "You Have To Let Go"

Summary: Akechi remebers the truth of their current reality.

Word Count: 1303

TW: Cursing, Third Semester Bad End, Akechi being Akechi

AO3

Ren knows that his plans for a peaceful evening with his friends are ruined the second Goro walks in with that smile on his face.

It’s been a while since Goro -- no, Akechi, he is Akechi right now -- has put on that mask. A smile like daggers that doesn’t reach his eyes, his whole body tense with rage at everyone around him. He takes his usual seat at the counter and stares at Ren expectantly.

Ren, uninterested in having this conversation, takes his time making his coffee.

“What do you think?” Ren asks, passing a mug down to Akechi. A floating facsimile of how Morgana used to look smiles up at him, and Akechi makes a face that gives Ren the hilarious mental image of the Detective Prince punching a mug. “Yusuke’s been helping me practice latte art. It’s not as good as his but--”

“What the hell do you think is going on here?” Akechi growls.

“Well it’s Thursday, so we’re chatting before our usual study session with--”

Akechi grabs Ren by the shirt and pulls him close so their faces are inches apart. Despite knowing better, Ren can’t help but hope Akechi will claw his eyes out or something. Really let loose this time.

Instead Akechi lets him go after a second. “Why did you take the deal?” he asks.

Ren locks eyes with him. “Because otherwise you’d die, idiot, and despite what you think I should do, I care about your life.”

“Oh you care,” Akechi spits out. “Of course, that’s why you’ve forced us all to stay in this make believe world you and that damned doctor have cooked up.”

“I mean Maruki does most of the work,” Ren says, “I just play along.”

Akechi slams his fist on the table. “How are you so damn calm about this? Changing people against their will, forcing them to live a life you decided for them? What happened to the righteous leader of the Phantom Thieves?”

“I thought you hated that guy.”

“I will stab you.”

“Couldn’t even if you actually wanted to.”

“Oh yeah? Try me.”

“No,” Ren says, taking a sip out of Akechi’s latte. “You literally can’t. Haven’t you noticed the lack of work, detective?”

“Because Maruki won’t allow it?” Akechi hisses out. “And you’re ok with that?”

Ren shrugs, and Akechi looks legitimately taken about.

“W-what is wrong with you? You don’t even regret it? Sumire is dead because of you. Her heart may be beating but the personality of Sumire, the girl who looked up to you, is gone and replaced with some idealized shadow of a person who never existed. Your friends decided to reject this reality purely because you asked them to, and you just dragged them back-”

“They chose it first,” Ren says with a bitterness he didn’t think he still had. He should probably talk to Maruki about that.

“That’s not what happened and you know it,” Akechi replies. “Maruki never gave anyone a choice. No one except you. ”

“You asked me if I regretted anything?” Ren says. “Of course I do, I regret so many many things. But there’s nothing to be done now.”

“So you’re giving up? You can’t muster the courage to fight Maruki and-”

Ren hates this part.

“Use your fucking brain for once instead of trying to fight all of your problems, Akechi!” Ren snaps. “If this was just Maruki changing the past, this place would be unsustainable. People die, people get hurt, and people hurt each other. Sometimes they hurt each other without malicious intent, which is a bitch because then making everyone happy is impossible and it’s hard to predict when those cases are going to happen. Fixing everything the first time was hard enough, imagine having to do that over and over again with every little issue that could possibly upset someone as time passes.”

Goro’s eyes widen in realization. “So to make sure everything stays perfect Maruki would have to preserve things?””

“Pretty much the only way to do his whole thing without going crazy after the first decade or so.”

Goro takes a breath to steady himself. “And how, exactly, do you know this? Isn’t it just a hypothetical at this poi-”

“How long have you been a third year?”

Akechi opens his mouth to answer automatically, then stops and thinks about it. His hands ball into fists. “How long have we been here? In this reality. How long has this been going on, Ren?” he asks.

Ren shrugs. “Like I told you the last time we had this conversation, I haven’t been inclined to keep track.”

“The last time-- we’ve had this conversation before ?”

“Yep. You don’t exactly take it well, and that pings Maruki and then he, you know” Ren waves his hands in Akechi’s face, “makes you happy.”

Akechi grits his teeth but takes a deep breath. “So how come you remember?”

“Because a long, long time ago I signed a contract that said I’d take full responsibility for my actions,” Ren says, “and I didn’t realize what that really meant. Maruki’s tried to help but I guess there are some things even he can’t do.”

“Then why don’t you try and get back to our own reality?” Akechi asks.

“Because it’s gone. Mementos, it felt huge, but it really only affected Tokyo. I’m sure you’ve figured that out since we’ve only ever heard from targets in the city.”

“Which means Maruki’s reality only affected Tokyo.”

“Finally he puts it together!” Ren applauds.

“Don’t mock me. So while we’ve been here...”

“The rest of the world has moved on. Or destroyed itself. Who really knows. Either way the world we knew is gone,” Ren says, “What if I just condemn everyone to something worse?”

“So you’re just going to hide?”

“I already made a choice to get everyone stuck here. I can’t just change my mind-”

“You already did that when you accepted the deal!”

“And that was a mistake! You want me to just repeat it?” Ren snaps. “God damn it, Akechi. Even if we can break out of here, something that will be much harder than it was back then, who the fuck knows what we’re going back to. Maybe everything’s been destroyed, maybe World War III started. What? You want me to just repeat my mistakes and condemn everyone to something worse?

“It’s not just your choice! Don’t the others deserve a say in which reality they want to live in?”

“They’re fine not knowing. They’re happy either way.” Ren runs a hand through his hair. He’s worked up, again. Why? Why is he always angry when they get to this part? They've had this conversation so many times now -- it never changes -- and it still gets to him. “Just, let go, Goro. Give up on going back. I wish I could.” With that, Ren puts his apron on the counter and heads upstairs, phone out to tell the others to cancel for tonight. “Switch the sign around on your way out.”

~

“So, he’s not going to help us?” Sumire asks when Goro finishes the recording for the others.

Goro shrugs. “He’s given up. Do the rest of you want to continue without your fearless leader?”

An awkward silence settles over the small laundromat that they’d decided to meet in.

Then Haru steps up, eyes burning. “I will reclaim my future,” she says. “Or die trying.”

Slowly but surely, everyone else agrees. Goro doesn’t dare think about the relief that fills his chest at the thought of the others being willing to help him. They’re allies with a united goal, that's all. Besides, he could have done it without them.

A few feet away, hidden in the branches of the tree, a blue butterfly watches. It feels hope for the first time in a long while.

[much-ado-about-exy]

familiar ghosts

whumptober day 1: “you have to let go”

ao3

Dick is… tired. Although he can’t exactly remember why. There’s this bone-deep, crushing exhaustion in his limbs that feels too heavy for a fifteen-year-old kid to bear - although, being fifteen also feels sort of wrong for some reason, which is weird. But old ladies at galas for Wayne Enterprises tell him that he’s got an old soul, sometimes, so maybe that’s what that’s all about. Maybe his very old soul is chafing under the awkwardness of adolescence just as much as the rest of him is.

He does his best to shake off whatever it is, anyway. Today’s a really cool day, because Wally, who’s been his best friend for years and his crush for at least a couple months, give or take, finally asked him out on a date, and they’re meeting in Central City this afternoon. School’s just let out and Dick is already halfway to the closest Zeta-Tube to Gotham Academy, the chatter of his recently-dismissed classmates quickly fading behind him. 

The coordinates for the Zeta-Tube down the street from Wally’s house are as familiar to Dick as his own cell phone number - he’s been visiting Wally this way since before Batman even trusted him to be using the Tubes on his own, which - he’d certainly gotten in trouble for, at the time, but it had never really stopped him. He punches in the command impatiently and even though the transport is near-instantaneous, he can’t shake the restlessness in his limbs that overtakes him as he’s spat out of the Tube and into Central.

He pauses for a minute inside the phone booth that disguises the Tube’s entrance, changing from his school uniform into normal-people civvies before ducking out and sauntering determinedly unsuspiciously - spiciously? Maybe not - out of the alley and down the street. 

Wally’s waiting for him on his front porch already, of course. With the time difference, he’s been out of school for over an hour by now. He looks nice - he always looks nice, of course - although his hair is brushed kind of weird - it strikes Dick that maybe Wally dressed up a little, for this date, and that maybe Dick should have, too? But it’s Wally, his best friend, he hadn’t thought- well, there’s really nothing to be done about it now. Jeans and a short-sleeved shirt will have to do. 

Dick bounces on the balls of his feet once, twice, three times, suddenly anxious, before Wally’s down the stairs and standing in front of him. 

“Hey, dude- er, is dude still okay?” Wally scratches the back of his neck, face slowly turning red. 

“Duh,” says Dick. “Dude, nothing has to change that we don’t want to.”

“Right, yeah,” says Wally, grinning. 

He reaches out for a fistbump, but Dick pulls him into a hug instead. He’s still shorter than Wally, although by less than he had been a year or two ago, and he can hear the speedster’s heart pounding through his shirt as Wally’s arms tentatively close around him. It’s Dick’s turn to blush, now, and he lets go just as quickly as he’d grabbed on to begin with. What had he done that for?

He hastily bumps his fist against Wally’s loosely curled hand and turns to lead the way down the street, hoping it’s not obvious how jittery he is. 

“Dick,” says Wally, easily catching up and grabbing Dick’s hand, “you’re about to start cartwheeling down the street, man. Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“I am!” Dick sounds defensive even to himself. He sighs. “I’m just… Nervous. We’ve been friends forever! But it feels like… Things are supposed to feel different, now? On a date? And I don’t know how to do that right. What’s supposed to change?”

“Dude, you said it yourself.” Wally stops walking, drags Dick to a stop by their joined hands, and turns to face him. “Nothing, that we don’t want to. We’re still best bros - we can just, like, hold hands and kiss and stuff if we want to, now.”

That last bit comes out in a rush, Wally’s gaze dropping to the pavement. Dick grins. He’s spent enough time daydreaming about kissing Wally the thought of it hardly phases him anymore, except for the electricity that it sends down his spine to know that he can now.

“Totally,” he says, tugging on Wally’s hand to get them moving again. “You ready for me to kick your ass at roller skating?”

“Roller skating isn’t a competitive sport, you dick! And you’ve never been before, either.” 

Dick totally kicks Wally’s ass at roller skating. 

But something feels… Off about it. It’s not like he’s ever been inside the Central City Rollarama before today, but he has the strangest sense of deja vu about it. And he’s… Honestly better at skating than he probably should be, even given his solid sense of balance and acrobatic inclinations. And so is Wally - Dick has an itchy phantom memory of Wally landing on his ass over and over again on skates, laughing through a fake scowl every time Dick hauled him to his feet, but he knows - he knows - that they’ve never done this together before. Right?

He’s very purposefully continuing to ignore the sinking wrongness he’s been feeling all day, though, because he’s having fun, dammit, and whatever vigilante-dread-sense weirdness is going on can wait. Wally clings to his shoulders and appears to be doing his level best to drag the both of them to the ground as Dick tows him in circles around the rink, and Dick’s own laughter has him doubled over enough of the time that he’s sure Wally’s going to succeed.

Miraculously, they survive two hours of this - with no major injuries, no less - before Wally’s stomach starts to growl. 

“Ice cream?” Dick asks, guiding them toward the rink’s exit so they can take off their skates. 

“Babe,” Wally says, looking at Dick like he hung every star in the sky, or completed a titration with a margin of error less than one percent, “you read my mind.” 

It’s a good thing they’re near the wall by now, because Wally calling him babe just about knocks Dick off his feet, and the only thing that saves him from a bruised tailbone is the railing he grabs onto before he tips too far backward. 

“Cool,” he says, breathless. Please, god, don’t let Wally have noticed that. “Let’s go, then!”

While they swap out their skates for shoes, for just a second, Wally flickers into someone older, someone tired, and so does Dick. And then they’re back to normal again. 

They hold hands on their way to the ice cream shop down the street. Wally’s hand is warm and a little sweaty, and just a bit too small- too small? No, it’s just right. Their hands fit together as if they were always meant to hold each other. It’s perfect, so perfect that Dick barely keeps from skipping with how happy it makes him. 

Wally orders a strawberry cone, and Dick gets chocolate in a cup, but they’ve hardly even walked away from the shop with their ice cream when Wally sneaks up behind Dick and steals several bites of his. 

Dick gasps dramatically, whirling around to face the thief, who has already swallowed his stolen goods and returned to his own ice cream. 

“Wally,” he whines, “you jerk!”

“It’s good manners to share.” Wally turns up his nose and looks down it at Dick, smile lines betraying his stern expression.

And, really, Dick doesn’t even like strawberry ice cream, but that sort of behavior simply can’t be allowed. So, it’s strictly on principle that he grabs onto Wally’s arm and hangs off of it, switching tactics to try to clamber onto Wally’s shoulders when Wally passes his cone to his unassailed arm.

“Let go, you goof,” says Wally, dancing backwards out of Dick’s reach and holding his ice cream aloft. 

“What?” Dick asks, laughing. “Can’t handle the heat?”

But Dick blinks and something’s changed - Wally’s face is serious now, where it had been creased with smile lines half a second before. It’s alarming enough that Dick whirls around in a circle, certain that some supervillain is trying to get the drop on him, but there’s nothing there. 

“Dick,” says Wally, voice grave, and suddenly he seems much less corporeal than he had just a few seconds ago, shimmering like hot air over pavement, “let go.” 

“What?” Dick’s voice is higher, younger, less confident than some part of him knows it should be. This is wrong, it’s all wrong, this isn’t how today goes, but he doesn’t want to think about what that means, not now, not when things are so good. “I let go, I’m all the way over here now. It’s fine, see?” 

“You have to let go,” Wally says. Electricity sparks across Wally’s chest and his very existence seems to flicker with it. Old and then young again. Here and then gone. “It’s time, dude.” 

“Time for what?” Dick asks. He’s panicking now, unable to calm himself down. He hates being confused like this, hates being left in the dark, hates knowing even more. But he gets no answer. 

Wally’s ice cream splatters to the sidewalk, stray droplets landing on Dick’s beat up sneakers, as the boy holding it vanishes without a trace. 

---

And Dick, nineteen, alone in the oppressive dark of his Blüdhaven apartment, wakes up. 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Whumptober 30 + 31: Internal Injury and Left for Dead

CW: Blood, just like a whole lot of violence, organ removal, more than mild arson, whumper turned whumpee, character death, dissoci@tion, mild vampirism, some brief threatening pet whump and dehumanization + a noncon reference

TIMELINE: Begins immediately following Possession, end of the Bad Arc. One year after Danny is abducted for a second time.

Nate tastes blood on his tongue, thick in his mouth, but he’s tasted blood before. Bram’s skin is cold but it is always cold, and his panting breaths are heavy against Nate’s ear but he knows Bram’s breathing better than almost anything else, better than he knows anyone’s breathing but Danny’s.

Abraham Denner has been breathing in Nate’s ear, down his spine, inside his mind for seven very long years, and Nate is about to ensure he can never do it again.

Bram groans in pain, like so many other sounds he’s made against Nate’s ear before, whispering, I love you, you’re mine as Nate cried and fought and screamed and didn’t cry and moaned and gave in to him, to his eyes and his love, again and again and again-

Nate pulls back, his teeth and tongue black and red, blood smeared thick like oil around his lips and down his chin, and Bram’s eyes meet his, wide with rage. 

Nate isn’t scared of Bram any longer.

His wrists burn from tearing free of the ropes, the scent of new and old blood is thick in the air around them. His hands close around Bram’s neck, a collar of skin, and he closes his grip slippery-red, thumbs pressing down on the windpipe of a man who will not die from this, because he already died centuries ago.

Ryan is in his mind and in his hands, guiding their strength, Ryan is darkness and white teeth sharpened to points. Ryan is glowing yellow eyes that stare out from Nate’s own. He is not alone inside himself, and they are the same, and if Danny is dead then Nate will make sure Bram follows him-

He’s not dead, Ryan’s voice whispers inside of him, and Nate bears his thumbs down harder just to hear Bram’s gurgling, rasping chokes, to feel his hands press against Nate’s bare chest and then claw there, digging in but Ryan is between Nate and the pain, pressing up against his skin, a barrier between Nate and true sensation. He’s not dead. We can still save him.

Nathaniel Vandrum’s life has been narrowed, day by day, month by month, year by year. He spent years under Bram’s spell, eight months a hunted animal. He spent four years keeping Danny alive, he spent a year and a half helping him learn to be human again, spent a year watching Danny suffer from a place too far for him to follow.

He has spent a year watching Danny bleed, and scream, and cry, and slip away inside himself with only Ryan there to bring him back out.

He is tired of watching Danny suffer.

He is tired of this.

He is so fucking tired.

He feels no pain from his broken right hand - Ryan stands between him and the pain there, too. He can feel Ryan twisting inside him, pushing him to close his hands tighter around Bram’s neck, staring down into his eyes. The things that move there thrash with desperate desire to survive but Nate has no mercy left in him.

He should be horrified by someone else being inside his body with him but he can’t be, he can’t let it sink in that he is moving as two people working together inside one skin, or he’ll slip. It takes one mistake and Bram will have him again, and if Bram gets him again he’ll be done, he’ll die before he’ll hurt anyone, but Bram would make him hurt so many people.

“N-Nate-” Bram’s voice is husky, but the anger boils inside it, and he grabs Nate by the shoulders finally and throws him off. Nate slams to the ground on his side, groaning and moving to scramble to his feet just as Bram, blood still pouring in thick black waves from the wound Nate tore open, stands and kicks him hard.

Something snaps in Nate and Ryan isn’t fast enough to take the pain. There’s a burst of it, an ache that overrides him, and he’s still for too long. Only a second... but too long. 

Bram drags him to his knees by one arm and slaps him, his palm slamming into Nate’s cheek sending him back to the ground. Back up to slap him again, the other side. Kicked again and Nate coughs out air before he can find more to inhale.

Ryan is gone from inside him, collapsing onto the ground where he’d been standing before he stepped inside Nate’s skin, dark skin glowing faintly with the same yellow as his eyes.

Somewhere, Bram’s sister runs from her own mistakes, but Nate stares up as Bram walks towards him and thinks that Bram has never needed his sister to keep his puppies in line before, and he doesn’t need her now.

“You would… refuse the gift?” Bram’s voice is laced with his disbelief. He raises a hand to touch the uneven skin torn apart at one shoulder, looking at the blood there with something like wonder. “You’d try to kill me? After everything I did for you? After everything I gave you?”

“After-...” Nate coughs again, trying to get back on his feet, but as soon as he’s on all fours Bram kicks him again and sends him back down. His eyes move to Danny - limp on the ground, blood welling up around the blade buried in his back. Danny’s eyes are open, wide and so so blue.

So blue, and so empty.

Danny’s gone.

“No.” The voice is from Nate but it’s not his voice. It’s a whimper. A whine. Barely a protest.

Too late.

“I gave you the puppy,” Bram says, stepping between Nate and Danny, blocking him from the sight of the man he loves most in the world. The only thing left that he loves in the world. “Now I’ve taken the puppy away.”

Nate’s heart does not twist with fear. He doesn’t let himself grieve yet. Instead… he lets his head drop to the ground, into his arms, and he starts to weep. If the tears are anger, not sadness, Bram doesn’t notice. He chuckles, satisfied, and pulls Nate back onto his feet again. One hand gripped tightly around his arm, the other hand cups Nate’s cheek, gently pressing his jaw to tilt his head up, get him to look Bram in the eyes.

