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toyybox · 3 months

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Spiderwebs #27: Proof

Masterlist

content: immortal whumpee, captivity, starvation, gore, organ stuff, self-injury

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Heather dreaded the end of the three months, and it was not entirely an irrational fear. Jackie was capable of killing her. She had chainsaws and scalpels, but what were blades in the face of an immortal? What were weapons in the shadow of an undying rage? Maybe that was a ridiculous thought, but it seemed a very real threat to her. He probably hated her even more now. Heather would too, if she was in his place.

The days passed. The final week arrived. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. She became so anxious at work that she threw up in the bathroom. Thursday. Friday. She considered leaving him locked in there forever, just so she never had to confront him. Saturday. And finally, Sunday.

Sunday morning was too cheery for such heavy work, so she waited until Sunday evening. Sunday was the Lord’s day. That didn’t mean anything to her anymore, but it was a memory that kept running in her mind. In any case, she had made her decision. She was going down there. Heather wasn’t that cruel, as to completely abandon him, and she wasn’t a monster. She had to check up on him eventually.

She wasn’t going unarmed, that was for sure. The scalpel and the pistol were secured in her bookbag, and then she set off. She found the basement door across the hallway. Right where it always was. She moved the table from where it stood guard, pushed it aside. But she hesitated before turning the lock.

One, two, three heartbeats. Then her hand darted out to the doorknob. She twisted the lock until it clicked open.

Nothing happened. There was nothing but silence. She was still alive, still breathing. Her colleagues never saw the bruise on her neck—she covered it over with makeup—and it faded away over the months. But the memory was still there, the pressure on her throat.

Heather swallowed her tension, then entered the doorway. The lights were off. This wasn’t helping things, but she persevered. She closed the door behind her, then turned on the lights. She walked down the stairs.

She reached the last step. The room was a mess. Furniture toppled everywhere, items strewn about in furious abandon, the smell of dust clouding over them. The light was so dim as to cast the room into a yellowish, dull tint. A place more fit for slaughtering pigs than living in.

She looked up, let her sight adjust. She almost flinched.

Jackie was staring straight at her. He was sitting on the bed, across the room.

He looked different. Different in a bad way. He’d gotten much thinner, first of all, hollowed at the edges like a stray dog. His hair was matted and longer than it had been before. His eyes seemed strained, and the shadows underneath them were heavy.

He blinked, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real. He did not say anything.

Three months. Heather was starting to realize what she had done. They reserved solitary confinement for the worst of the worst. Even then, they fed their prisoners. Three months was a long time.

“Jackie?” she called out. “It’s me.”

He blinked again.

She stepped forward, cautiously, treading slowly so as not to startle him. He watched her all the while, with that feral sort of stare. There was an insubstantial aura to him, like he’d flicker or fade away if she wasn’t careful, if she wasn’t watching closely enough. She held her hand out, aiming to put it on his shoulder.

To her great bewilderment, he stood up to face her. “You win.”

She froze. “What?”

“You win, I said. I give up. You can do whatever you want with me. You—” His calm voice began to crack, took on a tilt. “I can’t live like this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll never do anything like that ever again. I missed you, I—”

“You… missed me?” Surely, she’d heard him wrong. Or he really had lost his marbles.

He continued to speak, eyes wet and shining all the while. “I missed you so much. I—I love you, Heather. Don’t ever leave me again. Please.”

Well, this was certainly… new. This was different. All the way from murderous hatred to… love. But that was ridiculous. That was…

“What do you mean, you love me?” She furrowed her brows. “Are you being serious?”

“Yes, completely.” He nodded, desperately, like his life depended on her believing him. Perhaps it did. “I love you.”

It was the way he kept repeating it, the strain in his voice. This wasn't right, but she didn't want him to stop. It overflowed from his mouth like honey. And he sounded so eager, so fervent.

He grabbed her sleeve, tightly. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t.” This was quite a pleasant surprise to walk in on. Even if he was lying, she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

His expression was earnest, in any case. He was staring into her eyes like she was an angel. Her fear was gone entirely. She had nothing to be afraid of. Everything had worked out perfectly. It was too good.

He stared at her, waiting.

She slapped him, hard. Hard enough that his head was pushed back. Hard enough to make him flinch. He cowered under her gaze. But he didn’t move, didn’t say anything.

She leaned in closer. Her lips almost brushed the shell of his ear. “You’re pathetic.”

He didn’t reply, still didn’t move, although his breathing had become shallow and hitching. His gaze had gone somewhere else, somewhere distant.

“You’re not going to hit me back, are you?” she asked softly.

He shook his head.

“Good. Do you still love me?”

He nodded. It was disgusting, the look on his face. He would roll over and fetch if she asked him to.

“Prove it.”

“What do you want?” He fixed on her, again, that earnest expression. “I’ll do anything.”

Silently, she handed him the scalpel from her book bag. She pushed his hand forward, pressing the blade gently to his sweater, just slightly to the left. Still guiding his movements, she helped him trace two curves over the fabric, perfectly mirrored, creating a single shape—the lover’s symbol, sweet in its simplicity. She let go and waited for his reply.

He understood. He knew her well enough. Jackie steadied the scalpel, grasping it until his knuckles were straining under the skin. He aimed it above his chest.

With a sharp jerk, he plunged it into himself. He began to dig out his own heart.

It took an uncomfortably long time—that is, uncomfortable for anyone else. Heather was loving every second of this. The blade went in, dragging through flesh and cotton, then ripped out, over and over. He was not as precise as Heather. Didn’t have a surgeon’s careful hand. The surrounding skin and flesh was torn and rendered into jagged edges. His ribs cracked, his blade squelched. Blood dripped down onto the concrete, onto his lovely checkerboard sweater. His eyes went unfocused. Even with his sallowed skin and hollowed bones, he was very pretty. He winced, but he never stopped. Jackie coughed, and more blood trickled out his mouth.

By the time he’d severed an artery, his motions grew lethargic. His blood dripped thick, nearly the consistency of jam. His heart wasn’t healing as quickly as it usually did. The wound was dark, festering in his chest.

Heather took his hand and, with gentle motions, helped him cut out the rest of the organ. The arteries, the veins, the remaining tissues. She snapped ribs away where necessary, letting them drop to the floor. His bones were surprisingly brittle. They cracked like twigs, while his pulse slowed and smeared on her skin.

It was a marvel of muscle and nerves, even though she had seen it many times before. Light broke apart and glittered on its surface. It lay heavy in his hands, warm and still weakly beating.

He handed it to her with another rasping cough. Blood slicked both of their palms. His eyes fluttered, but snapped open before they could close.

She took it, felt the warm flesh press against her hand, felt it convulse in erratic rhythms. “Oh, good boy. Thank you. It’s perfect.”

Jackie was completely out of it. He may not have heard her praise at all. He blinked at her once more, then placed a steadying hand on her arm, swaying on his feet all the while. Before Heather could react, he fainted.

She did not catch him in time. He lay there, sprawled on the ground. All bones and blood. There was a gaping hole in his sweater, and dark red was splattered all over his cracked lips.

She knelt down to pick him up. His head lolled to one side, and his limbs went limp in her grasp. She could not feel a pulse. Anyone else would have thought he was dead, but Heather knew he would wake up soon.