“I w-wanted to save him,” Nate whispers.

Too late, Vandrum. Always too late.

“I know,” Bram says with unnerving tenderness, and when he leans in to kiss Nate, the man doesn’t fight him. Bram’s lips are cold. 

He spent half a year, once, being the perfect lover. He can do it again, for just a few minutes. 

For long enough.

Bram licks his own blood off his lips when he pulls back, smiling now. There’s blackish red on his teeth, staining his pale pale skin. “You can’t save anyone, Nate,” Bram says, reaching up, running his fingers back through Nate’s hair. “You’re mine. Mine, forever. For the rest of fucking time, Nate, you’re mine. Mourn him if you want, but you were never meant for the puppy. You were meant for me.”

“Yes,” Nate says, and pitches his voice to be slightly faint and empty, the voice he used when Bram would wipe him away from himself. He looks into those colorless eyes and, like every day since Bram once forced a muzzle on Danny for months and nearly took him from Nate for good, he feels absolutely nothing.

“Bring Faerie Boy inside,” Bram commands with effortless certainty. “I know how to take care of his kind, too. Then we’ll decide what happens next.” Bram looks carelessly over at where Danny lays crumpled in the dirt. “Faerie Boy can bury the body.”

The body.

Nate has to steel himself with every ounce of willpower not to make a sound in response. He only nods and, making his expression blank, he limps over to Ryan, dragging Danny’s brother to his feet. Ryan’s skin feels like an open flame under his hand, far hotter than human skin ever should be, but the glow in his eyes is dulling. He’s too tired, too new at this. His strength is already waning, Nate thinks, he pushed himself too far.

“Danny’s n-not dead,” Ryan says in a croaking, cracking voice. “He’s, he’s not-”

“I know,” Nate responds, forcing him to move. He knows Danny is dead, though, and that this is just Ryan trying to convince him not to give up, give in, and let Bram rebuild his family - with his true love and his dog - with Ryan in Danny’s place. Bram is behind them, ensuring they go where into the house, and Nate half-drags Ryan up the steps. “T-trust me. I h-h-h… I’ve got a plan.”

Ryan laughs, dry and hopeless, but he allows himself to be moved. His neck is a ring of bright red agony, his wrists look the same. He’s skinny, after a year earning bites of food with obedience to torture, bony under Nate’s hands. His hair is dull and brittle, dried and tangled frizz instead of curls. “Sure… hope so.”

“When I m-m-move,” Nate whispers, barely loud enough for Ryan to possibly hear, just hoping he understands, “grab his l-l-legs to s-slow him down, and then c-c-come back… I’ll l-let you in.”

Nate deposits him on the floor next to the kitchen table without waiting for a response, letting him drop more roughly than necessary, pretending he is still in thrall as he pulls out a chair and sits. 

He’s going to have one chance at this.

Bram pulls out a chair and sits across from him, giving Nate a smile. Brilliant, and shining, and loving, even as the love of Nate’s life is bleeding to death in the front yard. Nate might not be able to save Danny, now - but he can save Ryan, he thinks.

He hopes it’s enough for wherever Danny will be after he’s gone.

He hopes it will somehow settle Danny’s soul, to know Nate gave everything to save his little brother, after watching Danny break himself again and again to hold Ryan together.

If we’re damned for loving each other like they told me, Nate thinks with an all-consuming grief and conviction, I’ll see you in hell soon enough.

“We’ll have to go somewhere new,” Bram says, gripping Ryan by the hair, jerking him backwards. Ryan bares his sharp, inhuman teeth, and Bram snorts, ramming his head directly into the edge of the table, making Ryan cry out and slump.

Nate doesn’t flinch.

“I’ll dedicate you. Make you one of us. I’ll finish the dedication and then you’ll understand.” Bram’s hand is still gripped in Ryan’s hair, tightening on the curls until he hisses in pain, but it’s a faint and faded sound. “We’ll take the puppy with us and go find my sister. You know I never like to leave a puppy, Nate.”

Those eyes are back on his, and Nate gives Bram a slight smile - as if pulled out of him unwillingly, as if he’s falling into the depths of his eyes all over again. As if, without Danny to fight for, he has no fight left.

Danny might be dead - Nate’s mind skips from that truth, runs from it as fast as it can, circles around it endlessly - but Ryan isn’t. Danny would want his brother saved, and Nate… 

He can do this.

He has to do this.

“Y-yes, Bram,” Nate says, soft and as empty as Danny’s open eyes. “I c-can help t-t-take care of Faerie B-Boy.”

At his feet, Ryan lets out a choked-off sob. Whether he’s only playing the part, or drifting into pure hopelessness, Nate isn’t sure. He can’t risk a look, can’t risk giving anything away for a second. Instead, he moves to lay his hand over Bram’s on top of Ryan’s head. Bram’s hand is cold under his.

Danny’s hands get cold, too, his long fingers feel like ice sometimes in the morning when he wakes Nate with a hug. He pulls his hands into the sleeves of his sweaters, tugs them constantly down to cover the scars on the backs of his hands. His eyes are warmer than his hands can be, as Nate holds one of his hands in both of his, rubbing at them to warm up those cold fingers while Danny smiles-

Danny’s dead. You can save his brother. Focus.

“I l-love you,” Nate says, softly. He knows how to twist his tone just right, to make his voice foggy like the power of Bram’s eyes has once again papered over Nate’s will, his very self, to remake him in Bram’s image.

If there is a heaven, it will be Danny that I beg for forgiveness, not God.

“I love you, too.” Bram smiles, letting go of Ryan to hold Nate’s hand. Cold dead fingers. Nate forces his smile to widen, softens his expression. “My black-haired prince. Red got in our way. But it’s just us all over again, isn’t it? Just you and I.” He smirks, pale lips smeared with drying blood. “And the puppy.”

Nate nods, and pulls Bram’s hand up, to press a kiss to the back of it. Smooth, scarless.

Not the hand he wants to kiss at all.

“That’s why you had to watch it all, you know.” Bram sighs, content in this moment. There’s still blood running from the wound in his shoulder but he doesn’t seem to notice it, and the wound is closing before Nate’s eyes, skin knitting itself together. He won’t die, even if Nate kills him he won’t die. There’s only one way to be sure. Only one way to keep him from coming back.

“Wh-what? Why?” Nate tilts his head, closes his eyes so Bram won’t see he’s disgusted by his touch, plays it off as shivering desire, maybe. Somehow, somewhere back there, he gained the ability to hide some of his unhappiness from Abraham Denner.

They lost with their first attempt.

There’s only one more chance.

“So you would get used to it again.” Bram pulls his hand back and away, lays it palm-down against the back of Ryan’s neck, and Nate tries not to watch Ryan shiver where he kneels on the floor. Bram scratches his fingernails through the red, irritated skin, reopening old wounds from the iron collar. Ryan whimpers, whines with the pain, and Nate fights the memory of Danny’s scream behind his muzzle, jaw straining as the wire mesh cut in deeper and deeper. 

Bram took the muzzle off - the new one remade, but it might as well have been exactly the fucking same - before Ryan and Ora came out. It’s still out there, isn’t it? Lying in the dirt, bloodied. 

Nate almost loses his iron grip on his own emotions at the thought of Danny’s body in the dirt so close to the tool of torture that hurt him the worst. Not from grief, no - he still has that locked up inside his head, he will mourn Danny when he has saved Ryan, when it’s over, when it’s done. But the fury that comes with the realization that Danny’s eyes, still open and unblinking, will be staring right at the muzzle.

He catches himself. Holds the anger down. Gives Bram a soft, sweet, loving smile. “Used t-to it?”

“Right. Used to it, and… maybe a little bit appreciative.” Bram laughs, his high-pitched hyena’s laughter, smacking the wound he reopened on Ryan’s neck just to hear him cry. His eyes glow such a brilliant, bright yellow they turn nearly white, like staring into the sun - and then falter again, fade and go dull. 

He needs to be strong enough to do one more thing, and Nate isn’t sure if he will be. But he’s going to try, anyway.

“I’ll l-learn,” Nate promises, and runs his own hand through Ryan’s dirty, greasy curls, catching in the tangles. He looks down, cold green eyes locking on Ryan’s dulled yellow, back to the color of old, cloudy honey, and uses his good left hand to tilt his chin up, rubbing his thumb over his lower lip. “You’ll b-b-be good for m-me, puppy, won’t you?”

Ryan’s eyes widen, just a little, flicker in the dim kitchen lit only by the light coming through the window over the sink, and through the open inside door. Outside the closed screen door, down the steps, fifteen feet away, Danny lies in the dirt. 

“Oh, that’s good,” Bram says, rubbing at Ryan’s back. “What do you say, Faerie Boy? Can you be as good between us as you’ve been for me so far?”

Ryan’s lip trembles under Nate’s thumb. Nate smiles at him, the same soft loving look he’s been giving Bram. He is the personification of what Bram can do. He is the perfect vision of Bram taking control and making him someone he’s not, as he did for years with power, manipulation, and threats. “Bram asked you a qu-... a question, p-puppy,” Nate whispers. “Wh-what’s the r-r-rule?”

Ryan’s eyes well with such human tears. “Al-... always answer Abraham’s questions, never hes… hesitate and neh-... never lie.”

“So wh-what’s your answer?”

Ryan looks up at him, pleading, but Nate keeps his eyes, his face perfectly steady. I’m sorry. Just a few more minutes...

“I...” Ryan’s voice catches. He’s exhausted, struggling to pull threads of himself together. Whatever it is Ryan is, whatever it is he can do, it takes too much out of him. “I c-can be good for you,” He whispers.

“B-B-Both of us?”

Ryan’s eyes close tightly. “Both of you.” He has to spit out the words.

“Good b-b-boy.” Another rub over his lower lip, his skin is rough and chapped against Nate’s thumb. “Do you w-w-want a d, a drink, Bram?” He raises his eyes, lets his hand drop, but not before he taps twice on the front of Ryan’s neck next to his Adam's apple, deliberately spaced apart to make it clear it’s a message. “I th-think I remember how you l-like it.”

Bram smiles, twists a curl around his finger, yanks on it until Ryan winces. “Sure. Whiskey sour. Red made sour mix, it’s in the fridge.” He sighs, mournfully. “I suppose Red won’t get to make me my drinks anymore. Pity, he was always better at it than Faerie Boy.”

Nate swallows. He won’t cry for Danny yet. 

Not yet.

He pushes himself to his feet, walking away and moving to the fridge. Slow footsteps, careful and solid. He feels strange, as though he’s far away from himself, watching his body go through these motions from a distance. Open the cupboards until he finds a glass, pull it down and add some ice cubes. Find the whiskey in a different cabinet, expensive small-batch distillery in Portland, he notes absently, pouring a shot, and then two, into the glass.

He pulls the sour mix, stored in a pitcher, out of the fridge and tries with every ounce of strength he has left not to think about how Danny’s fingers were the last to close around the handle, and now they never will again.

Not yet not yet not yet.

Cry when Ryan is safe. Until then, be for Ryan what Danny cannot be any longer. He owes Danny that much and more, he owes everything he could ever give. He pours in the sour mix, adds a cherry from a jar in the fridge. Picks a lemon up from a basket, staring down at it, and then his eyes move to the knife block, but he’s careful not to turn his head to make it obvious. 

One chance.

He picks up not the chef’s knife but the smaller, sharper paring knife, and he feels Bram’s eyes on his back as he cuts three identical lemon slices, struggling to do it gracefully with his broken hand throbbing again, fighting him with every step. He drops the lemon slices into the drink, gives the whole thing a quick stir. Closes his eyes and breathes.

I’m sorry, Danny.

He turns around and throws the drink in Bram’s face.

Ryan is moving before Nate has even finished his own motion and he grabs Bram around the legs as he starts to stand up, slamming the man into the ground as he’s knocked off balance, pale eyes widening in surprise as Nate falls on him with his teeth bared and the knife in his hand, bringing it down over Bram’s heart.

There’s resistance, and pain, and Nate doesn’t care about either anymore.

Ryan’s eyes flare, glowing brilliant with one last spark of energy, and the shadows press like velvet against Nate’s back, overtaking all the light but Ryan’s. The kitchen is pure and perfectly black as Nate feels Bram’s blood bubble up cold around the handle of the knife as he forces it down.

Cold hands grab onto his like a vice, and he opens his mouth to scream-

Let me in.

Ryan is in his skin in his heart in his head, pressing the knife down harder, dragging it back towards himself, cutting into Bram’s skin as he fights them but Ryan is stronger than Nate and the two men working in one body open the emptiness inside of Abraham Denner and Nate shoves his hand inside.

It’s cold, like everything about Bram is cold, and it has a little give under his fingers. He grips as tightly as his hand will allow and Ryan is gripping alongside him as they pull backwards. Bram screams, the first true scream Nate has ever heard from him, high-pitched. Windows crack around them as the scream carries on and on and on, Nate’s head is pounding but he can’t feel it. Ryan takes it for him, presses himself along the length of Nate’s body, underneath his skin, against his eardrums, layers himself over Nate’s mind.

He is protected.

He uses the blade of the paring knife to cut the veins and arteries. Cold black blood coats his hand as he pulls out Abraham’s Denner ancient heart.

The shadows recede - or Nate can see through them now, he doesn’t know, the whole world seems strange and disconnected from him - as he pushes himself to his feet.

Nate-

“It’s not d-d-done,” Nate says to the voice inside his head of his dead love’s little brother, and he turns, dragging one leg as he moves out into the sun outside.

Danny hasn’t moved, but Nate didn’t expect him to. 

Dead people usually don’t, unless they’re Bram or Ashley.

He is nothing but blood now, and the heart in his hands is still beating. Soft contractions of muscle with nothing to push through, no blood to rush through old veins. But still the heart beats. It’s not over.

There’s a burn pile over by a shed, covered with sticks and trash, and Nate walks to it with Ryan still inside him. The two of them look out of one set of eyes. 

Burn it?

“B-burn it,” Nate confirms in a fierce whisper.

There are no tears.

Not yet.

He lays the beating heart down in the burn pile and walks away from it, moving to a shed to open the door. He stares, blankly, at a skeleton that faces him against the back wall, rotted away by now. It’s been a year. Death is still in the air but neither of them can smell anything any longer but Bram’s blood. Nate ignores the skeleton and finds a can of gasoline - Bram is predictable, always predictable - and carries it back out to toss about a third of the can into the sticks, taking special care to ensure some of it splashes over the disembodied, beating heart.

Left here, Bram’s body would eventually reform and wake back up.

Like Ashley.

Nate will not lose anything else to them ever again.

“I’m not your b-b-black-haired p-prince,” He says to the heart, and lights a match.

The gasoline catches immediately, flames rising with the sharp pungent smell. Nate doesn’t wait - he picks the can up again, sloshes it around to see how much is left, and looks to the house. “Go s-s-say goodbye to your b-b-brother,” He says. “I’ll come, t-too, when this is o-over.”

Danny-

“Go s-say goodbye.”

Ryan is out of him in a flash, and Nate is oddly lonely inside his mind as he makes his methodical way back to the porch. Ryan kneels next to his brother, hands out but not quite touching, as Nate moves inside. He passes Abraham’s body without looking at it. He lets the gasoline trail - a little here and a little there, splashes on the curtains, splashes on the rug.

With his leg throbbing, he moves upstairs with gasoline trailing on the steps. He pours a little on the bed, staring at the bloodied ropes tied to the headboard a little too long. Outside, he starts to hear the crackle of the fire catching outside. Good. The heart will burn.

Just like his.

More gasoline for the curtains - he’s getting low, he needs to conserve. He has to be sur the whole house will burn.

Then he stops in front of a room with no door, a room he’s seen in Bram’s texted photos and videos, in a few of the livestreams he watched. He watched them all, desperate for clues. Danny and Ryan had managed to tear the paper that covered the window once and before Bram had cut the video, Nate had been able to pause - and see beyond the rolling fields to a water tower in the distance.

One of his first clues.

In this room there are manacles attached to the wall, a broken chain of iron on the floor, pools of drying blood. Nate pours a little gasoline into the pool, watching the change in texture as it thins and goes oddly shimmery.

In the closet, he finds half-drunk bottles of cheap high-proof alcohol. He lets the trail of gasoline lead to those too, and opens them all.

Done with his work, he drops the now-empty can and walks through the house, reeking of gasoline and blood, and goes downstairs and past Bram’s body one more time without looking down or looking back.

His heart beats steady and calm inside of him as he lights a match and lets it fall onto the porch, to find the first thin trail of liquid.

He stands long enough to watch the flames lick into the kitchen, over Bram’s body. He stares long enough to watch Bram’s long wavy pale hair begin to darken and curl. He watches the flames find their way from kitchen to living room. He watches the curtains burn.

Then he turns and walks down the steps.

His hands have started to shake.

Ryan, kneeling on the ground next to his brother with his wrist torn open and pouring blood, pressing it against Danny’s mouth, speaks to him but Nate doesn’t hear it, turning from Danny’s body - too late too late too late too late - and going back to the other fire, to see Bram’s heart burning, turning black. It will be ash soon, and nothing else.

Nate doesn’t cry, no.

Still, he doesn’t cry.

Not yet.

The wind blows warm over his face and Nate takes in a breath. The world is blood and smoke and his failure to save the most important person in his life. The world is the empty feeling underneath his skin. The world is the grief trying to claw it way back up his throat to make him scream-

“Nate!” Ryan’s voice is right next to his ear and he jumps as Ryan grabs at his arm, spinning him around. The yellow eyes are dull, shadowed, bereft of power - but they still dance. You can’t torture the beauty out of Ryan Michaelson.

You can’t kill the light inside him, or the things that live there.

He smells like green hills and a rainy season over waving grasslands. He carries the scent of a predator that hunts at dusk and at dark. Blood soaks the hills, pours down the river, threads into the homes of sleeping people at night.

He’s smiling.

“Nate, he’s not-... Nate, listen to me!”

Nate jerks back into himself, blinking rapidly as his strange disconnect ends. There is fire all around the two of them, and Nate realizes for the first time that the shed will burn, too. It’s already dangerously close to catching. The air is starting to heat around them. “What? Wh-what, Ryan, I-”

“Danny’s not dead! I-I can’t-... but he’s not dead! He’s still breathing! We still have time!”

In the distance, the first faint sound of sirens. Nate raises his head, staring. “Who c-c-called the c-cops?”

Ryan lets out a peal of wild, half-hysterical laughter, and the sound is beautiful. “Whoever saw that bigass cloud of fucking smoke, Nate! Someone’s-...” He swallows, suddenly, sways as his knees buckle, and Nate catches him, arms around him, keeping him upright. “Someone’s... coming for us. Someone’s coming to h-help, someone’s... someone’s coming...”

“Someone’s c-c-coming,” Nate agrees, softly.

Ryan turns to look at him, then slides his arms around Nate, hugging him, burying his head in the side of Nate’s neck.

“Someone fucking came,” He whispers. “And Danny’s not dead.”

Nate’s eyes move over to the tall, thin body sprawled out on the ground, and watches as empty blue eyes blink once, slowly move to meet his.

He’d seen emptiness and thought it was death, but it was someone else buying Danny - buying Nate - some time.