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Wow, love really does fix everything :)

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl

@lthrboy

@whumpy-wyrms

@yassifiedinformation

#whump #whump writing #my writing #Spiderwebs toyybox #immortal whumpee #intimate whumper #YAYYYY #[cheering audience soundtrack]#🫀🫀🫀

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owlsundermybed · 6 months

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'Bury me next to you in an unmarked grave, Joy. We knew that was the only hope we ever had–that we would live to see it through...and pray for our own cessation. Oh, we'll still hate each other my dear, we have hated each other too long and too passionately to stop...but my bones will rest easy next to your bones.'

#the locked tomb #i know we're all here for the lesbians toxic or otherwise #hey I'M here for the toxic or otherwise lesbians too!!#which was why i was blindsided into caring about two near immortal lovers who hated each other so much and for so long #it ended up looking a lot like love #augustine being offered forgiveness and looking down at mercymorn's bloodied curls and saying no!!#seducing god together to betray him in the most intimate way possible!#BEING betrayed by god who carried out 10000 years of genocide in order to avenge you and refusing to listen when you told him it was enough #all they wanted to do was die together. and they didn't even get that #I need a book about the original lyctors i need god's head on a stick #harrow the ninth spoilers

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vonlipvig · 1 month

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youtube

did you guys see this cause oh my god

#anatomy of a fall #anatomie d'une chute #WHERE DO YOU GUYS GET THIS STUFF IS THIS LEGAL #bit oh my god it's so....intimate to see it like this #i want to eat glass [affectionate]#also the breaking character and the clapboard thingie makes me feel like im playing immortality aaaaaaa #Youtube

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generic-whumper · 9 months

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Hurt/Comfort Whump Poll!

What’s your preferred amount of comfort-to-hurt whump ratio?

*There are no right or wrong answers or opinions, I’m just interested in what other people are into and I like polls and seeing majority votes! Whatever your hurt/comfort ratio is, it’s valid and great; if everyone liked the same things all the time it would be a very boring world to live in :)

Anything else? Leave a comment!

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abhainnwhump · 11 days

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IMYM Chapter 29: For Our Future: Nightmare

(Content warnings: Domestic abuse, lab whump, brief mention of suicidal ideation. I feel like I should have this tagged as something else but I don't know what.)

<- Previous Chapter || Masterlist || Next Chapter ->

“I see . . .” Nightmare copied the address down from the letter in his hand. He spoke to no one but himself. He wrote a list with his quill pen. “Perfect.”

He finished the reservations for his and Ribbon’s wedding. The venue would take place at an old chapel in Mafiatale. He toured the place recently to make sure everything was as expected, and it was. Ribbon liked it too, though he liked anything he did. The list was almost complete. Outfits, reception, catering, cake, photographers, florists, the guests, the vows, and the honeymoon. He even hired extra guards. Nightmare didn’t want to risk his bride getting hurt or abducted. He couldn’t have anything go wrong on this day, his wedding needed to be perfect. Nightmare wasn’t interested in battle on his special day, especially for as much work as it was to set it up. Speaking of . . .

Nightmare looked around and tried to sense Ribbon’s aura. He couldn’t find him. Nightmare stood up and left his office. He couldn’t help his apprehensive building. The dark king walked until he felt a nervous aura. It was difficult to believe that wasn’t Ribbon. Not even Error’s uneasiness was this extreme and he had been torturing him for over two months.

He followed the aura until he walked to the entrance of the castle and opened one of the massive doors. Nightmare looked down. Ribbon sat on the front steps of the castle. His chin rested on his palm as he stared into the distance, ignoring his fiancé behind him. His aura was a mix of emotions, dominated by anxiety. His other hand played with the skirt of his dress.

Nightmare sat next to him. His tendril rested on his hand and squeezed and Ribbon jumped. Nightmare smiled. “It’s just me, no need to panic. Is something bothering you?”

Ribbon pulled his string and rubbed the charm. “Um, no. I’m okay, Nighty! I’m just a little sleepy . . .” Chuckling, he blushed and looked away. His permanent smile looked tense.

“No lying to me Ribbon, you know that’s against the rules. And did you forget I could read emotions? I know you are dim-witted, but you’re not that dim-witted.” Nightmare pulled Ribbon closer to him, pushing his head onto his shoulder. He put one finger on his chin and made him look up. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I don’t like seeing you this upset.”

Ribbon bit his lower jaw and looked up with his soft lilac eyes. “Promise you won’t get angry?”

“Depends if it will make me angry, I doubt it will.”

“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure . . .”

Nightmare sighed. “I promise I won’t be angry at you. Now tell me what’s bothering you. That’s an order.”

Ribbon rubbed his arms. “I’m scared. I have wedding jitters. I want to get married to you, I do! But I don’t know. Marriage is a big thing and before I met you, it’s something I never planned to do. What if I mess up? What if you don’t like me as your wife? You deserve a perfect wedding and if I start stumbling over the vows or trip in the aisle-”

Nightmare raised his right hand. He worried Ribbon wanted to back out, which if he did, Nightmare would never allow. His tendrils stroked Ribbon’s leg as he moved closer to him. “Ribbon, nervousness is a normal thing to feel and I’m not mad at you for it. If someone mocks you or hurts you, they’ll lose their hands. I know how shy you are, it’s one of the things I love about you. The only monster you will have to talk to is the officiator, you can stay silent for the whole reception. All you would have to do is smile and look adorable. And I have an exceptional plan for the honeymoon. But I won’t tell you, it’s a surprise.”

The doll beamed. Nightmare planned to take Ribbon on a week-long cruise. No stress, no work, just the two of them spending time with each other. He’d take a hiatus from his multiversal destruction. He looked forward to having Ribbon in general, it felt . . . special, important.

Nightmare caressed his face with his hand. “If it will ease your anxiety, remember that you don’t have to make any of the difficult choices. I will choose your wedding dress and veil, I will tell you what to say, and all you will need to do is listen. You made some excellent choices. I knew you would pick out something beautiful.”

“You thought it was beautiful? I- um, thank you! I don’t have many ideas right now, but I’ll think of something! I’ll make it pretty for you.” Ribbon nuzzled up to Nightmare. He held him close, rubbing his shoulder.

Nightmare took Ribbon’s hand and held it out in this. He touched his ring with his fingertips. Ribbon cuddled closer and Nightmare kissed his head.

“Have you thought about kids yet? I don’t mind them, I’ll . . . I’ll do it if you want me to.”

Nightmare pondered it. He hasn’t considered children. He practically had three with Killer, Horror, and Dust. He imagined Ribbon against an oak tree, laughing with a little skeleton. It would leave him with a true heir. As an immortal, Nightmare didn’t believe he would ever leave the throne. But the idea of having a successor, whether a prince or a princess, did interest him. It would make him look more powerful. “I would like a baby, at least one. It’s a simple spell, we have to combine our magic and willpower to summon a soul and take care of it. You would be an excellent mother, my little doll. A child of two guardians . . . it’s never been done before. Hm, creativity and negativity would be interesting concepts to mix . . .”

Ribbon’s aura darkened and his voice lightened. “Um . . . Nighmare? Do you have to be a guardian to be immortal?”

“No, but why do you ask? You are a guardian, albeit only partially. Unless . . .” Nightmare’s tendrils tensed up, curling. “Ribbon . . . what did you do? Tell me now.”

Ribbon rubbed his hands together. “Um . . . I was talking with Error again and he was nicer! He let me pet him! But he was also mad at me. Before you took him, uh, I broke this big sphere. It was like, six or seven months ago? Error said it would’ve my guardian powers in it and he couldn’t read the code in it.”

“I’m sorry, what did you do?”

“I didn’t know, I’m sorry! It scared me! It made me think bad thoughts and I panicked! I didn't tell you because I was scared of punishment and I didn't realize it was that bad.”

Nightmare’s soul beat faster. If Ribbon destroyed his guardianship, that made him a mortal. His time was limited. Nightmare didn’t know how long that period was. The Lord of Negativity struck Ribbon across the face.

Ribbon rubbed his cheek. “You- you promised you wouldn’t be a- angry.”

“The promise was only about telling me your fears. I don’t count this as part of it.”

“But-”

“No buts, I don’t know what has gotten into you today. You hid crucial information from me, and now you’re talking back? You know how to be good, act like it. Do you realize you ruined my entire plan for us?”

Ribbon lowered his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. You’re right, I should’ve told you. I was a stupid, stupid little doll. Please don’t call off the wedding!”

Nightmare tapped three fingers together and Ribbon switched to being on his knees. Nightmare couldn’t help but feel bad. The doll’s big teary eyes and trembling stance beneath him softened his soul. Nightmare pat him on the head with a tendril.

“I said nothing about calling off the wedding. You’re fine. But if you ever hide something like this again, I will punish you much harsher.”

Ribbon nodded quickly. “Thank you, Nighty. I'm sorry for making you mad . . ." He smiled up at him. “Can I go on a walk in the garden? Please?”

“Don’t get your dress dirty, don’t hurt yourself, and be back in an hour, no later.” Nightmare stood up. Ribbon’s reveal tore at him, no matter how much he tried to say otherwise. If it was anyone else, even another romantic partner, he wouldn’t care. No one would be or would ever be the same as Ribbon. A redrawing of someone else’s art would never be the same, and was often inferior. Nightmare considered all of this as he walked to his office. He sat down and set his head on his hands as he considered this.

Ribbon was running out of time.

The concept haunted Nightmare. The idea of his perfect, helpless partner dying within years while he lived for eternity. He had come to terms with it happening to the Murder Time Trio. As much as he cared for them, they were always mortal, they were always going to die. But Ribbon . . . he was supposed to be immortal like him. Nightmare imagined him having to hold Ribbon’s hand and watch him die.

The logical part of his mind understood he had little to fear. The doll body had to keep him alive longer, yet he was uncertain. The surgery was so experimental that he wasn’t sure if it could be out one day. Artificial body parts stopped working as soon as the person died, so Ribbon must be the same. Yet the paranoia wouldn’t fade. How long did Ribbon have to live? It could have been anywhere from days to decades. Nightmare clenched his fists. He despised not having an answer and he hated not having control.

Nightmare clutched his skull with his tightened fist and shook. The fuzzy feeling in his spine and soul became unbearable. His tendrils lashed out behind him, wrapping around whatever was close by. Sludge dripped and leaked down his body. His arms felt numb yet full of energy. Everything burned with the strange pain he couldn’t put a finger on. He couldn’t think. All he felt was pain and the burning need to protect.

“Boss?” Horror’s voice sounded farther away than it was. “I heard . . . something crash.”

Nightmare didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. He looked down and realized he shattered his quill ink glass. Black liquid spread across the floor like the blood his torture victims would be drenched in. The same color as Ink’s blood.

Horror ended up checking the other side of the desk. He was at least a little surprised to see his boss so tense. He grabbed Nightmare’s shirt collar with his massive hand and pulled him up. It helped Nightmare snap out of his trance. “You . . . alright?”

Nightmare took a deep breath to calm himself and clear his head. “I’m- no, I’m not. Help me up and check my soul for signs of damage.”

Horror looked confused but followed the order. He lifted Nightmare with ease. “Uh, something’s wrong.”

Nightmare looked down at his black apple soul. An aura of pink magic floated around the apple. He knew what it meant, yet it's never happened before. If a soul overloads on emotion, it would begin to glow. Nightmare's soul burned with desire and euphoric love. Whatever these strange emotions were, it was all for Ribbon. It was killing him. A thought came to mind. Nightmare opened his top left drawer and removed a black compact. As he expected, he had heart-shaped eye light. His eye twitched as he thought about Ribbon.

Horror's breathing became more audible. “I’m . . . not that good with emotions but . . . I think you're overwhelmed, boss.”

Nightmare snapped the compact closed. “Elaborate.”

Horror took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I'm guessing . . . this is 'bout Ribbon. You're only like this . . . with him, whenever it's 'bout him. You . . love Ribbon. I don't know why . . . you're ticked, what he did, but . . . it's making you act weird. We did this for the . . . multiverse. We have to . . . stick to that first, we're close."

“Wait . . . that’s it,” Nightmare gasped, the pieces clicking together. A vision of Error flashed through his mind. “I’ll take advantage of what I have. Horror, keep Ribbon distracted for a few hours. He’s in the gardens, I’m assuming by the roses, he adores those. Play with him, understand?”

Horror looked confused and skeptical, but he obeyed his boss. As soon as he left. Nightmare wasted no time. He pictured the book page in his mind and went to the castle library.

Nightmare went to the spell book section and his tendrils pulled books off the shelves. He flipped through five texts at once, trying to find the right one. He read every spell book in this library, he knew it existed. It took several books before he found it. The book had no title, no author, only a caduceus with a skull on the top. Nightmare grinned, checking the table of contents before flipping to the correct spell. The one that would ensure his teddy bear would never die in his arms.

Seelen-Reset

This is one of the highest-risk and most difficult spells in this book, yet most effective. Only the most powerful souls can perform it. Seelen-Reset empties a soul and it’s memories, experiences, and any modifications. The only pieces will be core magic skills and remaining lifespan, including immortality. Unlike Memoria Alteration (see pg. 124), it overwrites a soul’s entire history instead of a single event. It is also far more dangerous; the spell has a 75:25 ratio of failure. The soul can be transferred to another body with this spell without the identity taking over. This spell can treat monsters with souls damaged beyond repair. However, it will cost the life of the former soul owner. Their body will melt and die. It is unknown if these monsters will reach the afterlife.

Seelen-Reset can be cast in two ways. The first is to use a verbal curse, the second is to create a tonic. The recipe is on the following page. The tonic works soonest when shot with a syringe to the soul, yet drinking it will also work. The injection takes three minutes to go into effect and drinking will take twenty. The verbal curse makes the removal less painful for the previous owner. Rather, the tonic is easier to create as long as you have the correct ingredients. The final step for either method is for the new user to wear a blood ruby.

Once cast, it is impossible to reverse. I have yet to find a remedy. The victim may become defensive as a part of their subconscious knows something is wrong. Other side effects may include headaches, fatigue, confusion, codependency, paranoia, and migraines. If the spell fails, the victim could experience paralysis, loss of cognitive skills, and madness. The key signs of failure are incoherent mumbling, glazed eyes, persistent confusion, and lack of response to stimuli. The only way to cure them is to dust them.

If the spell succeeds, give them time to adjust to their new soul and offer painkillers if necessary. Keep them away from stressful situations or bright lights to prevent more migraines. Hypnotherapy has also helped speed up the healing process.

To perform the verbal spell, follow the scribe below. To create the tonic, follow the recipe under it.