He gently pulls away from Ryan and moves to the muzzle, picking it up in one hand. Someone else is still watching him, blue eyes following his movements, and he holds it out. “Never ag-again,” He says, softly.

Someone else doesn’t move. Just keeps watching as Nate drags himself to the fire and throws the muzzle in.

But when he turn back again, tears are running down Danny’s face, his lips twisting with the agony, and he whimpers, “Nate, h-hurts-”

Nate and Ryan both run to him at once.

When the fire trucks arrive, they find the three of them together on the ground, Nate and Ryan each holding one of Danny’s hands.

---

@slytherynjolras, @whump-it, @bleeding-demon-teeth, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp, @whumpywhumper, @18-toe-beans, @pumpkinthefangirl, @special-spicy-chicken, @swordkallya, @astrobly, @slaintetowhump, @moose-teeth, @untilthepainstarts, @whumpiary,  @lave-whump @raigash @cupcakes-and-pain

[flowercrown-bard]

Whumptober Prompt 8: Don’t say goodbye

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Geralt/ Jaskier

Read on AO3

„Geralt, you‘re back!”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up, when he saw Geralt enter their small cabin. His smile added new wrinkles to the numerous ones already there.

Crow’s feet, Yennefer had called them decades ago. For Geralt the wrinkles were a reminder of a lifetime filled with laughter and bright smiles. Though he wasn’t the one in need of a reminder. He would never forget the decades he had been blessed with Jaskier’s presence.

Geralt closed the door behind him and went over to sit by Jaskier, taking his old hand in his. The skin wasn’t smooth anymore and the fingers were crooked from age, unable to elicit music from the lute that had been lying in its case unused for years now.

“I bought you a notebook.”

Jaskier let go of his hand to take to book from him, stroking the forget-me-not on the cover with a fond expression.  

“This is perfect. I have just finished filling my last one.”

“I know.”

Jaskier had shown it to him, proud like he had always been of his creations and exited to share them with Geralt. He had looked at every page, had let Jaskier explain to him the meaning of every line he had written.

Jaskier had looked at him with eager anticipation that almost gave him his years back.

“Come on, three words or less,” he had teased.

“It’s perfect,” Geralt had said and he had meant it. It was perfect, because it was Jaskier’s and it made him happy. It didn’t matter that Geralt hadn’t been able to read a single word. Jaskier’s hands have long ago began shaking too much to produce anything readable anymore, but if writing gave Jaskier joy then that was everything Geralt could ask for.

No, that wasn’t true. He wanted so much more than that. He wanted Jaskier to be young again, to be able to travel with him and let Geralt show him all the far off places he wouldn’t ever be able to travel to now.

At least he had been able to show him the coast.

Jaskier looked up from the journal and his eyes widened in surprise.

“Geralt! You’re back!”

His heart clenched painfully. It was fine, he told himself. He was used to this.

That didn’t make it any less painful.

“How nice of you to visit me,” Jaskier said lightly, as though the words didn’t break Geralt’s heart. “It has been far too long. How long can you stay, before you go hunting again?”

Forever. Geralt would stay forever by Jaskier’s side, as he had done for years now. Long gone were the days that Geralt only visited their cabin in between his hunts. For almost a decade he had been living here, taking care of Jaskier, helping him eat and walk and stroking his thinning hair as he went to bed wishing for the mercy of being granted more time with him. The only times Geralt still did his witchering, as Jaskier still called it after all those years, was when he accompanied the neighbouring fisherman-family to protect them from sirens and the like.

“I can stay with you for however long you need me to,” Geralt said and never had anything felt more true.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier said with a sly smirk. “Then you can tell me all about your adventure. You really should take me with you the next time.”

“I will.”

He won’t. The only adventure Geralt had left was the quiet life with Jaskier at the coast and the only thrill he needed was watching Jaskier’s eyes light up every time he met Geralt for the first time again.

“Wait, just let me get my quill.”

Jaskier moved slowly. It was obvious how much it pained him to take even small steps, the ache in his old joints sighing with every movement.

Geralt was tense, ready to jump up at any moment to catch Jaskier, should he stumble. He could have gotten the quill for Jaskier, but time and time again, he had been told that Jaskier wanted to know that he was still able to do things on his own.

The triumphant “Aha!” as Jaskier found the quill and almost dried up inkwell and sat back down, warmed Geralt’s chest. Watching all the pain of aching bones was bearable, when it gave him the sight of Jaskier still finding joy in the small things, as he had always done.

Jaskier looked up at Geralt expectantly, quill and the new notebook at the ready.

Geralt swallowed. There was no adventure to tell him off. Maybe later Geralt would tell Jaskier the truth, how he had met the fisher’s daughter on the way to the marked and helped repair her wagon, how he had had trouble buying all the essentials in this time of year.

Later, Jaskier would be happy to listen to the trivial things Geralt had to say. Now, he was attentively waiting for a heroic tale.

So Geralt gave him a tale. He told him about the time he had fought a cockatrice – one of Jaskier’s favourite stories, even though Jaskier didn’t know it.

As every time, Geralt told the story, Jaskier made inappropriate comments and laughed and gasped at the same parts he always did.

“Oh, this will make the most beautiful ballad! Oh, what should I call it?”

Geralt muttered the same thing he always said when Jaskier asked him for a title for this specific tale. An innuendo, of course.

Jaskier let out a barking laugh. “That is genius, my dear! Just you wait, I will make a poet out of you, after all.”

Geralt took the praise. It was easier than explaining that it had been Jaskier who had come up with the title of the ballad that he had already written ages ago, and unwittingly rewritten so many times after that.

“Will you take me to see the sea, Geralt?” Jaskier said after a while.

Geralt nodded and made to guide Jaskier outside.

“No, wait. I need my jacket first.”

“You are already wearing a jacket.”

Jaskier hit his arm playfully. “Yes, but it’s too dark. When going outside in summer, you should always wear bright colours to make the flowers jealous. Not that you would ever do that,” he added with a teasing wink.

“You’ll be cold.”

“I’ll have you to keep me warm.” Jaskier said it so casually that it made Geralt’s heart clench. Even after all this time, even though Jaskier couldn’t remember most of the times Geralt had kept him warm, he was still so sure that he would.

He sat Jaskier down on the small bench in front of their cabin, looking out over the sea. Jaskier sighed wistfully.

“I had always wanted to show you the coast. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Geralt agreed. It really was. It was beautiful and it was painful and Geralt knew that in years to come, he would never see the coast again, because it held to many memories of Jaskier and he wouldn’t be able to bear seeing the waves crash onto the shore without having Jaskier next to him to watch it with.

A breeze brushed Jaskier’s hair that matched Geralt’s in its colour, away from his forehead. Geralt laid an arm around Jaskier, doing his best to shield him from the wind, but it wasn’t enough to stop Jaskier from shivering.

All the warm colour of the summer jacket wasn’t enough to combat the bitter cold of winter.

Geralt stood up.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier asked, eyes suddenly fearful and he clutched Geralt’s hand in his.  

Geralt’s heart skipped a beat at the quivering in Jaskier’s voice.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I am just getting you a blanket.”

Jaskier nodded, but he didn’t let go.

“Jaskier…”

“There is something I need to tell you, before you leave.” He sounded so earnest, hope and worry mixing into a painful harmony. “I’ve been meaning to tell you for years.”

Geralt knew what Jaskier was going to say and yet his heart sped up, like the first time Jaskier had said these words to him.

“What is it?”

“I love you.”

No matter how often Geralt heard the words repeated, no matter how often Jaskier said them for the first time, hearing them was still as breath-taking and unbelievable as it had always been.

“I love you too.”

Jaskier’s smile as Geralt said the words made it all worth it. It made him endure.

He genlty pried his hand from Jaskier’s cold fingers. As much as Geralt longed to stay and make this moment last, he needed to get Jaskier the blanket. He prayed that when he got back outside the moment would still be present in Jaskier’s mind.

He felt Jaskier’s pale eyes on him, as he went inside the cabin again.

“Goodye, Geralt.”

He froze. Agonisingly slow, he turned to face Jaskier. “Don’t say that. Please, don’t, Jaskier. You never say goodbye. You always say –“

“I don’t think I’ll be seeing you around.” Jaskier’s voice was small, but for once his eyes were clear. “I am not stupid, Geralt. I know I am old. I know I am forgetting. It feels – it feels like I am trapped in my own mind and there are windows that show me the outside world and there are doors and I know if I pick the right one, I will understand. But I never find the right door.” He swallowed. He rubbed his fingers, whether out of nervousness or because of the cold, Geralt couldn’t tell. “Some doors are locked. And I am afraid one day I will not be able to walk through the door that tells me who you are, anymore.”

His eyes never left Geralt’s, as though Jaskier was trying to drink in the sight of him. As though he thought it was the last time seeing him.

Fear plunged its ugly claws into Geralt’s chest.

“You don’t need to remember me. I will let you get to know me again and again, if I have to. I will always come back to you. Even if the memory of me leaves you, I won’t.”

“No,” Jaskier said, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “But I think that I might. Maybe not today. Maybe not for years to come. But one day, I will leave you and I might not get the chance to say goodbye then.”

“Don’t say that.” It sounded harsher than Geralt intended. He tried to close himself off, to keep all emotion out of his face, but the impassive mask cracked. It had been too long since he had worn it. There had been no need to put it on while he was with Jaskier. Geralt hadn’t worn the mask for so long that now that he so desperately needed it, it didn’t fit anymore.

Jaskier tilted his head to the side, a smile still playing on his lips. “For years you complained that I wasn’t telling the truth in my songs and now that I am saying the truth, you don’t want it.”

“It’s not the truth.”

“Maybe it isn’t your truth, but it’s mine. And it would be so much easier if it was yours too.”

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t listen to another word of this.

Geralt all but fled into the cabin, leaning against the wall with closed eyes, trying and failing to get his breath under control. To get the words out of his mind.

It wasn’t the truth. Not yet.

Damn it, it wouldn’t be easier if he accepted it. Denying it and shoving the thought of the day that Geralt wouldn’t be seeing Jaskier around anymore as far away from his mind as he could at least allowed him to hope. To forget that there would ever be a time where no one would greet him and await his recounting of adventures long past.

He grabbed the woollen blanket from the rocking chair where Jaskier liked to look at books he couldn’t read anymore and balled it in his fists, before willing the tension to go away. Jaskier shouldn’t have to see him like this.

With a shaky breath, Geralt went back. Jaskier was looking over the sea, a faraway look in his eyes, as he listened to the seabirds’ cries as though they were nightingales. He didn’t even throw so much as glance at Geralt.

Geralt didn’t know whether Jaskier was angry because of what Geralt had said or whether he was too lost in his world of closed doors.

Carefully he put the blanket around Jaskier’s shoulders, tugging it tightly around him, before he sat down next to him.

Jaskier flinched and looked up at him, startled, before he broke out in a smile so bright, it could banish the winter wind tugging at their hair.

“Geralt! You’re back!”

Geralt closed his eyes, tried to put the mask back on, tried not to notice the crack in his heart that Jaskier’s words had left.

“You need to tell me about the adventure you had!”

“Maybe some other time,” Geralt said and he knew he couldn’t keep the thickness out of his voice. “For now, can we just… be here?”

Jaskier took his hand and squeezed it gently. “Of course, dear. I will still be here, when you are ready to tell the story.”

An iron chain wound around Geralt’s chest, getting tighter and tighter, making it hard to breathe. “I know.”

Geralt didn’t know for how long they just sat there, looking at the sea. As the sun began to set, Geralt found his words. This one, he knew, wasn’t a story Jaskier had forgotten just yet, but he told it anyway. He didn’t know, if Jaskier was even still listening, if he was aware of Geralt’s presence next to him. But as Geralt spoke about a day in Posada, about a devil and an annoying yet brave bard, he felt Jaskier’s hand twitch in his.

When he turned his head, Jaskier was still looking out at the sea, but there was a smile on his lips, lines around his eyes deepening with the memory of laughter.

Even when Geralt had finished the story, Jaskier still didn’t speak. It was only much later, when Geralt guided him back inside, put him to bed and pressed a kiss against his forehead that Jaskier finally found his words again.

“Will you do me a favour, Geralt?”

Geralt didn’t need to speak to let Jaskier know his answer. The look on the bard’s face told him that he already knew it. That Jaskier could ask for anything, ask for black pearl of Skellige that only existed in legends and romantic men’s hearts and Geralt would give it to him.

“Go find a new adventure.” After I’m gone.

Jaskier didn’t say the words, but Geralt knew that was what he meant. His throat became tight, but he nodded anyway.

Jaskier smiled and lifted his hand to caress Geralt’s cheek. “Thank you, my love.”

For a heartbeat there was silence, only the rush of the waves outside that would lull Jaskier to sleep.

Then, quietly, Geralt spoke the words that broke his heart but freed him from the chains around his chest. The words that Jaskier deserved to hear, at least this once.

“Goodbye, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes turned soft as Geralt took his hand from his cheek and pressed a soft kiss on it.

“See you around, Geralt.”

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

Whumptober 2: In the Hands of the Enemy

Collars

Day 2! I know @grungekitty-77 has been waiting a hell of a long time for this one. Enjoy the Devastation! haha see what I did there

Summary: As if the rest of this experience hasn’t been bad enough, Kai wakes up with a collar around his neck. He is absolutely not standing for this.

Trigger Warnings: kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, pet whump, starvation, dehumanization, creepy/intimate whumper, mention of death, mention of violence, and just like... general uncomfy vibes associated with the aforementioned warnings. If that sounds like it would bother you, please don’t read!

2825 words

Kai woke up with a deep ache in his body. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t felt before — Wu liked to make them train quite intensely, after all — but it still sucked.

But there was something else. Something different.

Though his neck was practically numb from the position he’d slept in, it almost felt like there was something around it.

Kai opened his eyes, blinking away the sleepy blur. He glanced around the room warily. 

Cole was fast asleep on the dog bed, and that enraged Kai most of all. The fact that Cole had been here so long that he’d accepted it as normal. The fact that no matter what Kai said, no matter what he did, Cole refused to listen. It made him want to scream.

But then he remembered that in order to have ended up like this, Cole must have gone through absolute hell. Kai had barely been here a few days, and already he wanted their captor dead.

How long had it taken Cole to break? What had been done to him that he could be shattered like this?

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He pulled at the handcuffs, frustrated. His hands were cuffed behind him now, making it near impossible to do anything. In this instance, making it near impossible to figure out what the fuck was on his neck.

With a huff, he tilted his head to the side to try and get a feel of what was nearly choking him, awkwardly rubbing his bare shoulder against it.

It felt... weird. Almost like...

He glanced back at Cole. At the collar around his neck.

Oh, hell no.

He grunted, trying to bend his arms behind his back in a way that would let him get it off of him. He didn’t care if he broke a goddamn bone, he wasn’t taking this.

“Fucking…” he muttered, dropping his arms back down. It wasn’t working. 

But he wasn’t going to give up. He wasn’t going to let this sicko treat him like this. He was going to save Cole, make him remember, and get them both out.

He wondered briefly if Cole really had forgotten, or if he was just too scared to say that he remembered.

A large part of him wished it was the latter. It would certainly make things easier. It would just be a matter of convincing Cole that Kai would keep him safe, and then running far, far away. 

But with their luck, Cole really had forgotten. He really was convinced that he was worth less than a poorly-treated dog

No, poorly-treated was being too nice.

This was far from that. It wasn’t even on the same level. 

And this had been going on for a year. No wonder Cole had broken. 

But Kai was confident they could get out. Which started with getting this collar off of his neck.

The door swung open quietly. Kai didn’t even bother to act like he wasn’t trying to pry this stupid thing off, regardless of whether or not he choked himself while doing so.

His captor tsked, walking over briskly and kneeling down beside him.

“Silly little stray,” he said, his voice quiet enough not to wake Cole, low and controlling. “You’ll hurt yourself doing that.”

Kai laughed incredulously. “Like that’s not your whole gimmick,” he said, still unable to even reach the collar to begin getting it off. He knew he must have looked ridiculous, but he was pretty sure being half-naked and dirty and locked in a basement already did that for him, so. 

“You think I enjoy hurting you?”

Kai didn’t even bother with a reply for that one. Regardless of whether or not this guy “enjoyed” hurting him didn’t matter. Because, shockingly, both Kai and Cole were being hurt anyway. Intent didn’t matter.

The man sighed. “You’ll get used to your collar,” he said, a dark promise that Kai would rather die than fulfull. “It is just a training collar, after all. You’ll grow out of it.”

A training collar? Oh, he hated that. He was not going to stand for this. He turned the words over in his mind. First Spinjitzu Master, a training collar. What the hell was this son of a bitch on?

“And don’t worry, you’ll be rescued soon enough. You just have to be good until then.”

Rescued? Did this guy expect for his friends to save him? Who in their right mind would do something like this if they knew they’d get caught?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Kai spat, glaring at the guy fiercely.

“Oh my, that was very rude, you know. And we wouldn’t want to wake my perfect, precious little pet, now would we?”

“His name,” Kai glared fiercely, “Is Cole.”

“He hasn’t been that in a very long time, little stray,” he said, looking legitimately repulsed at the idea of Cole being called by his own name. “But we’re talking about you. How you’ll get rescued sooner if you’re good. Some people do love their rescue mutts.”

His captor hummed softly, smiling at him almost innocently. Almost. “I suppose they are more exciting to those that want that kind of thing. Me, I just want a quiet life with my happy little pet.”

And Kai was ready to maul the guy then and there, but then he kept going, and it just kept getting so much worse.

“You’re not what I’d pick, but I’m just training you, so my opinion really doesn’t matter.” 

Wait. Hold on. This guy didn’t mean rescue like the actual sense of the word. He wasn’t planning on Kai or Cole getting saved at all. This was more pet talk!

Oh, that made his blood boil. How dare this man speak to him like this? How dare he think himself to be so superior above them that he was just fine pretending they were pets?

Oh no. ‘Just training him’? He was going to be passed along to someone else! And then what would he do? He wouldn’t be able to save Cole! He didn’t even know where they were! And if whoever he was handed off to was half as crazy as this guy, then who knew if Kai would even be able to get out?

Shit, fuck, this was so bad!

Okay. Okay he had to think. This psycho had said that he’d get “rescued” sooner if he was good. Which meant the only way to buy himself time was to act out.

That, he was more than happy to do.

“You’re absolutely out of your mind if you think I’ll let this happen,” Kai growled, struggling against the stupid handcuffs and the stupid chain. “You’re fucking crazy!”

And yeah, he didn’t look pleased.

His captor sighed, shaking his head like he was really, truly upset about this.

“You’re a slow learner, you know,” he said, in a tone that one would speak to a toddler in. He slapped Kai hard, sending his head turning quickly to the side and practically imitating the feeling of whiplash.

Kai glared at him.

“You’d best be grateful that I don’t have the time to give you a proper punishment right now,” he said, a furious whisper as Cole groaned quietly in his sleep.

“You’d best be grateful I’m chained up so I can’t kick your ass,” Kai spat back.

His captor looked unimpressed. “I was going to let you have dinner tonight, but if this is how you’re going to treat your teacher, then I suppose you’ll have to go without food until you can be good.”

The man stood up, straightening his shirt. “I would make up your mind quickly, if I were you.”

With that, he left the room, the sound of the lock clicking ringing in Kai’s ears.

He sighed, getting as comfortable as the restraints allowed him to. He was going to be stuck here for awhile.