Nightmare had cast this spell only once, two hundred and eleven years ago. He attempted to use a soul to heal one of his allies. But his magic fell short and it cost him to go insane. The tonic recipe under the words seemed safer, he was only missing one ingredient, the blood ruby. He knew he could find those easily in Moltontale, they grew like dandelions if you knew where to look. Knowing this would protect his beloved Ribbon soothed the feeling in his soul.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Nightmare speed-walked to his office, analyzing the spell and planning the ingredients. His mind raced as he read and couldn’t help but read some of the others. Due to Ribbon’s help in corrupting AUs, he grew twice as powerful as he was without him. Another reason he must keep him safe and close.

Nightmare entered the medical room and stepped into a smaller space. Dust enjoyed working in this section; it was full of magic plants and chemicals. Dozens of AUs made up the collection. Nightmare laid the spell book down and pulled out a beaker. He filled it up with hot water and gathered the needed ingredients.

Glancing out the window, Horror, Killer, and Ribbon walked through the garden. Nightmare pressed his mouth into a hard line. He knew he shouldn't feel jealous over such a frivolous thing, Ribbon loved him and only him. But the way Ribbon smiled and awed when Killer put on his theatrics . . . Nightmare's mind spiraled, twisting deeper into the dark abyss it already was. Ribbon belonged to him, not them.

Once he finished the potion, he needed to choose a soul to take. Obviously, he would take Error's. His soul was the safest and most stable out of the three guardians remaining. Core's soul was scattered across space and time. Nightmare couldn't even infect it with his parasite, his magic needed a soul to latch onto. Dream's soul was the highest quality, but it meant Ribbon would always suffer. It wasn't worth giving up the multiversal control for something like this. Error's soul was a glitching mess, but he knew the glitches would lighten when he was injected.

In any other circumstance, he would be against sacrificing Error. He was a powerful ally who served him through times of need, even if he was never on his team. But Error betrayed him the moment he tried to steal his doll.He deserved his death. Nightmare picked the petals off a dried eclipse rose.It was a rare plant but now was a worthy use. Ribbon's life was almost worth the multiverse.

Nightmare paused as he regarded it. What if the tonic failed and it drove Ribbon insane? Nightmare's hands switched to fists and he smiled. He could always retrain Ribbon. Yes, he could go through the conditioning process all over again. It didn't matter if the doll was in pain as long as he was the one doing it. It meant he had the power. All Nightmare cared about was having Ribbon alive and having him here, no matter the risk.

Nightmare had his attention only focused on the potion. However, he did spot Dust from the corner of his eye light, wrapping his palm with bandages. Nightmare considered if he should hide this, but he decided against this. One of them would have to wonder where such a crucial soul like Error went to. He forced himself to calm down. “Dust, is there something you need?”

The murderer jumped and looked into the room. It was lit by nothing but Nightmare's eye light and a single candle. “Yeah . . . I was gettin’ some rubbin’ alcohol and bandages because I sliced my hand open. I got a knife through it. What are you makin'?”

“Something for Ribbon. He lied to me, so I'm going to fix him."

“Boss . . . he can't get sick.” Dust hovered the book over with his telekinesis. "Forbidden magic, why am I not surprised this is for Ribbon."

“It's necessary. I would appreciate your help. I need you to measure and cut the rest of those plants. If he does, then I will deal with him.”

Dust read it over and looked at Nightmare from the corner of his gaze. "Oh."

Nightmare expected Dust to argue or call him insane, but he went along with it. It wasn't the most illegal experiment he had ever done on Ribbon. Nightmare remembered how he first discovered Dust's passion for science and experiments. Only three weeks after he brought him to the castle, Nightmare caught Dust tinkering with beakers. The murderer revealed he was making poisonous bullets for his pistols. Nightmare believed it to be ludicrous. But to his surprise, they worked on his targets, and quite well. He assumed Dust learned from the years he spent alone in his AU. His silent nature was also appreciated. Nightmare was proud of Dust. Someone who once wanted to throw himself off a cliff changed into one of his most useful servants. Ribbon never would be who he is if it wasn't for him.

When the final leaf was added, the tonic bubbled and glowed with red and white streaks. Nightmare switched the liquid into a syringe, pattting Dust on the shoulder with his tendril. Dust sighed. "Thank you for your help, Dust. But I will need to do this last part alone. I need to think."

"I saw that part on the bottom, I know. Fine. I'm staying here so I can finish what I started." Dust said. He picked up his bandages and finished wrapping his half-healed hand. Nightmare ignored him. He picked up the syringe in one tendril and the spell book in another. Nightmare's head pounded. He almost shattered the tonic from sheer strength and emotion. He feared his death if he waited too long. All he wanted now was a damn answer to Ribbon's lifespan question.

Nightmare only had one piece left of the spell to complete, then he could inject Error. He focused his energy on the syringe and summoned magic from the pits of his black soul. His fingertips glowed dark gray with streaks of blue. Streaks of pink mixed in and shot his finger toward the syringe.

The magic flowed from both hands with ease. The tonic glowed a bright blue and Nightmare could’ve sworn he heard a crash of lightning, despite the lack of rain. The light faded until the syringe was its normal color. Only the touch was an obvious change; it was far colder.

Nightmare clutched his chest in pain. His soul beat faster; the pink aura glowed brighter. The complicated spell drained his energy. His eye socket fluttered and he fell unconscious on the office floor.

==============================================================================

“Nightlight? Are you okay? Please be okay . . .”

Nightmare opened his eye, looking around his bedroom. His coat and shoes were missing and he was tucked under the covers. Ribbon looked down at him with a worried expression, which was adorable with his frozen smile. Nightmare sat up. “Ah, Ribbon. Yes, I’m okay. Could you tell me what happened? I’m afraid it’s a blur.”

Ribbon lay against him and nuzzled by his side. “I went to check on you a few hours ago to see if you were still mad because you were in there for a while. I walked into your office and you fainted on the floor! I used some of my paint to help carry you here, I'm too weak to carry you. You also had a book half-opened on the ground so I put it back on your desk. Oh! And I made you some tea. Lavender is your favorite, right?”

“Right.” Relieved Ribbon couldn’t read, Nightmare lifted the cup from the nightstand and took a sip. He gave him a head pat. “A tad lukewarm, but it tastes perfect. Thank you.”

Ribbon sighed in relief. His ring glinted as he wiped his porcelain cheek. Nightmare touched that hand, giving it a light squeeze. He looked up at him. His face had sparkling pieces of dried resin, his tears.

“Have you been crying?”

Ribbon looked ashamed. “I . . . I wasn’t sure if you were going to wake up. I tried shaking you and calling your name but it didn’t work! You were barely breathing and were dripping a lot of goop.”

“Aw, my little lamb. Come here.” Nightmare opened his arms and Ribbon crawled in. He rested his skull on his chest. Nightmare scratched where his ear would be, listening to the clockwork in his head. A steady creaking. It didn’t matter if he overreacted, the curse was already cast. Ribbon wouldn't die unless Nightmare gave the command, which would never happen.

Ribbon relaxed and peeked up at the Lord of Negativity. “Are you still mad at me for lying?”

“No, I'm not. I found a solution to your mistake. I'll tell you when the time is ready." He traced a finger down his chin. "You would never try to leave me correct? Leave me for . . . someone else?"

Ribbon shook his head. “I'd never leave you! Where else would I go? I'm too dumb and weak to survive on my own and most of the multiverse wants me dead. I need you!" He clung to Nightmare's arm.

Nightmare kissed him on the skull again. Nightmare tapped his fingers together and Ribbon went limp. He set him on the bed and cuddled him, taking in every part of his body. His tendrils tickled his neck and Ribbon burst into giggles. Nightmare smiled. His happiness was the only positivity he could tolerate. No, not just tolerate. Adore. Crave. He couldn’t get enough of the strange feelings Ribbon gave him. It made him feel fulfilled and happy, more than any amount of negativity could give him. He couldn’t imagine living without it.

Holding Ribbon relieved the aches and pains in his soul. He was here and no one could lay their hands on him. Dream couldn’t lay his hands on him. No one would take his source of positivity away. Not even death.

Nightmare stopped cuddling him and sat up, still holding Ribbon in his arms. He stood up and helped him off the bed. "Come on, let's fetch the Murder Time trio. I have a mission we need to begin."

"Ooh, a mission? Okay!" Ribbon bounced. "I'll grab Blossom!"

================================================================================================

Moltontale was a difficult AU to traverse and take over. The ground was made of scorching rock and obsidian. The monsters were all made of fire or fire-proof flesh. Gaster Blasters were useless here, the hot magic beams were useless.

Nightmare stormed through Moltontale, spreading negativity and corruption wherever he stepped. He used his tendrils to move faster, gliding across the hot terrain. One of the tendrils carried Ribbon, Nightmare refused to let him be on his own. Killer, Horror, and Dust fought and murdered.

Nightmare searched one of the massive caves he found. Ribbon looked around from the tendril he stayed in. The rubies had a distinct glow that was almost pink. Ribbon helped look around, narrowing his eyes to see better. Nightmare ended up staring at him longer than he searched for the rubies. This would be Ribbon's final mission, he couldn't put him in more danger or risk. He would always stay inside the castle unless Nightmare needed him for business or singing.

Bright orange lava lit up the pure black caves. Nightmare took advantage of the light to find the gems. Ribbon began to squirm in his tendrils and pointed to the left. "Night! Is that what you're looking for?"

Nightmare turned around and spotted the gems. He was tied up in a snowbank and shivering in thin clothes. Nightmare pulled a small chisel from his coat pocket and stabbed it into the rocks. The gem gleamed with the same color as fresh blood, hence the name.

The lava began to turn into a mix of black, teal, and purple malice. The air turned colder, the negative aura of the AU grew. Nightmare let Ribbon go. Ribbon looked at the gem in awe. "Ooh, it's so pretty! What is this for anyways?"

"It's for you, my sweet little doll. I have it all under control." Nightmare's eye glinted with a mad light. All he needed now was to inject Error and everything would be according to plan.

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blackhyena · 1 year

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William Wordsworth, ‘Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood’.

#william wordsworth #quote #p #poetry #romanticism #romantics #lake poets #intimations of immortality #romantic poetry #romantic poets

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heavenlyeden · 8 months

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♱Heavenly Feast♱

𓆩Chapter 10 - A prisão mortal é tão fraca quanto a alma angelica𓆪

𓆩 Previous 𓆪 ♱ 𓆩 Masterlist 𓆪 ♱ 𓆩 Next 𓆪

CW: Nsfwhump, rape, self-blaming.

Kieran hadn't felt this much peace in ages. He sat up after a perfect night of sleep, unplagued by nightmares and anxieties, and looked at the picture beside his bed. The demon had his face folded over.

He had taken this habit from his mother. She had ripped or folded every picture of the three of them that had his face, and burned the ones where he stood alone. As if, by forgetting his face, they would be free from his claws. But time proved it didn't work that way.

However, for the first time in a long while, Kieran felt fine. Even if he had to see his face every day in the basement, the more he broke him, the better he felt.

Kieran took the picture frame in his hands, and took the picture out. The mark on it after unfolding cut diagonally up his neck. Joseph stared at Kieran with that mocking eyes of his, and that sick smile.

But he wasn't afraid of him anymore. Down in the basement, he cried and was abused by him, more and more being stripped of the demon he once was.

He wondered - if he broke him completely and killed that disgusting side of him, would the Joseph that plagued his nightmares die as well? Kieran hoped he would. Or else, he didn't know what else to do with himself.

…𓆩♱𓆪...

Benjamin remembered how warm and comforting Heaven was. When Azael crawled out of the deceased God's corpse, much akin to a maggot, elder angels took him into their arms. He couldn't understand what was going on, but he remembered it as clear as day. Their hymns of gratitude for the birth of a new delicate and pure angel. Their golden eyes full of love. Their promises of care and guidance, as long as he obeyed God's rules.

Azael hadn't obeyed. The basement Benjamin found himself in was cold and painful. It was closer to Hell than Heaven. Azael wouldn't be able to handle it, with how weak he was.

But Azael was dead. He died when he had his heart ripped out from him by the filthy human he took as his personal project. He died again when the elders punished him. He died yet again when he ate that tainted soul. And he died for good when he made a deal with a fallen angel to trap him in a human shell - the utmost freedom.

Benjamin was all that remained. And he would not wield.

The door opened. Benjamin's body ached with sudden terror, his heart skipping a beat with each step down the stairs. He could almost feel Kieran cutting into his stomach, and- His mouth filled with the bitter taste that came before vomit. He put a shaky hand over his mouth. The steps grew closer. He dared to look up from where he laid, and saw Kieran looking down at him.

Smiling.

"Good morning," he said with a disgustingly happy tone.

And then tears started falling from Benjamin's eyes, out of his control. His entire self was consumed by pure fear.

This wasn't him. He wasn't a victim, he was the predator. This dread, nothing more than the survival mechanism every human had, indicated he should run. And the tears were so one would help him, or his captor would pity him and go easy on him.

But he couldn't run, and Kieran enjoyed his tears.

"Aw, why are you crying, eh? I haven't done anything to you yet."

He crouched and reached to touch his face, but before he could, Benjamin protected himself with his arms and broke down completely.

"Please, plea-please, don't, please, I can't anymore-" He cried out.

This isn't me, eu não sou assim, this isn't me, he tried to convince himself, but his thoughts became incoherent, along with his pleading. He gasped when Kieran grabbed his arms and forcefully revealed his face.

"Oh, Benji. You don't have a word in this. I'm going to fuck you and eat you whenever I please. However… Here's the deal. If you obey me, I won't need to do it as painfully as yesterday. You wouldn't want that to repeat, would you?"

He shook his head.

"Then do exactly as I tell you to. If I need to repeat myself, I'm going to rape you, and I'm going to make it hurt."

Kieran let go of Benjamin, leaving him to rub his wrists and weep as he pulled a chair closer to them. He then unlocked the chain around his neck, to his surprise, and sat down in front of him.

"Spread your legs." Kieran commanded. "Give me the full view of your tight ass."

And so he did, holding his legs apart. Tears wouldn't stop flowing down his cheeks.

"Now, I want you to suck your fingers and get yourself all nice and wet for me. You know how it is."

Benjamin's heart sank. He couldn't. But as soon as Kieran sighed and showed the slight sign he would get up, he started doing as asked. This isn't me…, he stated in vain as he obeyed Kieran's every command.

Kieran watched attentively with a grin. He defiled Benjamin with his gaze, furthering his humiliation. He couldn't bear looking at him and closed his eyes as he continued the torment.

"Stop," he said after a torturous while, "good boy. Now, crawl to me."