———

The next time Kai woke up, Cole was awake too, and was staring at him. Did he finally recognize him? Was he remembering?

“I like your collar,” he said, quiet.

Kai wasn’t sure whether to be delighted that Cole was actually talking to him, or horrified at what he was saying.

“Don’t—” Kai violently cut himself off. Cole didn’t need to be yelled at. He was probably traumatized beyond belief, and Kai needed to be patient with him, even if what he was saying made him angry.

If their captor was consistent, then poor Cole probably got yelled at enough. 

“Please don’t say that,” he said, forcing himself to sound calm for Cole’s sake. 

“Why not?” Cole asked.

Kai couldn’t believe he actually had to explain this to Cole. How could somebody fall so far? How could he think that something as demeaning and disgusting as a collar was perfectly fine and normal?

“It’s not — I don’t—” Kai sighed in frustration. “It’s not right!”

“Why isn’t it?” Cole asked, innocent. “Is it too tight? Master does that sometimes. He says that even the air we breathe is a gift, and we should be thankful for it. If you’re good, he’ll probably loosen it!”

Kai nearly burst into tears at that. He wanted to shake Cole by the shoulders and scream that that’s not how things should be! But the only thing he could do was sit there and furiously blink away the angry tears gathering behind his eyes.

That fucking bastard, Kai was going to rip his guts out if he tried to lay a hand on Cole again. He wasn’t going to let it happen. He’d gladly get… punished, himself, if it meant Cole wouldn’t be.

“It’s not,” Kai finally said. No matter what he said, Cole wasn’t going to understand. He needed to figure out a way to make him, but he couldn’t do that right now. He needed to gain Cole’s trust. 

It would take time.

“Oh, okay,” Cole said. “Oh, and try not to talk when Master is around. He doesn’t like that. I’m only talking because he said it was okay to talk to you.”

Of course. Of course Cole wouldn’t talk of his own free will. He’d waited for fucking permission to talk when that bastard wasn’t even around!

Kai turned away from him, trying to ignore the viscous growling in his stomach. How long had he been here? How long had it been since he’d last eaten?

Kai could handle going without food. Growing up, he’d always prioritized Nya’s need to eat over his own, he was used to going without meals. He was used to a few days without food, actually.

But he was practically at his limit, by this point. It had been, what? Two days? Three? He’d lost count. He didn’t know how long he slept for. He didn’t know how often their captor came to torment them.

He only knew the horrible pain in his stomach that hadn’t gone away once it had appeared. He only knew that Cole needed to be saved. He only knew that poor Lloyd was probably coping horribly. He was probably having an absolute breakdown.

He wished he could be there to comfort him.

———

Hours passed.

The pain only grew increasingly worse.

Cole occasionally spared glances at him, looking worried.

“Doesn’t he ever feed you?” Kai snapped, his irritation melting at the way Cole flinched.

Cole just nodded silently.

Fuck. He’d scared him back into silence. Kai sighed, shifting jerkily and groaning at the way his stomach grumbled. “I can go a little longer,” he muttered, rubbing his stomach in the hopes that it would help calm the pain. “I’m doing great.”

“No you’re not,” Cole said. “You’re acting mean. Pets shouldn’t be mean. Not even to other pets.”

Kai forced himself to ignore that last part in favor of addressing the more general statement: he was being mean. Cole didn’t deserve that.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m just hungry. Can’t you convince him to bring food or something?”

“If Master brings food, I can’t just share,” Cole said, shaking his head like Kai had suggested an atrocity. “Master only wants you to eat if you’re good. You haven’t been good.”

Yeah, no, he was going to do just fine without food. It was all good. He wasn’t going to give up his dignity — again! — just to satiate a little hunger. He was totally fine.

The only sound for the next few minutes was Cole shifting on the dog bed, and the increasingly violent growling of Kai’s stomach.

Until footsteps sounded.

Kai looked up, that stupid door opening to show their captor’s stupid face.

“Last chance for the day, little stray. If you apologize and beg like a good boy, you get to eat. Surely you must be starving. It’s been so long since you’ve eaten. You can’t go that much longer without dying, can you?” He tapped his watch. “Tick, tock.”

Cole’s eyes widened at the “dying” part, and he looked up at their captor frantically, then glanced over to Kai.

Kai just glared at the guy. He was strong. He wouldn’t break again.

Cole mouthed one word. “Please.”

And Kai… couldn’t help but acknowledge the fact that Cole had risked everything for him that first day. He’d spoken out, without permission — which, according to him, was an ultimate sin — just to beg him to stay alive.

Cole had risked so much for Kai.

He couldn’t let himself die. Then, Cole would never get out of here, he would never remember the truth. Kai had to do it.

So, swallowing his pride, his dignity, and every single part of him screaming at him not to do it, he lowered his head.

“I’m sorry for misbehaving,” he muttered, though he couldn’t fully extinguish the fire from his voice. “Please let me eat.”

He glanced up, but his captor didn’t seem satisfied.

Fucking… fine.

“Please let me eat, Sir,” Kai grumbled, drawing back the sarcastic tone he wanted to use as much as he could. It still shone through.

“There’s a good boy!” Their captor said, delighted. “I’ll be right back with some food for you two.”

As he left, Kai slumped back against the wall. He was exhausted. It took a surprising amount of energy to put up with this.

“Thank you,” Cole said.

Kai smiled weakly at him. He was going to get him to remember. He would. And their captor would never see it coming.

Kai let his eyes slip shut as he waited for their captor to come back. After he ate, he could go back to sleep. That sounded nice.

The door opened up again.

“There you go, my darling,” their captor said, probably to Cole.

On the one hand, having his eyes closed made him feel very, very vulnerable. Especially after that whole drowning thing. That had brought back a lot of painful memories. That had just been painful in general, actually.

Okay, there wasn’t another hand. His eyes snapped open. Best not to open that can of worms. He didn’t want to break down in front of this man. He didn’t want to break down in front of Cole, either, but it was better than both of them. Besides, maybe Cole would actually be a little bit sympathetic.

“Eat up, little stray,” his captor hummed, smiling innocently.

Kai stared at the dog bowl. The dog bowl. For fuck’s sake, what had he been expecting? Being treated like a person? No, that would be too easy! That would be too simple, too sane.

He was going to yell, or say something, or flat-out refuse, but… then he wouldn’t get to eat. And then he would be hurt, and then he’d be made to beg all over again if he wanted to so much as survive, and then it would be so much worse.

His captor looked at him expectantly. “Perhaps you’re not hungry after all?” he asked. A warning. He had to make up his mind.

He glared at the man. He couldn’t believe he was fucking doing this.

Cole, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem with it. He was munching away happily on the food — which, thank the first master it was actual human food, not dog food or some shit (he wouldn’t put it past him) — but still. It was demeaning and uncomfortable.

But he was really, really hungry.

He didn’t look at his captor as he took a bite. 

It actually kind of tasted… good.

He could barely restrain himself from shoveling it all down his throat in one go, truth be told. Though, that could have been the starvation talking.

By the time he was done, and their captor was gone, Kai was left alone again (or, as alone as he could be with Cole there).

The realization hit him quite painfully.

He had just been fed out of a dog bowl. And he hadn’t even complained.

[jinmukangwrites]

Flinch (2/4)

A continuation of Day 24 of Whumptober

Chapter One, You are Here,

Ao3

Summary: Slade blackmails Dick into joining him. Things go downhill for Dick when Damian tries to get involved and Slade decides the interference is a perfect opportunity for a lesson in torture.

Warnings: Same warnings for chapter one, torture of a minor, blackmail, implied threats of rape/non-con. However, rape/non-con will not be in this fic. Just vague treats.

Notes: Do not be asked to be put on a tag list.

-o-o-o-o-

It's been about five minutes since anyone's touched Damian. This is the only evidence that he has that the torture is over. His entire body stings, and he feels similar to what a turkey must feel like on Thanksgiving day. 

All carved up. 

His shoulders ache, as do his hands, both of which have been tasked with carrying his entire body weight for the past few hours. However, all of his limbs felt weak and sensitive even before Deathstroke grabbed him from the corner of the cell he's been sitting in for the past… probably three or four days… and strung him up.

Every single cut along his body is like poisoned tipped needles, and he can feel blood dripping from almost every part of his person down to his pants, legs, feet, making a very uncomfortable puddle to stand in at the tips of his toes. 

A brush of air across his cheek is the only warning he gets before the blindfold and headphones are ripped off. Damian resists grasping, blinking his teary eyes to try and focus, his ears feeling numb. 

In front of him is none other than Deathstroke, an array of weapons on a table behind him, however the only one that's bloody is a simple knife. 

He quickly looks around the rest of the room, searching, but then thick fingers grab his cheeks and force Damian to look Deathstroke straight in the face. Damian glares and clenches his fists. 

"Grayson isn't here, brat," Deathstroke says smoothly. "So your little act can end. I know your pain tolerance is higher than that."

Damian narrows his eyes as Deathstroke uses his free hand to loosen the buckle of the cursed gag. The second it's out of his mouth, he spits at Deathstroke's face. There's specks of red in his saliva, but Damian assumes it's from the cut corners of his cheek thanks to that gag. He's been tasting copper for quite some time now.

The thing about Deathstroke's mask is that you can never tell what he's thinking, which is why Damian braced himself for a slap the second the assassin raised his hand. However, Deathstroke simply wipes the spit off his mask and then proceeds to brush it off in Damian's hair. 

"Where's Richard?" Damian hisses, tugging on the chains holding him up. "I know he was here."

"How, pray tell?" Deathstroke says, his voice teetering between a scoff and amusement.

Damian strengthens his glare and ignores the stream of blood that passes over his eyebrow and trails down the corner of his eyes. "I know the difference between the hand of a sadist, and the hand of a reluctant third party. You forced him to hurt me."

Deathstroke's entire posture shifts. His head tilts and he's shoulders follow suit. A knee bends ever so slowly. It grates on Damian's tolerance to see the man so full of himself, so confident in Damian's presence. To think just a few months before, this guy was stubbornly trying to convince Damian that he was his actual birth father.

Pathetic. 

"And what difference is that?" He asks. Curiosity lacing his tone. 

Damian bites the inside of his cheek. 

The reason his pain tolerance is so high is because it was trained into him. Ra's Al Ghul forced his mother to convict the deed while he was still a small child. Richard's hand against his skin, dragging a knife in painful ways felt exactly the same as his own mother's. 

But neither of them have felt like the rouge's of Gotham. The random crooks. Deathstroke himself. 

Damian decides to not answer that question out loud. Instead, he twists his bleeding lips into a snarl. "Whatever you're trying to do, it isn't going to work. Richard isn't yours."

"No," Deathstroke agrees, finally beginning to back off. He turns to the table filled with torture devised and Damian feels himself tense. Richard at the instruction of Deathstroke hurt. But the psychopath himself? However, Deathstroke turns and grabs a small box from the corner, one that when he opens it is filled with bandages and other various medical instruments.

Damian watches wearily as Deathstroke approaches, pulling out thread and a curved needle. 

As he threads the needle, Deathstroke continues to speak. "He's not mine. Not yet. But he will be. He has it in him, I've just got to remind him of it."

"By having him torture his brother?"

"By having him torture his son."

Damian's not sure why he flinches there. He tells himself it's because Deathstroke jabbed the needle through a deep cut in his shoulder. Damian quickly forces himself to become composed. "You're a foolish old man. Richard isn't my-"

"Biological father, no." The tugging of thread forcing itself though his already irritated skin without any numbing is agonizing. Damian doesn't voice his pain, just continues to glare while Deathstroke's finishes up that stitch, then moves on to the next one. "But we both know that blood has nothing to do with the bond between a parent and a child. Do not try to lie to me boy, I know how Grayson ticks. I know how you tick."

"You know nothing about us," Damian snarls. "I'm no more important to him than any of the others."

Deathstroke chuckles at that, like he's already won, and then he doesn't say anything more, just continues to stitch Damian up from the cuts he forced Richard to inflict. Damian doesn't try to converse. There's no point to. It's almost impossible to get anything from Deathstroke, especially if he feels like he's already won.

Soon enough, Deathstroke is taping the worst of the cuts. Once he's done with that, he reaches up to the shackles that have long since cut off most of the circulation to Damian's fingers. "Fight me, and I'll string you up by your ankles," Deathstroke mutters before taking off the shackles. 

Damian can't help it, he falls into Deathstroke's waiting arms. He tenses, but doesn't fight, as Deathstroke practically drags him out of the torture room and into the original cell Damian has awoken in. A manacle connected to the center of the floor is attached to his ankle, then Deathstroke steps back, leaving Damian to stand there with wobbly balance and glare. 

"What are you holding against him?" Damian demands before Deathstroke can leave. "Why would he join you?"

When Deathstroke speaks, there's a smirk in his voice. "Absolutely nothing, baby bird. I recommend you quit worrying about him and think about your own survival. The quicker you let yourself break, the quicker we can be done with this."

Damian growls, about to step forward and… he doesn't know, throw a fist or something, but then Deathstroke laughs and walks out, making the cell grow dark with the clanking sound of a bolt locking. 

It's thankfully not as dark as it was in the other cell. This one is meant for long term captivity, a bed shoved in a corner and a bucket in another. There's a slot at the bottom of the door where food and water will be shoved through three times a day if Deathstroke keeps up his patterns.

He wants to keep Damian alive and healthy. There's no fun in torturing a barely alive captive. The food even tasted good.  

Damian hobbles to the bucket and smirks. It's been emptied. A small revenge. The image of Deathstroke cleaning out a human waste filled bucket, even if it's his own human waste, has him keeping a smile on his face until he settles down onto the thin mattress with springs that stick up like a bed of nails. 

He stares at the ceiling for five minutes, getting out of his body and every stitch that insistently pulses to remind him it's still there. He stays that way until his breathing is even and his eyes are drooping. 

He rubs the nail of his ring finger on his left hand, and then brushes his right hand across his temple. 

"Any day now, Timothy..."

Nothing changes and Damian sighs, preparing himself for the long run. 

-o-o-o-o-

Slade doesn't say anything about what he made Dick do for the next three days. He would have continued to say nothing if Dick hadn't looked so out of it during their morning sparring session. 

But Dick did look out of it. He knows he did. Still does. He had a nightmare again last night, and he's come to the realization that Slade hasn't left the mansion at all since he made… since that. 

So he looks out of it. Sue him. 

"What's on your mind?" Slade asks in a way that almost sounds like a demand. Dick dodges under a swinging kick aiming for his head and then shoots forward to grab Slade around the ribs. 

"Nothing, sir," Dick grunts as Slade grabs his shoulders and practically throws Dick to the side. Curse Slade's superhuman strength. All the years Dick's known him and he still doesn't know exactly how strong Slade really is. 

He blinks shadowed memories of Grant out of his mind. 

"Don't lie to me." Slade punches Dick in the stomach while he was trying to get back to his feet. 

All the air leaves Dick's lungs as he collapses to the floor. A heavy boot lands in the center of his back, which makes it all the more impossible to catch his breath. 

"You'd be able to dodge that if you weren't distracted."

Dick grinds his teeth. He hates this. Hates it to his core. 

"I'm just…" he licks his lips, hoping Slade doesn't best him up for this. "I'm just worried about Damian…"

The foot on his back doesn't bring more pressure like he almost expected, but it doesn't let up either. 

A second passes. Then Slade's ever smooth voice. "I told you the boy was no longer your concern."

"I know, sir, I just… he was really hurt and-"

Slade interrupts before Dick can say and I'm not sure you let him go like you said you would.

"I made sure he wouldn't bleed to death, if that's what you're worried about."

The pressure on Dick's finally becomes greater, he can practically feel it bending his spine. He grimaces as Slade leans down and frowns at Dick. 

"Anything beyond that is none of your concern."

His face is deathly still. Serious. Dick can't argue, because if he does then something bad will happen. "Yes… master."

Slade gives a stiff nod then steps off of Dick. "Now get up. Focus on training, unless you want a beating."

-o-o-o-o-

Somehow, after that, Dick manages to convince himself that Damian is fine. Slade has never lied to Dick before. Everything he says is honest. He has no reason to lie. 

If he said he'd let Damian go after Damian was taught a lesson, then he'd let Damian go. 

It's as simple as that. 

He doesn't think about it for two more days. He doesn't think about it for two more days filled with the same old routine. Hours of training, of roaming, of sitting in the gym and dreading Slade's footsteps. Of missing his family. Of wanting to go home. 

Two more days almost becomes three when suddenly, right as he's preparing himself for bed, Slade walks in without even knocking. Dick grinds his teeth, feeling vulnerable with his shirt off and his pants just barely riding on his hips. Slade hasn't shown any… intentions… towards Dick since he's been here, but Dick wouldn't put it past the guy. 

He turns and tries to not glare. He probably does anyway. Slade doesn't seem to care, he just leans against the doorway and folds his arms across his chest. 

"Get dressed."

Dick knows better than to ask why. Instead he asks what, and Slade replies something he doesn't mind getting dirty. 

Dick doesn't mind any of his clothes getting dirty. They're all gifts from Slade. Not a single pair of clothes here down to his underwear was something he originally owned. But… he supposes he doesn't want to get his only pair of pajamas dirty. 

So, with Slade watching, he undresses and slips into a baggy pair of jeans and a crew-neck tee-shirt.

It's what he's been working out in since…

He stuffed his original gym clothes under his bed, let's leave it at that.

"Come," Slade says the second Dick is dressed. Dick glances longingly at his bed, then follows along without any argument. 

And then? Slade stops in front of the basement door, and Dick can't help but flinch back like he's been electrocuted. Somehow? Right then and there?

He knows. 

"You lied," he gasps before he can stop himself. Slade turns and raises an unamused eyebrow. Anger swirls in Dick's stomach like a whirlpool. "Damian's still down there."

Slade grins, and Dick feels his breath catch in his throat. "I said he can go after he's taught a lesson."

"But he was-" Dick stumbles over his words, struggles to keep himself from letting loose and charging at Slade with a flinging fist. 

"His lesson isn't a simple torture session," Slade chides, almost like he's pitying Dick. 

Dick can hardly breathe. Damian's down there, and Dick's been up here happily delusioned into thinking he's safe and sound back home? Dick gulps down air like it's made of molasses. "Then- then- when-?"

"When he's broken," Slade practically purrs. Dick feels liquid nitrogen replace every single blood cell. "When he's begging. We will continue this pattern, over and over again, until you no longer hesitate in your actions, until he's choking on his own sobs and telling you, not me, you to stop."

Dick recalls immediately every single cut he gave Damian close to a week ago. He thinks about having to reopen those wounds, cause more, keep going until everything he has and is becomes stained with un-washable blood.

He still takes hot showers. He can still smell it in the quiet hours of midnight. 

Slade sneers. "Don't worry so much, apprentice, there are more ways to torture someone than drawing blood."

Dick's heart feels like it hasn't only skipped a heartbeat as Slade steps closer... but that it's completely stopped all together. 

"There are some things worse than making wounds and causing pain."

Dick understands what he means. He understands what he means and he can feel it settle in that whirlpool of rage like a heavy boulder. He turns towards Slade, and tries to keep his voice even. "Master... Please, you have to be joking."

"I'm not," Slade says, "and you know you'll do it too if I tell you to. You'll do it because if you don't, I'll kill him and all of your other siblings." Slade pauses, his smirk widens. "How would that feel, boy? To take your own child's innocence?"