He opened his eyes and slowly crawled towards him, looking down. Kieran was treating him like a dog, taming him like one, and Benjamin could do nothing but obey. His eyes remained glued to the floor as he heard a zipper opening.

"Sit on my lap and fuck me."

Benjamin looked up with pure despair on his face. Kieran seemed dead serious. No matter the consequence, he couldn't bring himself to move. Revulsion poisoned him deep in his bones. He frantically shaked his head.

"I c-can't, no, I-"

Before he could even complete the sentence, Kieran's ring filled hand struck his cheek. The rings only served to worsen the blow, eliciting a cry out of him.

"I won't take no for an answer. Guess you want me to take matters into my own hands."

Benjamin scrambled to compose himself and sit on Kieran's lap and hide his face on his shoulder, utterly terrified. His hard dick prodded his ass.

"I don't think you're taking me seriously." Kieran tugged on Benjamin's hair and forced him to look him in the eye. "Or else you wouldn't be trying to argue. You're lucky I'm being merciful to you. I won't be next time you try to tell me no."

"Now…," he grinned as he let go of his hair and moved his hands to his hips, "what are you waiting for?"

His insides were twisting, almost as if they were going to all come out from his mouth at once. But he did as told, putting his hands on Kieran's shoulders and slowly forcing himself up and down.

He felt himself slowly slipping away. Kieran put his disgusting hand in Benjamin's penis, and yet he couldn't bring himself to tell him to stop. He was stuck in this up and down motion. Even as Kieran started to molest him and he got hard, he couldn't say anything.

He wasn't like this. Benjamin wasn't this. Why did he get hard? Why was he being weak and not fighting?

"Moan like the bitch you are, Benji. And go faster."

He obeyed. Again. Again and again, he obeyed Kieran, and for what? To escape pain, he participated in his own rape.

Kieran kissed him deeply, violating him with his tongue. He didn't kiss back, still doing the same motion, hoping this would just end. Kieran took the reigns and held on his hips, raping him even harder.

Benjamin hated the mortal flesh he trapped himself in more than anything after he felt the semen inside of him. He looked into Kieran's eyes as he came. He delighted himself in causing him unbearable suffering.

His eyes were the same hue of gold as one of an angel. But if anything, he was anything but. He was a demon. And the basement wasn't just close to Hell. At that moment, it was Hell, worse than Hell.

The thought he tried to push away for years and years hit him full force, tethering him to the painful reality.

Becoming a human was a mistake.

Taglist: @suspicious-whumping-egg @thatonefoxyplush @hidden-dreamland @whump-me-baby-one-more-time @whatwasmyprevioususername @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @burntcoffeewhump @whump-cravings

#heavenly feast #benjamin valentini #kieran edwards #benjamin da silva valentini #whump #whumper #whumpee #immortal whumpee #cannibal whumper #intimate whumper #intimate whumpee #nsfwhump #captivity whump #whump story #whump series

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susiequaz12 · 6 months

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Whumptober 22

No. 22: “They never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor.”

Glass Shard | Vehicular Accident | “Watch out!”

Day 22. Part of Lo's story with Allan. Last part was from Day 19. CW: nonbinary whumpee, creepy/possessive whumper, shock collar, car accident, non con touching, death.

- - -

It had been months.

Lo was on the brink of losing their sanity, going crazy with playing the role Allan had set forth for them. But they knew that there was no way orf getting out of it. Not with them constantly being chained up or watched 24/7. Not with how Allan hovered over every single breath and movement.

Not until that night Allan took Lo out of the house.

A reward for their “good behavior”. Which basically meant letting Allan do whatever he wanted.

He had dressed them up again in a skimpy little outfit, done their makeup and hair, and he was taking them out to dinner. There was a lovely little collar under the scarf Lo was wearing, complete with a little box digging into their throat, and a remote controlled by Allan. Any toe that was stepped in the line would get a button pushed- and Lo electrocuted.

Keeping them docile and completely controlled.

Lo thought about getting the waitress’s attention. Scrawling something on a napkin. Sneaking off to the bathroom- but Allan watched their every move like a hawk. There wasn’t even an opportunity to say a single word as he ordered for them the whole night.

There wasn’t any opportunity- that was until they were driving home.

The road was dark. It was just starting to rain a little bit- the road slick and damp. Late enough that there weren’t very many cars about as they followed the few roads to Allan’s place.

That’s when Lo’s mind started spinning.

Allan was driving, one hand on the wheel, the other on Lo’s thigh, playfully touching and fondling.

When Allan brought both hands up to make a turn, Lo took theirs, and placed it on Allan’s thigh.

They moved their fingers higher, holding their breath- waiting for his response.

“Darling- what are you doing?” He questioned, as Lo’s hand moved higher- but he didn’t stop them.

“I’m just- just trying to please you. You bought me a nice dinner, I should say thank you, right?” They stated, breath low and sultry.

“Oh you’re completely right darling. You behaved very well tonight.”

Lo continued touching him- dipping a few fingers below his waistband as they carefully kept an eye on the road. There was a turn up ahead- a few large trees at the side of the road.

Allan let out a soft moan as Lo dipped their hand further beneath his pants, he closed his eyes for a brief second, right as he was about to make the turn-

And then Lo reached over- as quickly as they could, and yanked the steering as hard to the right as was possible.

The tires spun as they caught on the slick asphalt.

“What are you doing?” Allan screamed, shoving Lo away as he tried to gain control of the car. Lo didn’t let go- yanking the wheel harder as the car spun- tipping off the road into the dirt- and then everything stopped.

The car flipped- spinning in slow motion as it crashed- landing with the front end smushed against the trunk of a tree.

Lo had covered their arms over their head, shards of glass raining down on them as a crash fell through the window- and there was a sickening squelch beside them.

After a few moments Lo pried their eyes open.

Everything was so silent except for the patter of rain against the car.

They scanned their eyes over to Allan- his face frozen in silent terror. A large branch of the old tree had fallen- shattering right through the window- straight into his chest.

Lo’s face fell in horror as their body throbbed and ached from the crash.

There was- there was nothing left of him.

And Lo was free.

The door was jammed against the ground and bushes- unable to be opened enough to climb out, so Lo scrambled over the dashboard, climbing through the broken windshield. They winced as shards of glass dug into their skin, before their feet sank down on the cold, wet ground.

Lo kicked off the heels they had been forced to wear, and took off into the cold, dark night.

- - -

Tag List: @imagination1reality0 @thecyrulik @whumpsday @termsnconditions-apply @spectral-whumpy-writer @raddyscoops @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2023 #no.22 #glass shards #vehicular accident #ocs #whump writing #death tw #nonbinary whumpee #intimate whumper #shock collar #marlowe the immortal

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lumpsbumpsandwhumps · 2 years

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bite bite chomp

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sonofshin · 30 days

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For dragons, a naturally immortal species, time flows roughly the same as for humans when they are small. They get bored fast, they need a lot of stimulation, they need to eat a lot and grow, despite growing far slower than humans.

Until they reach their full maturity, they also are able to relate to how humans see the world. Should dragons not come in contact with humans until their maturity, they will have far more trouble forging bonds.

Once a dragon has fully matured, their grasp on the passage of time and space will slowly change until their idea of the world as it is will cease running similarly to that of a human. Their brains will protect them against the passage of time and will numb their emotions concerning loss. Their emotions will be felt much longer, albeit not as deeply as they could feel it in their youths. Their perceivement of time will slow to a near crawl and a decade will feel as though it is scarcely a year. They will still know how many years passed thanks to the seasons, but they will not consciously feel the passage of time as we humans can. They will not count days, months, years, they will simply let it pass them by.

This effect will continue to develop as they get older. Though its effect on dragons raised in human society has not been observed as of yet.

#Yun and Hayase are the first dragons in recorded history to be so intimately interwoven in human society #not that dragons havent mingled with the human species before #just not as deeply as these two airheads #headcanons #I love building my dragons and their immortality #humans could never #they would definitely go insane

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toyybox · 2 months

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Spiderwebs #28: Lovesick

Masterlist

content: immortal whumpee, captivity, starvation, force to eat

• —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

If Heather ever bothered to ask, Jackie would have told her that the boredom was the worst part. That was not to say the loneliness or the hunger were bearable. Still, if he wasn't bored, then he wouldn't have been as lonely. Or would isolation drive away all his happiness? Could anything occupy his attention in the heavy silence? If he wasn’t lonely, he wouldn’t have been bored. Or maybe he’d still get sick of his life confined in that one room, that one tiny box. If he wasn't hungry, starving to the point of restlessness, he could have slept his life away. But he would have to wake up eventually, and it was always awful to be torn away from his dreams again.

Locked down there, his dreams only served to taunt him. He dreamt of all the things he wanted. Going back home, going back to his apartment. Food. So much food, whole feasts of it. Mountains of bread, valleys of fruit, every dessert his subconscious could think of. He dreamt of everything and everyone he missed. His neighbours. His coworkers. His sisters, though he couldn’t quite remember their faces. Heather, the only person he’d spoken to for weeks on end. The sunshine, the grass, the summer sky and the clear treble of birdsongs. He had nightmares, sometimes, but he was used to them.

It was... it would be redundant to tell her how it felt. He would have done anything to get Heather back. It became increasingly clear to Jackie that Heather was the only person who had ever cared about him. She hadn't been the nicest, but she really did care about his happiness. Hadn’t she said so when they first met? She bought him a bed and new clothes and even a book, brought him food and painkillers when he needed it. He missed all her tics, all her charms, the freckles near her eyes, the pitch of her voice. Just to hear another voice, just to see another person. Desperation made all things sweet.

He thought he would never get out. The basement would be his tomb. The locked door, his god, his only companion. He would often sit near the door, on the stairs, just to feel closer to other people. Velveteen rabbits and broken dolls, they knew what a horror it was to be alone. There was only time, and there was only memory. But how long would that last? He was already starting to forget Heather’s face, already losing the sound of her voice. She appeared as a dark figure in his dreams, standing, never speaking, never moving. A shadow at his shoulder. A marble statue. A paper cutout, a silhouette.

If Heather ever asked him what isolation was like, he would not be able to answer. It wasn't loneliness, melancholy and gentle, all those fragile things that kept people lonely, but not alone. He was alone. Alone, completely alone, stranded in negative space. There was nothing else, nobody else.

He was terrified of it, of the empty walls, like children were afraid of the dark. It was a savage thing to feel, something feral and inconsolable. Infants couldn’t survive without human contact. Babies born of neglect lost their ability to speak, to walk, then ceased to function at all. Monkeys clung to wire mothers and cloth effigies. What was it about other people? Other living things? What made them so special? These were just abstract punishments and physical barriers. Maybe he was better off without anyone to hurt him, but that wasn’t much of a comfort. Logic and sensibility could rot, for all he cared. He ached for skin and the pressure of touch, hungered for it. Sometimes, he thought he’d prefer being cut open. At least the pain would be felt quickly, then. Things would return to normal, once he healed. At least he wouldn’t be alone.

But his punishment was over now. Heather had decided, on another abstract whim, to let him out. When Jackie woke up, he didn’t know where he was. But he wasn’t in the basement. That, in and of itself, was an immense consolation.

There was a heavy weight on him. There was… a blanket on him. Not his own blanket, but a new one, something knitted and gray. In his chest, where the scalpel had gouged his heart, there was a steady ache of pain.

He tried to open his eyes, but the light was too bright to see through. It sent a sharp force reeling through his head. He became aware of his body, lying down on something soft but rigid-backed. Jackie tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move if the room went up in flames. He became aware of a hand on his head, soothing him back down.

“Shh,” came the voice, though he hadn’t said anything. “Don’t move.”

He didn’t want to stay still. He didn’t want to sleep. In isolation, he fully resigned himself to dreaming his life away, but now he was out. He was free from that locked door. There were better things to do. Sunnier prospects to dwell on. He had received his fair share of silence already, his pound of flesh. The quiet filled him like concrete. He was fully sick of it. That was too much to say, though. It was easier to lie back down.

Nausea came over him, steady as the tides—waves, ebbing and flowing, against the back of his throat and behind his eyes, threatening to make him retch and heave. It was a bit like being carsick, he thought. Where was he? This felt too much like a childhood memory, waking up in those muffled and unfamiliar places. But he wasn’t alone, which was all that mattered. The pressure of skin, the weight of another body. The only answers he needed.

“Can you hear me?”

He would have spoken, but his lips would not move. He instead gave her a small nod.

“Wake up.” She shook his shoulder. “Open your eyes, Jackie.”

He tried, but the light shone in his eyes, so he had to screw and squint against it. He blinked a few times, trying to make out the shapes of things around him.

“Hello,” said Heather. Her features were still blurry, indistinct. “How are you feeling?”

It was crucial that he replied. He opened his mouth… the words failed him, now. How was he feeling? Maybe God knew, but Jackie sure didn’t. Such things sunk to the bottom of his thoughts like rocks in water.

“Feeling better?”

He nodded again, or made an attempt to.

“Good. You look awful, you know. You must be starving. I brought you food.”

A bowl of something hot. Porridge. Thick porridge, nearly the consistency of cake. So hot that it was steaming, white wisps curling above it. In front of the sofa, on the coffee table. He was on a sofa, Jackie realized, in her living room.

She pushed the table towards him. He'd been so hungry, locked down there. Eventually, he started eating pages out of Oliver Twist, though they never silenced his pangs. A mortal could only starve for a few months—how long had he been alone? Long enough that his body had gotten the message, and stopped asking for food at all.

And there lay the problem. He had no appetite. His hunger faded near the end. He barely thought of eating anymore. But what did that matter? Food was a point of contention between them, and he had no desire to incur her wrath again. Better to just swallow and get along with her and keep safe—better to roll over and keep quiet, just to win her affection.

With an uneasy hand, he took the spoon. It had been so long that he almost didn't know how to. The position of the metal felt unfamiliar in his palm. Heather watched him carefully. Would he be graded on this? Oh, ha ha. But this was indeed a test, to see how far his compliance went.

The porridge was hot enough to sear his tongue. He tried to swallow, which triggered a fit of gagging.

"What’s wrong?"

She sounded so sweet and patient, which he knew was a bad sign. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize."

Comments on Winston Churchill came to mind, but he said nothing back. He tried to swallow again—it was like trying to eat glass, or metal, because his body was adamant about not letting anything in. His gagging was accompanied by spurts of painful, hoarse coughing.

And there lay an even worse problem, another layer to the nesting doll of his terrible, terrible life. He physically could not eat. His biology, his perfect system of flesh and blood, had forgotten how. Not so perfect, then. Enough to keep him alive, but incapable of much else. It was hopeless to try.