Bastard. Psychopath. A sadistic and perverted piece of shit. His stomach twists and before he can even think it through, he launches forward with a yell. Slade's one eye widens right before Dick socks him across the jaw. However, before Dick can attempt to do anything else, a heavy fist slams into his gut, right below his ribs. Every single molecule of air leaves his lungs and he's left gasping, choking, and holding back the urge to vomit; helpless to do anything but wheeze as he's grabbed by the color of his shirt and slammed against the basement door.

The knob jams mercilessly against his hip, and he might have cried out if he had any air left to spare. 

Instead, he can only attempt to catch his breath; his hands weakly grasping onto Slade's.

"Is this really what you want to be doing right now, Grayson?!" Slade hisses, a purple bruise on his jaw fading into clear complexion as he speaks. "Do you really want to fight me now? Like this?"

Dick chokes as Slade presses harder against his shirt, each hand feeling like stakes driven though his collarbones. 

"Let me tell you now boy," Slade sneers. Dick's heart stutters like an old BMW. "I don't intend for it to be taken that far. You don't want it to be taken that far. That's why, when you go down there, you're going to do your damndest to make. It. Count. The sooner you quit letting your annoying feelings on your family affect you, the sooner the brat can go home. Hurt. Traumatized. But alive."

"Fuck you," Dick spits. For a second, pure annoyance flashes through Slade's face, but all he does is let go of Dick like he's touched something worse than trash. 

Slade brushes his hands together, and gives Dick a steady look as Dick's finally allowed to suck in a lungful of air. He coughs, then glares. 

Slade simply stares back at him with sharp eyes. "Stop fighting me, apprentice. Accept this is new life and move on from your family. You're not leaving this one, kid. You're going to succeed me one day, you'll be ruthless." He pauses. Then his lips begin to twitch back into that infuriating smirk. "And you'll love it."

"I won't become you," Dick risks arguing back. "You can control me, use me for the rest of my life. You can force me to kill, but I'll never be you."

"Yeah," Slade says, grabbing Dick's shoulder and squeezing. It takes every ounce of strength he has to not flinch as Slade prods him to step out of the way of that blasted basement door. "Keep telling yourself that kid, it will be all the more enjoyable for me to watch yourself realize how wrong you are."

And with that, the door opens, revealing the dark and condoning depths down below. Dick's legs feel frozen until Slade impatiently tugs on his shoulders. Dick feels similar to the depressing atmosphere of the staircase as he slowly begins to walk down, having nothing to feel but the cold dread of the future. 

[wordsablaze]

Breathe In, Breathe Out

Eskel had thought it was a rather smooth kikimora contract right up until Jaskier rather painfully proved him wrong... day thirteen of whumptober.

A/N: apologies in advance for any medical inaccuracies, i tried... today’s pairing: jaskier/eskel | prompts used: delayed drowning

-

“How did you find so many rhymes for Kikimora?” Eskel asks.

Jaskier grins at him, somehow shifting so they’re pressed even closer on their bed. “I didn’t build my fame with false talent, darling.”

Eskel snorts, pulling the blanket over them properly. “No, you built it with false tales instead.”

“Hey!” Jaskier protests, but he’s too busy being comfortable to sit up and argue properly.

Eskel smiles fondly, not that Jaskier can see it, and lets himself drift off. They deserve it after all, it’d been a difficult contract and they’d ended up covered in mud, their clothes soaked through by the time they’d succeeded. They'd also trailed a path of murky water back to the inn, where the innkeeper had mercifully allowed them to make a mess in their attempts to claim their well-deserved rest.

As it is, he’s not entirely sure what wakes him up again, or at least not until he sees Jaskier hunched over himself in a corner. “Jaskier?”

He only receives a soft groan in response but smells the vomit as soon as he swings off the bed and stands up, his feet moving before his heart remembers to continue beating. Jaskier slumps into his chest, clearly exhausted. “I’m sorry, it must smell so awful to you.”

Eskel wants to both kiss and punch him for being so concerned about something like that when there are clearly bigger things to worry about. “Did you drink too much?” he asks softly, rubbing circles on Jaskier’s arm without thinking about it.

Jaskier shrugs. “I don’t know. Must have.”

Hoping that Jaskier isn’t ill again, Eskel carefully guides them back to bed. Jaskier curls into him immediately and his skin doesn’t feel too hot so they let it slide, simply falling back into a comfortable sleep.

And he seems better in the morning, already awake and slipping on his doublet by the time Eskel rouses with a yawn.

“Don’t take too long,” Jaskier tells him with a wink. Eskel rolls his eyes, knowing that it doesn’t matter how long he takes, he absolutely cannot interrupt Jaskier mid-performance unless someone is dying.

He thinks he hears Jaskier stifle a cough as he leaves but he doesn’t pay any heed to it. At least, not until he gets downstairs and sees him do the same thing again, quickly covering it up with a new song. Frowning, he settles at one of the more secluded tables and watches Jaskier, concern building inside him as he catches the bard coughing far more than he should if last night’s situation was merely due to drinking.

“What’s wrong with your voice?” Eskel asks once Jaskier sits down, regretting his wording immediately when he’s met with a sharp spike of sadness and a frown.

“Your food,” a woman says to their left before he can apologise.

Jaskier waits until she’s gone before shaking his head. “I need some air,” he mumbles, almost tripping over his own feet in his rush to leave.

Eskel curses, letting the family in front of their table pass by before following the scent of spring and sadness. Yet again, he’s surprised by how far Jaskier manages to travel without being seen, and he finds him slumped against Scorpion, who huffs pointedly at him when he arrives.

“I’m sorry, Jas, I didn’t mean to be rude. Your voice is perfect but your breathing isn’t,” he explains.

Jaskier smiles but coughs again, wrapping his arms around Eskel when he kneels beside him, after Scorpion gives him permission of course. He feels warmer than before despite the outdoor breeze and that worries Eskel, who pulls back and glances over him. “Are you injured?”

Frowning as if unsure, Jaskier pats himself down before shaking his head with a sheepish grin. “Not that I can tell?”

“I’m taking you to the healer,” Eskel decides, guiding them both to their feet.

Or he would have, had Jaskier not refused to stand and slipped from his grasp, landing on the floor with a thud and a groan. “Ow,” he breathes, letting his head drop into the floor too.

Internally cursing because he doesn’t want to worry Jaskier, Eskel pulls one of the bard’s arms over his shoulder and lifts him up. He freezes when Jaskier practically wheezes though, looking up at him with panic shining in his eyes.

“Hurts, ‘skel…” Jaskier moans, clutching his middle with his free arm as he coughs again.

Sighing, Eskel swings Jaskier’s legs up and lifts him bridal style, paying no attention to the bard's senseless apologies as he runs as gently as possible to the healer’s house. Jaskier is struggling to breathe as they burst through the doors, spluttering on air as Eskel rushes over his own apologies and pleas.

“In and out, bardling, come on,” he instructs as Jaskier struggles to breathe, his chin wobbling.

“Set him down, I’ve seen this before,” the woman says before either of them can explain, and it’s only when she starts reciting something that Eskel realises she’s a sorceress.

“Eskel?” Jaskier gasps, reaching for him.

Eskel swears that he’s never going to let this happen again, whatever this is, because he’s not sure his heart can handle hearing Jaskier sound so helpless. Trying his best to smile, he takes Jaskier’s hand and kisses his fingers. “You’re going to be fine.”

Jaskier looks skeptical but breaks into coughs before he can say anything else, his grip tightening on Eskel’s fingers to an almost painful level. There’s only a split second where Eskel looks away to watch the sorceress but when he turns back to Jaskier, his eyes are closed.

“What happened?” he demands, his voice totally not choked up.

The sorceress frowns, finishing her spell before placing her hands on Jaskier’s chest, the two of them going incredibly still before Jaskier shudders and she stumbles back with a soft exhale.

“Are you okay?” Eskel asks.

She smiles at him despite the beads of sweat on her forehead. “I appreciate your concern, though I do not require it. Your bard almost drowned and he’s unlikely to wake until tomorrow but he’ll live.”

“Drowned?” Eskel asks, not wanting to point out that they’re most definitely on dry land.

She nods, raising an eyebrow at him. “I said what I meant. It’s simply a delayed reaction to inhaling water and I’m willing to bet it’s from that contract you took.”

Oh.

He's such a fool for thinking they'd gotten out of it unscathed. He should have known better than to let Jaskier's coughing slide and he should have done something, anything.

“So this is my fault? Did I…”

“No,” she interjects, but her tone is soothing. “There’s nothing anyone can do about it. You’re simply fortunate there was someone around who knows magic.”

Jaskier shivers even in his sleep, turning towards where Eskel is standing beside him. He can’t help but take Jaskier’s hand again, smiling at the thought of someone trusting him enough to seek his comfort without being awake to think about it.

“Take care of him,” the sorceress whispers, vanishing before he can ask her what he owes.

He plans to do just that.

-

yeah, turns out it’s kinda hard to incorporate modern-day prompts into the witcher (i forgot AUs were a thing until too late bc i’m dumb-)

-

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier

[magnus-the-maqnificent]

Whumptober Day 7

In the Depths of Hell

Alec groaned quietly, clasping his arms over his stomach and curling into the corner as much as he could. His wound was bleeding, far too heavy and fast for him to be fine by the time Jace and Isabelle would return.

The stone halls of the den were dark, providing Alec with ample cover to hide himself from the enemy’s eyes. When Maryse had called the three of them on his mission, Alec knew that it would be difficult for all three of them to return. But he had resolved then and there that if anyone were to remain behind, it would be him.

He just didn’t expect to run into one of the asmodei so soon into their mission. Jace had managed to deliver the killing blow, of course, but not before it stabbed Alec in the torso with one of its long claw-like limbs, and he had to remain behind. He could only hope that Jace and Isabelle would take care of the rest of the mission and return to him in one piece.

For now, Alec’s eyes shifted from left to right, watching out for any enemies who might pass this way. The halls were silent for a few painfully long moments, and then Alec heard the distant echoes of voices and footsteps.

Panic surged instantaneously within Alec’s veins. He leveled his breathing as best as he could, and backed into the well, pressing his back into the black wall. He was dressed in all Shadowhunter black, so it was easy to blend into the shadows. He had been trained from a young age to be able to blend into shadows. This ought to be easy to pull off.

Two forms appeared at the end of one hallway. One, a tall person, stalking through the halls with long thick-soled boots that clacked against the floor as they walked. The other was stubby and short, and from the wriggling movements it exhibited, was clearly was demon.

“On the third moon, you say?” the person was saying, and from the thick, rich deep voice, Alec assumed it was a man. “Isn’t that too early?”

“His majesty believes it is the perfect time.” The asmodei demon’s voice was rough and gurgly, as if it were speaking from underwater. Alec kept his trained eye upon them both, ignoring the dizziness that his wound was starting to cast over him.

“Very well, then,” the man stopped right next to Alec, who held his breath and waited. “Go ahead, I have something to attend to. I shall join father in a moment.”

The demon nodded and moved on. Alec watched the man, who watched the demon until it was out of sight, and then to his utter shock, turned upon him.

Alec sat extremely still, hoping that the man’s gaze would simply pass over him and then he would move on, but he kneeled in front of Alec, one hand shooting out and gripping the front of Alec’s jacket.

“What the hell,” he hissed, and Alec froze when he noticed the man’s eyes. “Are you doing here?”

His eyes were slit-pupilled like a cat’s, and in Alec’s world, that meant only one thing. He remembered the man saying something about meeting his father, and if this father was who he thought he was, then this person was...

“You-“ Alec’s throat blanched at the thought.

“Yes, I’m Magnus Bane,” he said, confirming Alec’s fears. Maybe he should’ve fought back immediately, but his nerves froze at the sight of one of the men he was taught to fear since childhood. “And you’re one of the nephilim. You’re not supposed to be here.”

Alec tried to say something, but Magnus ignored his efforts at speaking and looked both ways before he reached down and hoisted Alec up into his arms. Magnus stood, and Alec yelped, scrambling at Magnus’s shoulders for something to hold on to.

“We’ll have to take care of your wound,” he said, looking at the gaping wound in Alec’s stomach. He walked towards the nearest door and shouldered it open, then took Alec inside.

Alec’s heart was beating fast. He couldn’t fathom what was going to happen now. Magnus Bane was the eldest of Asmodeus’s children, and had a notorious reputation among the Shadowhunters. The room that Magnus took him into was dark for a moment, but then he snapped his fingers, the sound crisp and clear in the silent space. A few torches lining the walls lit up, and Alec took in the room with wide eyes. It was probably a study once. Now there was nothing more than a large empty desk in one corner, and several bookshelves with books spilling out of them, rotting away. Magnus cleared the dust off the desk with a flick of his hand, then placed Alec on it.

Alec jerked away from him, defensive when Magnus’s hand hovered close to his wound. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“Just shut up and trust me,” Magnus hissed. His hand was glowing with a blue light, and Alec watched in wonder as the blood cleared away, and his skin knitted itself over the wound. Though it was quick and clean, it wasn’t painless. Alec gripped the edge of the desk with his hands, biting his tongue to keep quiet as, in a few moments, his skin turned unblemished under the torn cloth as if there had never been a wound there in the first place.

“Why?” Alec gasped out when it was done.

Magnus looked up at him, his cat’s eyes bright and dangerous.

“Why the hell are you doing this?” Alec asked again. “We’re- You’re supposed to be killing me.”

Magnus cocked his head to one side. “And if I don’t kill you? What then? You’ll kill me?”

Alec was silent. He didn’t have to say it out loud. Both of them knew exactly what the answer was.

“Maybe I’m sick of all the killing,” Magnus said, backing away. “But you will never stop, will you? You won’t stop until all of us are gone.”

“You’re all demons,” Alec said. “It’s my duty.”

“Not all of us are demons,” Magnus said, and then turned away, swishing a flame to extinguish the lights. “This never happened. We never met. If you ever see me again, that will be out first meeting. And I may not be as kind then.”

Alec watched him leave, closing the door behind him, then gingerly got off the desk. He stretched sideways, making sure that his wound was completely healed, then unstrapped his bow from his shoulder and stepped out to find Isabelle and Jace.

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2020 - Day 24

I kinda got way too into writing this one. I just wanted to keep going and going, really could have added more than I did, and couldn't figure out where to end it...then I realized that tomorrow's prompt was perfect for a part 2. So that's what I did. Yay, our first ever part 2! Anyway, check the warnings if you don't mind some mild spoilers, this one does get a little rougher than some but ahh...I think it's one of my favorites. And it's a good thing so many of you said you love platonic Kidge because here it comes again!

Read on AO3

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Day 24 - Forced Mutism/Blindfolds/Sensory Deprivation

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Warnings: restraints, torture, sensory deprivation, electric torture, dislocation, muzzle, broken bones, mild blood

Pidge was getting aggravated. Scratch that, she was way past the point of aggravation, she was ticked off. It had been four quiznaking days since the quiznaking Galra had captured her, and she had just been sitting in this quiznaking cell ever since, for no quiznaking reason. Nobody had even come to see her! No threats, no questions, no torture, nothing. What was the quiznaking point of capturing a Paladin of Voltron if you were gonna just ignore her?

Not that she was, like, dying to be tortured or anything. More than once since her arrival, screams had echoed down the hall, sending shivers down her spine and making her stomach turn somersaults. 

No, the thought of being tortured definitely terrified her. But she was getting pretty sick of sitting in an empty cell with her ankle chained to the wall. The only interaction she’d had so far was with the stupid sentries that brought her food, and they couldn’t carry on a conversation to save their precious Empire. She was lonely, okay? Yeah, she was an introvert who could spend days on end locked in her room, but that was on her terms, and she had her computer and projects to keep her company. 

At least being lonely meant that she didn’t have to worry about any of her teammates. They were out there, looking for her, she knew it, and that was the best place for them to be. If any of them had ended up in there with her and got hurt...she didn’t know what she’d do. They were her family. Yeah, she still believed Matt and Dad were out there, and she was bound and determined to find them. But this team was her family, too, in a weird and wonderful way, and she’d do anything to keep them safe. 

Finally, on the morning of day five, the cell door creaked open, and somebody who actually wasn’t a sentry stepped inside. 

“It’s about time,” Pidge snapped before the soldier even had time to speak. “You guys don’t get in a hurry around here, do ya?”

The Galra - a lieutenant by the design of his armor - was taken by surprise for an instant, but quickly recovered with a smirk. “My profuse apologies. We’ve had...other pressing matters to deal with. But rest assured, you have our full attention now.”

Pidge gulped. Well that wasn’t really what she wanted. But she wasn’t going to let him know that. She lifted her chin.  “Good.”

His smile grew. “Since you’re so eager to see me, should I assume that you’re ready to cooperate?”

Crossing her arms, Pidge narrowed her eyes. “Never. I don’t even care what it is you want from me.”

“A list of planets that have joined your Coalition,” he immediately replied. “See, nothing too complicated. Not even anything to do with your beloved Voltron.”

“Yeah right. I told you, it’s not happening.”

“Very well.” The lieutenant nodded amiably. “I had a feeling that would be your answer. That’s why I came prepared.” Leaning back, he knocked twice on the wall next to the door.

Pidge sneered. “It doesn’t matter what you bring in here, I’m not gonna -”

She cut off her own tirade as two grunt soldiers appeared, dragging and then harshly shoving something very person-looking onto the floor. It wasn’t until the something had tumbled a couple of times and came to a halt facing her that she was absolutely sure that it was a person. A very human-like person. A very battered person. 

He wore only a pair of tight black pants that reminded her of her own flight suit, and all his skin above that was painted with purple and blue and even black in some places. More disturbing than that, though, was what covered his entire face. A blindfold, for starters. And over his nose and mouth, a hideous metal contraption with thick straps holding it in place. 

It was a muzzle. 

Pidge was already feeling nauseous at seeing this guy’s state. But then she noticed the hair. And that’s when her stomach plummeted to her toes. 

“Keith?”

It couldn’t be him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. She would have known if he had been here the whole time, being... being hurt, being tortured...oh quiznak, it hadn’t been him she had heard screaming...had it?

“Ah, so you do recognize him.” The lieutenant chuckled, crossing over and nudging at Keith’s metal-covered chin with the toe of his boot. “It is a bit difficult with his... accessories.”

“What did you do to him? Keith!” She didn’t even care that the tears clogging up her throat were very much audible.

“Oh, don’t strain yourself trying to get his attention, dear. He won’t be able to hear you.” Crouching down, he grabbed a handful of that unmistakable black hair and yanked until Keith’s head and shoulders were up off the ground and his face was turned to the side. A muffled moan came from under the muzzle, and Pidge’s heart squeezed.

“You see this?” The Galra pointed to Keith’s ear, where she could just barely make out something purple. “Blocks all sound.” He released the hair, and Keith’s head dropped to the concrete floor with a crack that made her flinch. “Just like this blocks all light -” he ran a finger over the blindfold -“and this, of course, keeps him from speaking.” He grabbed the muzzle and shook it. “He can still make some quite delightful sounds, though. All of it works together to make doing things like this so much more entertaining.”

One of the soldiers stepped forward, producing a long stick from somewhere on his person and jabbing it into Keith’s ribs. It crackled with purple lightning, and he screamed, writhing on the floor.

Pidge lurched forward, despite already knowing that her leash wouldn’t let her reach him. “Stop! Stop it, don’t hurt him!”

The lieutenant laughed aloud. “It’s perfect, isn’t it? He has no idea what’s coming for him and when.”

The rod made contact again, at his waist this time. The sound that came out of him was awful, literally the worst thing that Pidge had ever heard. She glared at the lieutenant through tear-filled eyes.

“You’re a monster.”

He flashed her a brilliant, sharp-toothed smile. “Thank you. I do try. Now…” Standing, he strode a few steps in her direction. “Would you like to reconsider telling me about those planets, or should we continue?”

No! she screamed inwardly. No, you can’t make me choose. This is the fate of the universe we’re talking about here, but he’s...he’s my brother! A brother that maybe she didn’t know all that well, considering how they both sucked at social interactions, but that just meant she understood him more than the others. Besides, she knew enough. She knew he was brave, and painfully shy, and had a heart of gold beneath his tough-guy exterior. She knew he didn’t deserve this. 

But what could she do? As much as it killed her, she couldn’t throw away the safety of millions of people for him. There was no guarantee they’d actually stop hurting him, anyway. And if they did...he’d never forgive her. Keith always put the safety of others before his own.

“Well?”

Gritting her teeth, she kept her eyes on the terrified, trembling boy on the floor. “I can’t.”

“Very well, then.”

She expected the rod again, but instead both of the soldiers went at him with their heavy boots, pounding the toes into his already destroyed flesh over and over again. He made no noise after the first couple of strikes, only curled in on himself as best he could with his hands cuffed behind his back, instinctively trying to protect his organs. It didn’t matter, though, the sounds the boots made against his body were bad enough. She was pretty sure she heard the pop of ribs breaking. She thought she might puke.

Instead, she sank to the floor with weak legs, crawling forward until the chain was taut and she was as close to him as she could get. The tears that had flooded her eyes until then spilled over, streaming down her cheeks. 

Keith. She wanted so badly to be able to reach out, to comfort him, to let him know she was there. But he wouldn’t know it was her, even if she could. He’d probably flinch away, thinking she was yet another who meant him harm.

“I wonder what he’d think,” the lieutenant began, as if reading her thoughts, “if he knew you were here. If he realized that you had the power to make this stop, that all of this pain was your fault.”

The barb struck true, but Pidge clenched her fists and refused to let it embed itself any further. “Your fault,” she growled. “This is your fault, not mine. You’re the monster here.”

Rather than answering, he reached up and grabbed a chain from the ceiling, pulling it down with a deafening rattle and hooking it onto Keith’s manacles. Taking his cue, grunt soldier number one crossed to a crank on the wall and began to turn. The chain slowly retracted, taking Keith’s wrists with it. Pidge slapped her hands over her mouth to stifle a sob as she saw him realize what was happening and scramble to get his feet under him, slipping back onto his knees more than once before he succeeded, and swaying heavily once he finally stood.

The chain kept going. They weren’t satisfied once it was pulled taut, they kept cranking until he was forced to bend over forward with his arms straight out behind him, and Pidge was worried his shoulders were going to come out of their sockets.

“Stop. Stop it! That’s enough!”

The grinding of the crank halted, and the lieutenant turned to face her. “Yes? Was there something you’d like to share?”

Pidge deflated from where she had risen up on her knees. “N-no.”

“Hm.” He waved a hand at the soldier, and the crank was turned one more time. Keith’s head fell further down.

Grunt soldier number two took the rod and thrust it straight down into the center of his back. Keith almost fell, but somehow managed to lock his knees in the midst of shaking and screaming. 

Pidge’s fingernails bit into her palms and her teeth into her bottom lip. She couldn’t even imagine how that felt on his spine, not to mention the jarring on his overextended shoulders. 

She hated this. The names of the planets he wanted to know were right on the tip of her tongue, a whole list that she had memorized long ago. All she’d have to do is say one, and they’d at least give him a little bit of a break, right?

But just one name meant thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands of people facing this kind of violence in retribution for joining the Coalition. 

It wouldn’t be the boy who she saw as a brother. 

But it would be equally as horrible for so many others. She wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for that, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to for this, either. 

And she was growing more uncertain by the minute that Keith would forgive her for this.

“Are you sure you have nothing to say?”

Pidge stared straight ahead, refusing to answer.

Circling to the other side of his prisoner, the lieutenant jerked Keith’s head up by his hair again, putting untold strain on his neck. A quiet whimper came from behind the muzzle. “You know, it is a bit of a pity that we can’t see his facial expressions. I just love seeing the pain in their eyes.” Drawing his fist back, he slammed it into the only exposed skin on Keith’s face, his cheekbone, snapping his entire head to the side. When he released his hair, letting his head drop back down toward the floor, there were multiple strands of black hair still stuck between his fingers. Pidge watched them flutter to the floor with a knot in her chest.

“Will you leave him alone? I’m not going to tell you anything!”

“Sorry, dear. No can do. You have to give me something if you want something in return.”

Grunt soldier number one suddenly came back to life, kicking Keith’s knee out from under him. The kick itself probably didn’t hurt. The subsequent stumble that dislocated his shoulder with a loud, sickening crack did.

“No!” Pidge cried, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out his wail. “Keith!”

“Anything to say?”

“I hope you rot!” she shrieked, lunging forward as if she could get her hands around his throat. “When our team finds us, and they will, I will make sure that you die a slow and painful death!”

The lieutenant threw his head back and laughed. “You’re cute. Maybe once I’ve gotten what I want from you, I’ll just keep you for entertainment. My little pet.”

Keith was still trying to struggle back onto both feet. His breathing was ragged, audible even through the metal, and he trembled even harder than before.

Glancing at a screen on his wrist, the lieutenant sighed. “Unfortunately, I have other matters I must attend to. This seems like as good of a time as any to leave you two to think for a while. Rest assured, I will be back soon.”

With that, he was gone, leaving Pidge with a raw, bleeding ankle and tear-soaked face, and Keith still in a stress position with no senses, wondering when the next blow would come.

“Keith,” she whispered into the once again quiet cell. “I’m so sorry.”

[archadianskies]

RK9 whumptober masterlist (Complete)

(original) **COMPLETE**

✔️ No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging

MT-RK900 series: He comes online, expecting to find himself ready to be deployed to the DPD. They have other plans. (Combined with day 24)

✔️ No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY “Pick Who Dies” | Collars | Kidnapped

Fae AU: Ronan ventures to the other end of the forest, hoping to meet the witches his brother spoke so fondly about, and ends up meeting hunters instead

✔️ No 3. MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY Manhandled | Forced to their Knees | Held at Gunpoint

Bell Isle has a new planetarium opening, and Simon and Ronan get more than they bargain for on what was meant to be a leisurely night stargazing

✔️ No 4. RUNNING OUT OF TIME Caged | Buried Alive | Collapsed Building

MT-RK900 series: the RK900 has to accept this is his life now, this cage that he paces endlessly when he isn’t fighting for his life

✔️No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING? On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue

SWATverse A/9: It is another RK900. The FBI’s RK900, a secret RK900 who didn’t exist on paper. Captain Allen realises they can’t leave him with Perkins. They’re absolutely not leaving here without him.

✔️No 6. PLEASE…. “Get it Out” | No More | “Stop, please” (all of the above)

Gavin’s always assumed androids don’t feel pain, but as he watches them go to town on his partner, he thinks maybe he’s got it all wrong

✔️ No 7. I’VE GOT YOU Support | Carrying | Enemy to Caretaker 

SWATverse: The rookie goes down heavy, and Captain Allen lives by the creed ‘no man left behind’. Even if the rookie’s an android, and 400 pounds of deadweight.

✔️ No 8. WHERE DID EVERYBODY GO? “Don’t Say Goodbye” | Abandoned | Isolation

Companion piece to this; the RK900 thought it was well on its way to passing testing phase and being deployed, until one day he’s put into standby and the entire team leave.

✔️No 9. FOR THE GREATER GOOD “Take Me Instead” | “Run!” | Ritual Sacrifice

SWATverse A/9: One RK900, for the lives of the entire SWAT team. Seems like a pretty good deal to Caleb. Captain Allen doesn’t think so.

✔️ No 10. THEY LOOK SO PRETTY WHEN THEY BLEED Blood Loss | Internal Bleeding | Trail of Blood 

SWATverse: It’s a split-second decision but one made with no hesitation at all; save April MacMaster from the blast or save himself and allow her to die

✔️ No 11. PSYCH 101 Defiance | Struggling | Crying

The RK900 stands at Amanda’s side as the RK800 receives news it will be deactivated. That...does not seem right.

✔️ No 12. I THINK I’VE BROKEN SOMETHING Broken Down | Broken Bones | Broken Trust

The revolution is successful and CyberLife discreetly try to rid themselves of all evidence of the RK900. Chloe figures out they are not so discreet, and sends Connor to investigate the junkyard while the Jericho Four tend to the mass grave.

✔️ No 13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask

MT-RK900 series:  MedTech Dr Ronan Anderson is onsite when two children fall into the canal at the Jericho Memorial Bay. The RK900 successfully retrieves the children, but later realises he’s not feeling too well himself.

✔️ No 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING? Branding | Heat Exhaustion | Fire

MT-RK900 series : Dr Ronan is one of the MedTechs on standby at a music festival, and discovers firsthand why he was in fact made with the artic tundra in mind and not for Michigan summers.

✔️ No 15. INTO THE UNKNOWN Possession | Magical Healing | Science Gone Wrong

Fae AU: The creature has a throat burned raw from the iron, and a leg bleeding profusely. It’s going to take a lot of herbs and a lot of magic to set things right, but Simon’s a stubborn witch.

✔️ No 16. A TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO GOOD, VERY BAD DAY Forced to Beg | Hallucinations | Shoot the Hostage 

RK900 #87 has been cleared for deployment, the perfected successor to his prototype. While awaiting deployment the RK900 realises he’s not as alone as he thought.

✔️  No 17. I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING Blackmail | Dirty Secret | Wrongfully Accused

SWATverse A/9: They arrive at the gala separately, and Caleb thinks nothing of it until one of the detectives in Connor’s precinct make comments that slide a little too close to home.

✔️ No 18. PANIC! AT THE DISCO Panic Attacks | Phobias | Paranoia

SWATverse A/9: Forensics Medical Examiner Dr Frederick Anderson is still coming to terms with his newfound freedom and his new role in the team. Late one afternoon he’s ambushed by a figure from his past.

✔️ No 19. BROKEN HEARTS Grief | Mourning Loved One | Survivor’s Guilt

The RK900 is deployed and his predecessor deactivated. It shouldn’t make him feel anything. He shouldn’t be able to feel at all. And yet...

✔️ No 20. TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE’RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE Lost | Field Medicine | Medieval

S&S verse; RK-YK500s: Ronan Anderson knows it’s only 10 minutes walk from Stabucks to Central Station. He’s a big kid, he’s smart enough to get there all by himself. Right?

✔️ No 21. I DON’T FEEL SO WELL Chronic Pain | Hypothermia | Infection

SWATverse A/9: Dr Frederick Anderson receives an injury to his faceplate and deems it negligible. Later that night, he realises he has a toothache.

✔️ No 22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU? Poisoned | Drugged | Withdrawal

S&S verse; RK-YK500s: Ronan detects a foreign contaminent in his drink.

✔️ No 23. WHAT’S A WHUMPEE GOTTA DO TO GET SOME SLEEP AROUND HERE? Exhaustion | Narcolepsy | Sleep Deprivation

MT-RK900 series: Flu season rampages through Detroit Metro, and one by one the medical staff fall ill leaving Dr Ronan Anderson to pull back to back shifts managing ED as the only doctor immune to the illness.

✔️No 24. YOU’RE NOT MAKING ANY SENSE Forced Mutism | Blindfolded | Sensory Deprivation

MT-RK900 series: He has a lot of questions and they don’t like that. Dogs don’t need to bark, they just need to bite. (combined with Day 1)

✔️ No 25. I THINK I’LL JUST COLLAPSE RIGHT HERE, THANKS Disorientation | Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears

MT-RK900 series: His increased aural sensitivity would’ve been useful in the arctic tundra, but not in downtown Detroit

✔️ No 26. IF YOU THOUGHT THE HEAD TRAUMA WAS BAD… Migraine | Concussion | Blindness

On the anniversary of the Sentient Life Act, an attempt on Markus’ life leaves Ronan temporaily blinded by an IED. 

✔️ No 27. OK, WHO HAD NATURAL DISASTERS ON THEIR 2020 BINGO CARD?  Earthquake | Extreme Weather | Power Outage

An emergency requiring both RK units to lend their battery cores to save the key witness’ life leaves them critically low on power. Intending to recharge at the precinct, to their dismay there is a power outage.

✔️ No 28. SUCH WOW. MANY NORMAL. VERY OOPS. Accidents | Hunting Season | Mugged

S&S verse: An out of control truck destroys most of Ronan’s body and he must be temporarily housed back in the RK-YK500 shell. 

✔️ No 29. I THINK I NEED A DOCTOR Intubation | Emergency Room | Reluctant Bedrest

MT-RK900 series: Companion piece to this; A trauma surgeon, Dr Ronan Anderson is used to a myriad of patients both android and human. He’s just not ready when his own father is wheeled in.

✔️ No 30. NOW WHERE DID THAT COME FROM? Wound Reveal | Ignoring an Injury | Internal Organ Injury

SWATverse A/9: Dr Frederick Anderson is onsite with CSI at a large joint operation with both the DPD and SWAT unit 32. The corpses they’re loading up aren’t as dead as they should be. 

✔️ No 31. TODAY’S SPECIAL: TORTURE Experiment | Whipped | Left for Dead

Companion piece to Day 12: He is nearing the end of his testing phase when the revolution is successful. Eager to be rid of any evidence they backed the wrong side, CyberLife hastily dismantle the RK900.

[occasionalstorytelling]

Of Danger and Lies: Whumptober, Day One

Fandom: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

Word Count: 2,342

Summary: After the end of the war, Garak and Bashir live together on Cardassia Prime. Garak works on rebuilding his home, and Julian explores the city looking for adventure. One day, something finds Julian.

Tags: Stabbing, Blood Loss

Garak was sick of drinking cold tea from a broken coffee machine. He was sick of the cold winter weather making him drowsy all day. At this exact second, however, he didn’t care about either of those things, because he was too busy being sick of waiting for Julian to get home.

Julian had said he’d be gone for less than an hour. It had been twice that time already, and no still sign of him. How long could it possibly take to run a few simple errands? But leave it to Julian to get distracted. He’d be back at the the office any minute now, holding something random in one hand, that same wide-eyed surprised look splattered all over his face, saying something like “I’ve never seen this fruit before! Is it native to Cardassia?” Of course it is, Doctor. And you’ll likely find it disgusting, just like the last few Cardassian delicacies you tried. But go ahead and give it a taste, because your completely unjustified optimism is the only thing that makes life seem worth it.

It had been a long day. Garak was sick of dealing with paperwork and reports. As soon as Julian got back, they were going straight home. Garak was ready to ditch his responsibilities for the night, cuddle up with Julian (who was always so WARM, even in the winter) and talk about their hopes for the future and not about the crushing realities of reality. Julian was the perfect companion for nights like that. Garak stirred his stupid cold tea with a finger, shifted his stupid scarf around his neck against the cold, and pretended to read something on his desk while he waited for Julian to come back.

“Sir!” Garak’s assistant came busting into the office, unannounced. Tain would never have tolerated that kind of behavior, Garak reflected drily. “There’s a human dead in the street outside!”

Now that was exactly the sort of thing Julian should be here for, Garak thought. Julian was a doctor, after all, and not every Cardassian doctor knew how to treat mammals. Whoever was outside would be better off with a veterinarian. Then again, he’d be better off if he came inside and waited for Julian to treat him, just like Garak was waiting for Julian. Come to think of it, though, where did the human come from? The only human Garak knew of living in the city was Julian, and…

It wasn’t a human dead in the street outside. It was his human dead in the street outside. In a swift fluid motion, Garak was suddenly past his assistant and out of the office, not even stopping to grab his coat. A small crowd was gathering in the street, murmuring and whispering to each other. Again, Tain would never have tolerated this, Garak thought grimly as he pushed though. Tain wouldn’t have let the rabble fuss over a measly dead body. If Julian was really dead, Garak didn’t know what he would do.

“Let me pass,” Garak hissed, shoving through the crowd with his sharp shoulders. He emerged into a small clear space, devoid of people except for one human lying on the ground. His dark skin color was visible through his frankly scandalous clothing choice, all that collarbone out in the open air, and in weather like this, too? Humans really have no understanding of the cold. 

The body was definitely Julian. He was lying face down on the ground, clutching a scrap of fabric in one hand. His bag must have been stolen. At a brief glance, he didn’t seem hurt. Some Cardassians wouldn’t know a dead human from a sleeping one, anyway, so it was entirely possible that everything was totally fine. Everything was fine.

Tain once said that the most dangerous lies are the ones you tell yourself…especially the ones you need to believe.

Garak knelt next to Julian, and ever so gently, flipped him over so he was lying on his back. Julian coughed at this (proving he was alive, which was good) but Garak’s new view of him revealed a dark patch of red all over his stomach, bleeding sticky red through his clothes.

“Julian?” Garak cupped Bashir’s face in one hand. “What happened?”

Julian fluttered his eyes, but they didn’t open. Come on, human medicine, try to remember something, Garak thought. He checked Julian’s pulse. There were some difficulties in finding it, so Garak could only assume it was weaker than usual. And Julian’s hands were cold. That wasn’t good. Julian was always so warm, but he wasn’t right now. That really wasn’t good. Humans were supposed to be warm. Garak scooped Julian up off the ground, hoping that he wasn’t injuring Julian more in an attempt to help him.

“Is anyone a doctor? A veterinarian?” Garak looked around at the crowd. Nothing but blank faces and confusion.

“Then get out of the way!” Garak screamed, channeling the all-consuming worry for Julian into anger and intimidation.

The crowd silently cleared a path. Despite the ridiculous cold, Garak fought through it, carrying Julian into the waiting room of his office. His assistant stood in the doorway, hovering uncertainly.

Garak took a small knife from one of his pockets and began cutting away at the fabric of Julian’s shirt. It only seemed to make the blood flow harder, and Julian’s face was starting to turn white. Garak examined the injury as best he could. It was a deep, thin cut—a stab wound. It wasn’t a very clean cut, either—clearly an amateurs work. And on top of that, humans were so fragile. No protective scales…and there was no point in carrying a knife on Cardassia if it couldn’t break a Cardassian’s skin. The knife must have ripped through Julian’s soft, perfect, unmarked skin like a…Garak shook his head, trying to focus.

“Call a veterinarian or a doctor,” Garak said to the assistant. “Whoever can get here first, so long as they know how to treat mammals.”

The assistant bolted out of the room, and Garak could only assume they were getting a communicator. Julian coughed and managed to flick his eyes open.

“I’m…I’m sorry I was running late,” he smiled weakly.

“Shh...it’s all right,” Garak said, gently pushing Julian’s hair out of his eyes. “What happened, dearest one?”

“Someone in the market...I was just getting back here when someone tried to take my purse. He called me a name and then...stabbed me,” Julian tried to sit up.

“Stay down,” Garak said. “Try not to move. Where’s your medkit?”

“There’s a spare at home,” Julian coughed. “The one I keep with me... it’s gone.”

“That’s okay,” Garak soothed. The medkit at home was a half hour’s walk away. Too far to be any use. “A doctor is on the way,” Garak lied. He had no idea if that was true. He hoped it was. “What do I do?” he asked.

“Put pressure on it,” Julian said. Garak removed his scarf, barely conscious anymore of the cold, and pressed it into Julian’s wound. Julian hissed with pain as he did so, then began to settle just slightly.

“How did this happen?” Garak whispered, mostly to himself.

“I’m not very good with Cardassian yet...but the name he called me. It was a compound word. Something about you, and something like “pet,” and something like “servant,” I think,” Julian said. “I guess I need to *cough* brush up on those lessons you’re giving me.”

“I know the word,” Garak said through gritted teeth. “Your translation is a kind way of putting it. I…I’ve heard people call you that before, but I made it clear how I felt about it and what I would do to anyone who used it,” Garak hissed.

Julian groaned. “More pressure. I’m...this hurts, it really hurts, Garak.”

Garak steeled himself, and pressed as hard as he could without breaking bones. “How’s this, my love?”

“I have no idea,” Julian sighed. “I need a doctor.”

“I know,” Garak blinked, trying to hold back tears. “I’m so sorry…whoever did this, they hurt you because of me, because of the way I love you. It’s my fault.”

“Love doesn’t hurt,” Julian coughed weakly. “And this isn’t your fault. I’m...getting sleepy. Keep me awake until a doctor arrives, okay? I might be going into shock, but I’m not sure, but I don’t know what we can do about that right now anyway.”

“Okay,” Garak said, putting all his focus on applying the appropriate pressure to the wound. “How do I keep you awake?”

“Ask me questions,” Julian said. “So I have to think.”

“Okay,” Garak said as he felt Julian’s blood beginning to soak though the scarf, warming his hands. It was almost a pleasant sensation, but that body heat belonged to Julian, and it shouldn’t be slipping away like this. Garak couldn’t stop himself from crying, like he hadn’t cried in a long time. “Julian, do you know where we are?”

“Your office,” Julian smiled. “My Garak, leading the way, rebuilding Cardassia.”

“That’s right,” Garak smiled sadly. “Do you remember how to say office in Cardassian?”

“No,” Julian furrowed his brow. “But I remember how to say home. And when I say my home, I actually say that it’s ours, and I use your name as part of the identifying structure.”

“Good,” Garak said, his vision starting to blur with tears. “You’ll be speaking Cardassian like a native soon enough.”

“You really think so?” Julian smiled, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back.

“I do,” Garak said. “What’s your favorite word I’ve taught you so far?”

Julian didn’t respond, his muscles going slack as he started to drift off.

“No, no, Julian, stay awake, stay awake, okay?” Garak hesitated for a horrible moment between shaking him awake and maintaining the pressure on the injury. He decided to focus on the pressure, trying to keep Julian’s blood where it belonged. “Julian, please, tell me any word you can remember in Cardassian, okay? You have to focus.”

Julian stirred, and said a word that froze Garak’s blood.

“Wherever did you hear that?” Garak flushed, angrily. It meant traitor, but more than that, it meant useless object. Something you’d discard. Someone who’d die in exile. It was a word Garak hadn’t heard in a long time. It was from one of Garak’s worst memories of Tain.

“s’ the first Cardassian word I learned,” Julian said, barely conscious. “Tain said it about you when I had to talk to him about the…the thingy in your brain. I thought it had to be good, because it’s about you. Is it a good one?”

“It’s not,” Garak said tightly. Some days he wished he could make Julian forget about the Wire.

“Okay,” Julian said. “Then...beloved. How do you say that in Cardassian?”

“I’ll teach you the syllables if you can stay awake for me,” Garak whispered.

“I’m…’m trying, Garak,” Julian coughed, voice weak from the blood loss. Garak’s hands were starting to stain red as the warm, sticky blood soaked through the scarf. How much blood could humans lose before they died? Garak didn’t know. Julian had already lost a lot.

“Is it worth it?” Garak asked, not sure if the question was meant for Julian or himself. “You’re only going to get hurt, staying attached to me like this. What if this is only the beginning? What if...what if it kills you, to be loved by me?”

“It’s worth it,” Julian said. “It won’t kill me, Garak…but if it did, it would be worth it.”

Despite Garak’s best efforts to keep Julian awake, that was the last thing Julian said until the doctor arrived. The doctor worked on Julian as Garak’s assistant ushered him away to wash his hands. Garak watched the red drain away into the sink. There was so much of it. It took only a few swipes of a dermal regenerator for the doctor to close the horrible hole in Julian’s stomach, but this didn’t mean Julian was safe, yet. Garak was told they’d need a matching human blood donor or a lot of replicator units (and quickly) to replace the blood he’d lost.

“Use my replicator units,” Garak didn’t hesitate. “It’ll take too long to find a donor.”

“It’s going to be a lot of units,” the doctor said.

“Use them all if you have to,” Garak glared. The doctor looked at Garak, every inch a man capable of murder, and complied. The transplant was replicated and given to Julian.

“He’ll wake up soon,” the doctor said, after the worst of the danger was passed. “We can move him to your house now. He should rest until he’s fully healed. It might be a few days.”

“I understand,” Garak said. They moved Julian on a stretcher into a vehicle and then to Garak’s house. Garak paid the doctor and set Julian up in his bed, sitting upright for circulation.

While Julian slept, Garak sifted through Julian’s pockets. Julian had kept most of his money safe in a wallet, so that had survived the mugging. In another pocket, there was a component piece that would have fixed the broken coffee machine. Garak sighed sadly. Julian really was too good for him.

A piece of paper fell out of Julian’s coat as Garak shook it out. A note, stained just slightly red with drops of human blood. Julian’s blood. It read: “Cardassia hates you. You will never weaken us with federation values. You’re next.”

It was written in Cardassian. It was unmistakably meant for Garak. Garak shredded the note and incinerated it.

Julian woke up not longer after, to a cup of room-temperature water Garak had ready for him. “Thank you,” Julian rasped. “How am I doing? Am I gonna be okay?”

“Everything is going to be okay,” Garak lied. He had no idea how things would be.

Tain was wrong, Garak decided. The most dangerous lies are the ones you tell your lover.

[flowercrown-bard]

The Boy who Ran: Final Chapter

Note: Pretty much just Shakespeare’s “King John” Act 4, Scene 1

Whumptober Prompt 6: Please

Read on AO3. No, seriously, read on AO3, this has become a bit longer than I intended (7K)

part 1 part 2  part 3  part 4  part 5

Cool air brushed against Geralt’s face, as he stood outside the blacksmith’s shop. It wasn’t enough to ease the burn in his chest.

“Master Witcher?” The burly man, Jakob sounded more timid than anyone had probably ever heard him be. No wonder. He was in the presence of a monster, after all. Two monsters.

Geralt grunted in acknowledgement, but didn’t turn to look at him, eyes fixed at the rising sun, as though he could will it to slow down and delay the inevitable.

“I… what do you want me to do?” Jakob hesitated. “It’s been hours since you brought him. Shouldn’t… forgive me for asking, but why haven’t you done anything?”

Geralt’s fists clenched at his side. It was a question he had tried his best to ignore. Why hadn’t he done anything yet? Whether he did it now or later – it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change the heaviness of what he had to do. So why couldn’t he do it?

“He isn’t well,” the blacksmith continued. “He doesn’t scream, but he is in pain. I don’t want him in my forgery like this.”

It was only due to his training that Geralt’s heart remained steady. The blacksmith wasn’t alone in not wanting the creature Geralt had captured to be in pain.

The only reason why the blacksmith hadn’t turned Geralt away, was because he had been told to do whatever Geralt told him to. Geralt briefly wondered, whether Jakob regretted whatever he had done that had left him to grant this favour. It was clear that if it weren’t for that burn in his chest, the blacksmith would have been too terrified of Geralt to endure his presence. The air had stunk of his fear, as Geralt had dragged his prey towards the blacksmith’s shop, a wild expression on his face.

Geralt closed his eyes at the memory, the sharp pain in his chest getting worse and worse with every moment he dragged out the inevitable. He wasn’t sure if his hesitation was a mercy or torture for the creature being bound inside of the shop.

“Master witcher?”

“I will go to him.” Geralt said it more to himself than to Jakob. Saying the words was making it real. He couldn’t take it back anymore. “Prepare hot irons. It must be pure iron.”

The man flinched, the stink of fear coming back.

“What are you going to do with it?” There was a tremor in his voice, but Geralt knew he didn’t dare – wouldn’t physically be able to -  disobey. Geralt wished he would.

“What I need to do.”

No more words were wasted. Geralt watched the blacksmith disappear into the forgery, before he went after him and into a side-room of the shop.

It was dark, the only light provided by a small window in the back, through which the first rays of the rising sun fell. It was enough to reveal the man – creature! – sitting on the floor, head leaned back to rest against the wall. Bruises covered his skin, where Geralt had grabbed him too tightly, and burns where the iron chains the blacksmith had laid him in, cut into his flesh. Only another reminder for what Jaskier truly was.

Geralt wasn’t sure if Jaskier had even heard him approach. So he remained there, silent and still as a statue, until Jaskier lifted his head and flinched at the sight of him.

An ugly monster reared its head inside of Geralt. This was all wrong. He was supposed to protect Jaskier, not be the reason why his heart was racing with fear, his eyes wide like a fawn trapped by a hunter.

It didn’t hurt any less the second time around seeing that look. The first time he had seen it had been mere hours ago. Finding Jaskier hadn’t been difficult, even after the eternity Geralt had hesitated, naïve enough to think that he could refuse to do what he knew he had no choice in. Geralt knew Jaskier’s scent, though the sting of fear – and heartbreak? – had been new. So had been the uncertainty and the terrified tears in Jaskier’s eyes when Geralt had finally caught up with him. He wasn’t sure what had hurt more – the fear or the glimmer of hope in Jaskier’s expression. Jaskier hadn’t even tried to fight. That had been the worst part.

He hadn’t lifted a finger against Geralt, when he had grabbed him by the arms, rougher than he ever had before, when he had dragged Jaskier to the nearest town and into the blacksmith’s shop, growling instructions at the man who had no choice but obey, and left Jaskier bound and alone in this room to stand outside and try to remind himself that he had no choice in this either– that it might even be the right thing to do.

For an endless moment, they were just staring at each other, neither daring to break the silence. Acknowledging the situation meant that they would have to continue, one way or another.

He saw Jaskier swallow thickly, and Geralt’s heart clenched, as he silently yelled at Jaskier to stay quiet, to not make him do what he had come here to do. Of course, Jaskier didn’t hear his silent plea. Or, more likely he ignored it.

“Good morning, Geralt.”

It stung. Hundreds of time had Jaskier said those words to him, voice hoarse from sleep as he snuggled into Geralt’s embrace or cheerfully as he told Geralt that it was the perfect morning for an adventure. Now, his voice was guarded, as though he didn’t know how much emotion he was allowed to feel. Or maybe he had realised that there was no need to pretend to have positive emotions towards Geralt any more.

“Good morning, little Fae.”

Jaskier winced, as though Geralt had hit him. He might as well have.

“I don’t… I’m not…” for the first time since Geralt had known Jaskier, he seemed to well and truly at a loss of words. There was no way to deny what Geralt knew was the truth. A stone sank in Geralt’s stomach, as he watched Jaskier helplessly search for a way to talk himself out of this. Finally, Jaskier’s attempts stopped and he sighed instead. “Geralt, please don’t look so hurt. You seem … miserable.”

Geralt scoffed. “I’ve been happier.”

He didn’t say that he had been happier, when he had still been able to hold Jaskier in his arms, blissfully ignorant of his true nature. He didn’’t say that he couldn’t help but being hurt when his companion of years, his best friend, the man who held his heart in his hand, had turned out to only have used him.

Jaskier nodded, as though he could understand what Geralt even wasn’t able to fully comprehend himself. A cracked smile appeared on Jaskier’s face, a hollow imitation of that impish smirk he always wore, when he teased Geralt.

“You know, I somehow feel like I should be the hurt one between the two of us, you know, being a prisoner and all that.” He held up his bound wrists and Geralt’s stomach clenched when the burn marks mocked him. “I didn’t realise how much freedom I had. I could have become a sheep keeper. It would have been boring and dirty, but I still think I would be as happy as the day is long.”

Nothing of what he said made any sense. It was as though Jaskier didn’t even care what he was saying, but he needed words, any words, to cling onto, like a drowning man clinging to rotten wood that would surely break soon, but kept him afloat for the time being.

Jaskier let out a shaky laugh.

“I suppose I could also be happy in this blacksmith shop. We have slept in worse places.” He paused, a shadow passing over his face, cracking the barely- there mask of carefree joyfulness. Geralt wasn’t sure if Jaskier’s next words were ever meant to pass his lips. “That is, if I wasn’t so sure I would die here.”

“You are a Fae.”

Geralt hadn’t meant to say it. Voicing it once had been bad enough, the second time only felt like a knife twisting in his chest. But he needed the reminder, the reassurance of what Jaskier was. If he forgot, for even a second, he wouldn’t be able to do this.

Maybe he shouldn’t?

Jaskier’s eyes glistened and for a brief moment Geralt was sure, it was anger shimmering in them, before the first tear broke free of its prison and ran down Jaskier’s cheek.

“Is it my fault that I am what I am?” Jaskier said, voice thick and almost broken. “No, it isn’t. Fuck, I don’t even know what exactly I am. Geralt, I swear if I could, I would become fully human again, in an instant. I would, if it meant that I could spend the rest of my miserably short human life with you.” His smile came back, wobbly and fragile. “If I could, I would become human, only so you could love me again.”

Geralt staggered backwards, the words hitting him harder than any blow of an opponent’s sword. Irrationally, he longed for what Jaskier said to be true. For as long as he had known Jaskier, he had been so sure that he was human. And oh, he had loved him. Loved him still, though it shattered his heart. Why would Jaskier be any different now than he had been before?

The burn in his chest returned with renewed force, burned the doubt away, and let the bitter certainty creep in. A sweet voice whispered venomous truths into his ear. It didn’t matter what Geralt felt. Jaskier was a liar, he had lied to him from the moment they had met. He shouldn’t let him talk and plant those thoughts in his head that made him hesitate. This was a Fae’s tongue speaking. Geralt had to do what he came here to do, and quickly, before Jaskier’s lies poisoned his heart.

It felt wrong listening to this voice. Though it spoke the truth, everything inside of Geralt rebelled against it.

A new wave of heat pressed against his heart, making Geralt gasp for air.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, all false cheerfulness gone. “Are you alright?”

Geralt grunted, unable to answer, the pang he felt at the honest concern in Jaskier’s voice making the burn only worse. When Geralt made no move to ease his worries, but instead clenched his jaw against the pain, Jaskier stood up from where he had cowered before.

“Talk to me, Geralt.” Panic threatened to spill from Jaskier’s words. “Something isn’t right with you. Are you sick? You look so pale.”

Geralt saw him move closer and flinched back. The voice inside of him told him not to let him come any closer. If Geralt felt his loving touch, he would crumble, he wouldn’t be able to do what he had to.

Without thinking, Geralt snatched the crumbled up letter he was carrying with him out of his pocket and thrust it at Jaskier. It was the letter that had started mess. If it hadn’t been for this damned letter, he would have been able to let Jaskier go, to live his life as he was meant to, hunting alone. He would have never had to cross the path of the man who had lied to him ever again. But the letter had made that an impossible fantasy.

Geralt could barely repress the tremble of his hand as Jaskier took it from him, with a confused expression.

Geralt held his breath, as Jaskier smoothed out the paper and read over the words. Jaskier’s eyes widened with every second that passed. It was a short note, Jaskier must be reading it over and over, just as Geralt had done so many times, as though the words would change.

Geralt’s breath got stuck in his throat, as he watched the hated fear once again settle into Jaskier. He wanted to say something, anything, but he couldn’t. Not now that Jaskier knew what Geralt was about to do to him.

“This letter is too nicely written for such a horrible message.” Jaskier finally said, voice forcibly even. It didn’t hide the tremble of fear.

Jaskier held the letter out for Geralt to take back.

He didn’t take it. He never wanted to have anything more to do with this damned piece of paper and the horrors it demanded. He watched it flutter to the ground as Jaskier dropped it in front of his feet. It lay there harmlessly, as though it didn’t contain Jaskier’s damnation.

“Tell me this is a joke, Geralt.”Jaskier licked his cracked lips and Geralt could see the uncertainty clearly written on his face. “ ‘Burn the half-bred Fae’s Jaskier’s eyes out with a hot iron. Blind him as he has been blinded by his delusion’? What the fuck, Geralt? That is sick! Tell me you don’t really have to do that.”

The heat in Geralt’s chest got brighter, hotter.

“I do.” He said as though he was a groom on his wedding day and not the garrotter of the man he loved.

“And will you do it?”

“And I will.”

He kept all emotion out of his voice, trying and failing to make himself believe that he was the emotionless monster that people took him for. Maybe he truly was.

Something flashed in Jaskier’s eyes, a desperation Geralt had only seen once before. When he himself had been bleeding out, almost slain by a griffin and Jaskier had been standing over him, yelling at him not to leave him.

“Don’t say it like that,” Jaskier hissed. “If you tell me that you will hurt me like this, don’t do it as though you don’t feel anything. You cannot pretend, Geralt, not in front of me. I know that you aren’t unfeeling. I know that you feel more than any man could explain and it is breaking your heart.”

The words shot a spike though Geralt. They were just so…Jaskier. For decades he had defended Geralt and not even now would he stop, it seemed. When Geralt had been hurt on a hunt, Jaskier had always been there, wiping the blood away, not even once complaining that the blood was ruining his fancy clothes. When Geralt had shivered in the night from the aftereffects of his potions, Jaskier had held him with the same hands that were now bound with chains specifically made to hurt a Fae, to hurt him. Only moments before, Jaskier had asked him to talk to him, to tell him what was wrong, when he had thought Geralt might be in pain.

All this he had done when no one else would. Jaskier had stood by his side, when everyone else was throwing hateful glares at him.

Maybe Jaskier had sensed his thoughts, or maybe he just knew Geralt well enough to read him like a children’s book.

“You don’t have to pretend that you don’t feel,” he repeated. “I see you. I know you. You might think that my love was only pretend. Call it cunning or a ploy, if that’s what you want. That doesn’t make it any less true. I know what I feel – what I have felt for decades – and you know it too. Pretending that both of our feelings don’t exist won’t change a thing.” He took a shaky breath. “I know you aren’t cruel. Will you truly blind my eyes? Eyes that never so much as frowned at you when everyone else wasn’t even able to look at you without fear?”

No. No, no, he wouldn’t do it. Not when he had the memories of all the loving glances that couldn’t have been pretend. Not when despite the fear, Jaskier still refused to look at him with hatred.

Still, the burning inside of him spread, gripped not only his heart, but also his tongue, forcing his words.

“I have to. And I will.”

The words sounded foreign, as though they were not his own.

Another tear spilt from Jaskier’s eye. There was no trace of the weak smile on his face left, only a broken expression.

“Anyone could have told me – Melitele herself could have descended and told me that you were capable of doing this and I wouldn’t have believed it. I wouldn’t have believed anyone telling me you were cruel; so don’t think I will believe you.”

His mouth went dry. How could Jaskier still be so foolishly trusting? Maybe it was just the last shrapnel of a cruel hope that he wasn’t ready to see as the danger it was yet.

The silence that stretched out between them was interrupted by footsteps and a nervous cough. Geralt turned around, glad to have a reason not to look at Jaskier anymore.

What he found instead was worse. Jakob held an iron bar with one end hotly glowing and offered it to Geralt.

“It’s ready,” Jakob said, his nervous eyes jumping between Geralt and Jaskier.

Everything inside Geralt screamed at him not to take the iron, but he had no choice. His body moved on its own accord. Despite the protection of his gloves, the iron was hot in his hand, almost painful. How much worse would it be for Jaskier to receive the hot end? He had to do it fast. He couldn’t take the risk of Jaskier struggling and burning more of his face than he had to. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Hold him down,” he growled at Jakob, who paled, but complied.

Geralt swallowed hard, as he watched the blacksmith push a struggling Jaskier onto his knees and hold him in place, like an executioner holding a criminal down to face justice. Except Geralt was the executioner and nothing about this had anything to do with justice.

“No, let go of me!” Geralt watched, frozen in place by the heat burning inside him controlling his every move, as Jaskier tried to wind out of the blacksmith’s grip who was bound to obey Geralt’s every command.

“Geralt, please,” Jaskier’s voice was thick with tears. “If it’s only you, I can bare it. But don’t let me be hurt by him.”

The words sounded so terrified and with a sinking feeling Geralt realised that he had no idea what the blacksmith had done to Jaskier, while Geralt had stood outside the shop for hours, unable to go inside and do his duty. Unable to realise that while he was stalling for time he didn’t have, the blacksmith might have hurt Jaskier. ‘Make sure the Fae doesn’t escape. Bind him with iron and use force if you see fit.’ The earlier command came rushing back at him, choking him. Why had he been so vague? He hadn’t meant it. He hadn’t meant for Jaskier to get hurt. Those hadn’t been his words. And still, he had been the one to utter them, the one to sentence Jaskier to agony he didn’t deserve. Just as he had done now.

Every instinct in Geralt screamed at him to help his friend. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t even consciously acknowledge that there ever had been such a thing as friendship between them.

Jaskier cried out, tried to push the rough hands away, but even if he had ever been a fighter, with his hands bound and the iron blocking any magic he could have accessed, he stood no chance.

“Stop it, please!” His voice cracked with panic and he turned his pleading eyes to Geralt. “No more, I beg you! I promise, I won’t struggle. I will be still as a stone. Just please, take off these chains that burn my flesh! Listen, tell him to go and I will be quiet. I will do anything you say. I won’t struggle or wince or even say a single word. I won’t condemn you for what you will be doing to me. I will forgive you, whatever it is you will put me through, but please send him away.”

The unnamed force inside of Geralt burned him. Unbearable agony with every moment he hesitated, only comparable to the witcher trials. But all of the pain was nothing compared to the terror and desperation in Jaskier’s eyes.

“Go,” he said harshly. He shook from the effort of getting his lips to form the word. The fire inside flared up, making him grunt and tighten his grip on the iron. Iron, like the bindings around Jaskier’s wrist that were burning him. “Take off his chains.”

“Witcher?” Jakob looked unsure, as though he hadn’t quite understood.

“Do it!”

Seeing the chains fall to the floor with a clang should have felt like being able to draw breath again after being under water for too long. Instead the fire inside him raged. This was the opposite of what he was supposed to be doing.

It was worth it, if it meant watching Jakob get up and leave. Geralt didn’t hear if the blacksmith was saying anything as he left, didn’t see him retreat. All he could focus on was Jaskier’s shaking body, as he collapsed forward.

He was mumbling something. His voice trembled so much that Geralt could barely understand what he was saying over and over again.

“Thank you, thank you, Geralt, thank you.”

It was like a punch to the gut.

“Don’t thank me,” he growled. He couldn’t bear the sincerity in the words, knowing that he had no choice but to hurt Jaskier.

“I have to.” Jaskier looked up, tears streaming down his face, but that smile that broke Geralt’s heart was back. “I knew you were still in there. I knew somewhere deep inside, you were still the man I love and who loved me. Despite what I did – what I am.” The smile fell. “Let me go, Geralt. I promise, you won’t ever have to see me again, just please.”

Geralt was not the master of his body, as he said in a cold voice “Prepare yourself, Fae.”

As if not calling him by his name would make it easier. As though Geralt could fool himself into thinking this wasn’t fundamentally wrong.

As if it didn’t break him to see Jaskier’s face falling at his words.

“Please, Geralt, I’ll do anything. I cannot see you be so cruel.” A sob escaped him. “Is there nothing I can do?”

“Nothing but lose your eyes.”

Jaskier could run, run as fast and far away from Geralt and it wouldn’t be enough to safe him. This wouldn’t stop until it was done. Geralt would track him down, hunt him like an animal, no matter where he went. And he wouldn’t regain control over his actions until it was too late. His muscles strained and shook at the effort it took to hold the iron – now almost cold again, as if the weapon refused to do the unthinkable crime - without thrusting it at Jaskier’s face.

“If there is only one speck left of my friend,” Jaskier said as though he was composing his last song in Geralt’s dedication. “One grain that remembered us as we were – what we were to each other…” His voice trailed off, ended in a disbelieving, hopeless laugh as Jaskier’s head sunk down. “Your hate for me must be immeasurable if it is able to outweigh all the good we had together.”

It didn’t. By the gods, nothing, not even Geralt’s initial shock at finding out what Jaskier was could ever be enough to let him forget what Jaskier was to him. Nothing, but that insistent burn that reminded him of what he had to do. He wouldn’t be able to stall for much longer. Every one of Jaskier’s words cut him, made it harder.

“Is this your promise? You said you would be quiet.” As if Jaskier would ever be quiet. Not once had Geralt seen the bard without a song, a quip or aimless chatter on his lips. Or a love confession. Jaskier being silent would be wrong. Just like everything else that was happening.

“Don’t let me be quiet, Geralt. Don’t make us go back to the time where you scoffed at every word I spoke.” He hesitated, head lifting with a newfound foolish hope. “Or better yet, let me be quiet! If you have to hurt me, cut out my tongue and let me keep my eyes! Spare my eyes, if only so I can still look at you.”

Geralt’s stomach twisted. If his body was still his, he would drop the almost cold iron and fall to his knees in front of Jaskier, begging him for forgiveness. His voice was Jaskier’s everything and yet he would give it up – was hopeful at the prospect of giving it up – just so he would still be able to see the man that would hurt him more than anyone.

“I don’t want to do either.” Geralt’s voice shook, the ice in his veins that had appeared with Jaskier’s words the only thing combating the burning heat that forced him to do the unspeakable. “I don’t want to be here.”

Jaskier’s brows drew together. “But then why – You don’t hate me?” The last words were nothing more than a breath, but they sounded loud as thunder in Geralt’s ears.

“Never,” he pressed forth. “This” he pointed at the crumbled up letter still lying between them in its false innocence. “isn’t just some contract I can refuse. This is the fucking favour I owe the Fae. If it were my decision, I would be as far away from you as I can so I can’t hurt you anymore, but I can’t. I can’t move as I want to and I can’t refuse to move and do what that fucking Valdo wants me to do!”

All colour drained from Jaskier’s face and for a moment he seemed unable to speak, an expression of pure horror on his face as the understanding dawned on him.

“They make you do this? You are being forced into this?” His tone was something between fear and wild rage. “It’s all fucking Valdo. Hence the iron. Of course. They use you to prove a fucking point to me?”

Disbelief washed over Geralt. This was Jaskier’s takeaway? He had just heard that he wouldn’t be able to persuade Geralt to have mercy, because it wasn’t his choice and instead of focussing on what that meant for himself, he got angry on Geralt’s behalf? What was wrong with him? He should be worried about his own safety! He should try to flee and get as far away from Geralt and hope that the burn inside of him would get too much and kill him before he could harm Jaskier. That was the only outcome Geralt could hope for. If it didn’t take all of his strength to hold himself back, he would tell Jaskier so. He would tell him to run and safe himself.

“But how? I – that necklace was supposed to keep you safe. Valdo was supposed to never be able to come near you. I thought – Oh.” That little sound held so much vulnerability. Jaskier’s gaze wandered from his face to his chest, where his medallion rested – only his medallion. “Of course. You don’t have it any more.”

He wanted to speak, wanted to ask, what on earth Jaskier meant by that. For the first time since Geralt had found out what Jaskier was, he was glad that he didn’t have the pendant anymore. It would be cruel to Jaskier, if Geralt still carried the reminder of his love with him, as he was about to take away his sight. Still, even without the necklace, Geralt was filled with the certainty again. How could he have ever doubted Jaskier?

Geralt let out a pained groan, almost doubling over as the fire flared up again, trying its hardest to distract him from the knowledge of his love for Jaskier. Suddenly, Jaskier was on his feet again, his cold hands gently touching Geralt’s face. The force telling Geralt to attack Jaskier became unbearably strong.

“You are in pain.” Blue eyes searched his own. A beautiful blue, eternally youthful and usually full of cheer. And Geralt was the one who would end this blue. “Every second you don’t do it, you are hurting. Why?” A thumb stroked over his cheek and Geralt wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and lean into the touch – nothing but look into Jaskier’s eyes for as long as he would still be able to. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Jaskier…” The strangled word was the only thing Geralt could bring himself to say.

“Do it.”

Oh how wrong Geralt had been. He had thought the worst part of this had been Jaskier not fighting against him before. But Jaskier’s passivity had been nothing compared to the eagerness in his voice as he now offered himself up to ease Geralt’s pain.

He wanted to refuse, to tell Jaskier that he shouldn’t sacrifice himself like that. That Geralt wasn’t worth it. That if he could, he would prolong this for long enough that it would kill him instead of hurting Jaskier, but his mouth didn’t move. This was it.

Jaskier took a shaky breath, tried to put on a brave face. He failed miserably.

“I’m scared, Geralt.” He looked so unbearably small and breakable. “I – Do you think you can hold on for just a moment longer?” Geralt couldn’t answer, couldn’t give any indication of his answer. But he could gather all that remained of his resistance to stay still as a stone and give Jaskier one last moment to prepare himself. He didn’t know if it would be more merciful to just get it over with and not prolong Jaskier’s fear, but if that what he needed Geralt would do his damnest to give it to him.  “Can you… can I hold your hand while you do it? If I won’t be able to see you afterwards, I want to at least feel that you are still there.”

The last remains of Geralt’s heart shattered. He couldn’t move, but as Jaskier carefully reached out a hand to hold his, he felt a tear slip out of his eye. He hadn’t been sure he even knew how to cry, yet here he was, tears spilling over, as he was about to burn his beloved’s eyes.

By now the iron was cold in his free hand. The metal would burn Jaskier nonetheless, slower, crueller.

Geralt’s jaw twitched and he lifted the hated iron. He hoped with all his heart that Jaskier could see in his eyes that he didn’t want to do this. No. Maybe it would be better, if Jaskier didn’t have to see it. If Geralt had never told him that he had no choice in this, if Jaskier still believed that Geralt took even the slightest pleasure in this, Jaskier would be able to hate him for it. It would be better than Jaskier accepting his fate.

Geralt shut his eyes tightly. He could still feel his arm lift the bar, unable to do anything against it, no matter how hard he strained his muscles.

A sob escaped Jaskier and his hand squeezed Geralt’s. And then Jaskier was pressed tightly against him, hugging him with his free arm as if his life depended on it.

He couldn’t hug him back. He couldn’t reciprocate as Jaskier’s lips brushed against his cheek. He could only let the bitter-sweet pain of it consume him, knowing that his body would push Jaskier away, even as his mind and heart wanted nothing more than hold him close and never let him go.

Jaskier must know it too. He must know that they were running out of time, for he spoke faster than ever.  “It’s useless now, it’s too late, but it’s still a reminder.” Geralt felt Jaskier fumble clumsily. He didn’t know what Jaskier was doing, but he soaked up these last words before Jaskier’s voice would turn to broken screams. “I meant what I said when I gave it to you. It should remind you that I love you, always, no matter what.” Finally, Jaskier managed to slip something around his neck. It didn’t weigh much, but Geralt felt it heavy against his chest, next to his medallion, next to his heart where it belonged. “No matter what I am and no matter what you do. Please, love, remember. It’s not your fault and I love you.”

Jaskier’s hand trailed over the Buttercup pendant he had given him back. And like a door being kicked in, his breath came back. The fire retreated with a hiss, like a campfire fighting – and losing! – against rain.

“I love you too.” Geralt still shook with the effort of the words, still fought for control over his own body, but now something else surged inside him, battling the fire. This time, he could win the fight.

The magic that bound him to his deal with the Fae continued urging him on to do it, now! But it couldn’t force him anymore.

There was a thud as the iron bar clattered to the floor. Geralt’s arms twined themselves around Jaskier.

“Geralt?” He sounded uncertain, fear mixed with something sweet. Hope.

“I am here. I…. I don’t know what happened, but I am back.” He kissed the top of Jaskier’s head, felt Jaskier’s tears wet his shirt. “I am sorry. I am so so sorry that you had to go through that.”

Jaskier didn’t answer, just buried his head into Geralt’s chest, as though it was the safest place on earth.

He didn’t know how much time passed as they clung onto each other, neither wanting to let go, like their lives depended on the closeness. As though the nightmare would come back as soon as they let go.

When they finally parted, Jaskier’s eyes were trained on the necklace. A smile danced on his lips, the first real one Geralt had seen since Jaskier had exposed his chaos. It was so unexpected that Geralt’s breath hitched. He hadn’t thought he would ever see this smile again.

“It worked,” Jaskier said with a voice like the sun. “The necklace works!”

Geralt furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

He took the pendant into his hand to get a better look at it. Jaskier laid his hand in top of his, pressing it gently against his chest.

“I will explain later.” Jaskier bit his lip. “For now, can we please get out of here? I don’t … can we please just leave?”

“Of course.” Geralt stepped back, giving Jaskier the space he needed. “Tell me where I should take you and I will. Is there a place where you will be safe?”

He prayed there was such a place. Thanks to him, Jaskier wouldn’t be able to go home to the Fae world ever again. They had been on the road for so long that Jaskier had no safe place to go back to on the continent either.

“I don’t care. Can we just go somewhere nice? The coast perhaps, just to get away together from all this…”

“Together?” Geralt’s voice was thick from the lump in his throat that had appeared at Jaskier’s words. “You don’t… Jaskier, you don’t have to. I can get you there and then leave. I don’t want you to think for even a moment that I would put you through this – through being in my presence for longer than necessary after what I have almost done.”

“No! I want you to be with me!” Jaskier said hastily and makes to close the space between them again, only to falter. “That is… only if you wanted to. I – I am still less than a human, I know what you said about Fae and after everything I couldn’t blame you if you don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore.”

“Jaskier.” His voice was soft. “You could never be less than anything. Whatever else you might be, you are my everything. I don’t ever want to lose you.”

A new smile broke through the doubt on Jaskier’s face, the sun finally beating the storm. “You won’t. We have all the time in the world.”

All the time in the world. It took a moment for the words to register and then it was like all the pressure inside of him left, like a bird that didn’t took to the sky after not knowing if the opened cage was a trap. Jaskier wasn’t fully human. He wouldn’t lose him to time and for as long as Geralt lived, he would make sure that death would never claim Jaskier for any other reason either.

“We have all the time in the world,” Geralt repeated. And he would spend every day, every minute of it loving Jaskier. “Let’s go to the coast.”

***

He breathed in the salty breeze. A smile danced on Jaskier’s lips and he leaned back against Geralt’s chest. Geralt’s arms sneaked around his waist holding him close.

Jaskier closed his eyes. He still couldn’t believe it. It had been years since they had acquired the cosy cabin by the sea, years of travelling the continent together, while knowing that there would always be a home they could come back to, and still it felt unreal. Jaskier didn’t think he would ever get used to it. It was too good. Too perfect. There must be some catch to it. It was impossible that the world would just let them live in peace, let them have their adventures and not bother them.

“What’s on your mind?” Geralt said, nuzzling his face into Jaskier’s hair.

“Nothing, dear.”

A soft kiss was planted in Jaskier’s hair. “You know you can talk to me. I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. I am with you and it couldn’t be better.” He trailed of, worrying his lip between his teeth.

“But?”

Jaskier hesitated. “But I’m not sure how long it will last. One day I am going to mess up and what we have will break.”

The arms around him tightened. “That won’t happen. What we have isn’t that easy to break.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Jaskier felt the pendant press into his back, where he rested against Geralt’s chest. “You just have to lose the necklace and you won’t be protected anymore.”

“Then I won’t lose it,” Geralt said firmly. “I will protect it with my life, just as I will protect you. I won’t put you through the horrors of what my deal brought with it again.”

For a while, the roaring waves and the seabird’s cries were the only sound, as they both just took in the other’s presence.

Finally, Jaskier broke the silence again.

“There is one other thing I could do.” He hesitated. “That command, that damned Valdo gave you, it was specifically about what you were to do to me, Jaskier.” Geralt tensed behind him. Before he could say anything, Jaskier continued. “So, what if I wasn’t Jaskier anymore?”

“What do you mean?” Jaskier didn’t have to turn around to know that Geralt’s brows were drawn together in confusion.

“I… I have not always been Jaskier. That name - that identity - it was a gift from a Fae.” His throat became tight. “I could try to give it back. I could become fully human again. Become Julian again.” The name tasted bitter on his tongue and his stomach churned at the thought of becoming that scared little boy again, who had run from everything. He didn’t want to run anymore. He wanted to stay here, as he was with the one he loved. But he would do it, if it would free Geralt from the threat of the Fae’s influence for good.

“Would that even work?” Geralt said, the doubt and confusion evident in his voice. “Back when… on that day you said you couldn’t become human again.”

He hesitated. “I am not sure. It hadn’t even crossed my mind then. I have been me for so long that I almost forgot ever being someone else. So, no, I don’t know if it would work. If it did though, it might cancel the deal. You wouldn’t need to wear that necklace anymore-“

“I like that necklace.”

A smile lit Jaskier’s face up at Geralt’s defensive tone, but he continued. It wouldn’t be fair to not tell Geralt about this option. “If it worked, the humans would forget Jaskier ever existed.” He turned slightly, so that he could face Geralt. He lifted his hand to gently lay it on Geralt’s cheek. “Only humans would forget me. We could still be together, far away from everything.”

Geralt leaned into the touch and pressed a quick kiss against his palm. “The world would have lost something precious if it lost you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier paused. “You… you don’t want me to do it? Geralt, this could make life so much easier for you.”

A tiny smile quirked Geralt’s lips. “Since when has a witcher’s life been easy? I would choose a happy life with you over an easy one any day,” he said and his words made Jaskier’s heart speed up. “But it is your choice. Just know that whatever you choose, I will love you for you. If you decide to leave this name behind, you will still be the same person to me. No Fae magic can make you into someone you’re not.” The way Geralt said it hit something inside of Jaskier. He could put down the name he has been given by that Fae in the forest so many years ago, and Geralt wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t even know. It could be Jaskier’s secret and it wouldn’t matter, who anyone else thought Jaskier was. Geralt would know who he truly was. “I love you, Jaskier.”

“I love you too.”

Jaskier leaned towards him, kissing him softly. No matter, what else he might decide on his name, he knew one thing for certain. This was who he wanted to be. The man who didn’t need to run anymore, because he was safe in his beloved’s arms.