"Jackie."

It was a warning. He knew that, of course he knew. He looked up at her helplessly.

"Eat."

His voice was cracked, small. "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

He tried to swallow, once more. Tears pricked the edges of his eyes and the tips of his lashes. Revulsion shuddered through his body, and he was afraid of throwing up. That would be bad. If he was in trouble now, he'd be in the maw of hell then.

"Are you going to refuse to eat again?"

He shook his head, trying to keep his stare down at the spoon. "I'm trying."

"You’re not trying hard enough."

There was no way out of this, then. The trap had already snapped shut. This was the consequence of his pride, the consequence of his anger. Why had he ever hoped for escape? Where had that gotten him? Behind the locked door of the basement, left alone to rot and starve and pray for death. This was Heather’s retaliation, the price for hurting her. An eye for an eye.

"I told you to eat."

He didn't do anything at all. Better to stay still and get it over with. It would be over soon, if he just kept his eyes down and let her do what she wanted. It would all be over soon. He would be okay.

"That was an order."

He winced. But he didn’t do anything, because what could he do?

“Are you hungry, Jackie?”

He shook his head.

She took the bowl from the table, held it above him like a battle-axe, like a sword, like a guillotine glinting in the harsh sunlight. The curtains were drawn, and the room was dim, but she looked so bright then.

"It’s okay,” she said. “But I can't let this go to waste, can I?"

She slammed the bowl down. It smashed into his shoulder, sending pain cracking white-hot down his arm. The scalding porridge splattered, pouring over his clothes and his thin limbs, leeching onto him. He gasped.

It seared like liquid metal, like a branding iron on his lap and chest, pressing a deep and hazy burn into his skin. He tried to pull away, but Heather pinned his shoulders down. The cold fervour of spite lay heavy in her fixed, unflinching gaze. She didn't hesitate. He could only stare back into her eyes and cry.

So this was his penance, the cost of biting the hand that fed. He could not turn away, and he could not hide. He could not fight, not anymore. He could not make her stop. He was like a child again, pathetic and helpless and small. He couldn’t speak. He was stuck, paralyzed. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t move, but he felt it all in such excruciating detail, taking it all in like a prophet’s hallowed words.

“What did you expect?" she said.

He continued to sob, tearing his gaze away and curling into himself as tight as he could. His entire body hurt, not just the burns and the cuts, but a permeating ache throughout his flesh. Everything hurt.

Her hand lifted away. "Calm down. It's only porridge. You'll be fine."

Jackie barely heard her. Another sob racked him—he coughed, too, which made the pain flare up again.

Her hand came to his face. He flinched, tried to bury himself in fabric, but he couldn't avoid her touch. She tried to tilt his face towards her, but he held on and continued to cry harder. His shoulders shuddered, shook, and his chest went tight.

She let out a small noise of irritation. "Stop moving. You're getting your tears all over my sofa. And—" He heard the sound of shifting fabric as she gestured to the sofa. "You've gotten porridge all over it. Do you know how hard it is to clean porridge?"

He did not reply, only wept. She didn't say anything else.

The seconds crawled on in silence, otherwise.

It seemed like she'd gotten what she wanted, or she was bored, because after a while Jackie realized that Heather was gone. She had left, and he was alone again.

This set him into more of a panic than the burn ever could. "Heather?" He forced his hoarse voice to call out for her. "Heather? Come back. Please."

There was no response. Jackie hugged a pillow, which was conveniently placed near his chest, and tried not to cry too loudly. He would have found this whole affair embarrassing, once upon a time, but he was too tired to care.

Faintly, he could hear the clock ticking on the mantle. The steady repetition comforted him.

A minute or so passed. At some point, he could hear footsteps echo down the hall. After they stopped, he was startled by a hand on his shoulder. He whimpered.

"Jesus." She exhaled. "You're a grown man. Don't—just, shut up for a minute. Stop that."

He could not, in fact, stop that. He could not help the waterworks any more than he could help feeling pain. It was instinct, as impulsive as breathing. It was simply a reaction of his body, simply a biological response. It would be the end of him.

Heather pushed him over, so he was lying on his back and propped up by a sofa arm. He let her do this, because he didn't want her to leave again. From somewhere, she conjured up a tissue and dabbed at his face.

"Honestly, this is ridiculous." She dabbed at the corner of his eyes, wiped his cheeks. She was oddly gentle in going about it. "If I wanted to baby people around, I’d become a nurse. This is—this is preposterous. Shut up." He stopped his whimpering at once, and she continued talking, still cleaning him up. “You have such a low pain tolerance. I’ve seen little girls who cry less than you. Are you a man or a wet blanket? Hm? I asked you a question.”

She stopped her dabbing for a moment. Jackie stared at her with panic in his heart and a blank mind. What was he supposed to say? He’d barely been listening. All this crying had exhausted him.

“Never mind. God, you’re useless.” She conjured yet another tissue and began scraping off the porridge. “I would have just cut you open, if I knew you were going to be like this. Stop whining.” He swallowed his sobs again. She paused for a second before speaking. “I’m not cutting you open. I’m tired of hearing you mewl all day. That’s what you are. A sopping wet kitten. Like a baby cat. All… damp and stuff. Oh my God, what am I even doing?”

She stopped cleaning to stare wearily at the rest of the house, a distracted frown in the corners of her mouth. The tissue hung limply from her hand. Jackie took this moment to roll back onto his side, hiding his face under the blanket again.

“No. Get back up, I still have to feed you.” Reluctantly, he let her push the blanket off. “Sit up straight. You’ll choke if you lay down.”

He did as she asked. From the coffee table, she retrieved a bowl of soup. It was a vibrant red, probably made from tomatoes, purely liquid with nothing inside. It was not steaming and looked easier to eat than the porridge, but Jackie wasn’t taking any chances. He backed up, deeper into the sofa, and shook his head.

Either Heather didn’t see this, or she ignored it outright. In her other hand, there was a spoon. She settled onto the couch and positioned the bowl near him.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered.

He shook his head again. He wondered if it was possible to dissolve into the sofa.

Heather had no patience for all this dallying about. She grabbed his jaw, almost hard enough to bruise. “Open. It.”

He didn’t have such a strong will. Not anymore. He opened his mouth.

She let go, then took a spoonful of soup and placed it in there. “Close it.”

He did as she instructed.

“Don’t just sit there. Have you forgotten how to eat? Swallow!”

Quickly, he swallowed the soup. It went down okay, though he still didn’t want to have a meal. Yes, it was tomato. There was a slight aftertaste of basil. Below that, the metal taste of the spoon. The temperature was a comfortable lukewarm, not cold enough to be disgusting but not hot enough to burn.

There was a slightly amused look on Heather’s face. Still mostly irritated, though. “Don’t bite down on the spoon. I need it back, you know.”

He opened his mouth again. This was a very degrading experience, even in his exhaustion, but at least she wasn’t hitting him. At least he wasn’t alone… oh, what he’d do for a little bit of company. He wanted her to keep talking. Just to hear another voice.

“Good.” She gave him another spoonful. He swallowed. Another spoonful. He swallowed that, too. This went on for a few minutes. Eventually, all that was left in the bowl was a thin layer of splatter-red, just the scarlet dregs.

She set the spoon into the bowl, and the bowl onto the coffee table. Jackie never wanted to eat again. He felt awful. Even though the bowl was small, he was way too full. The taste of tomato lingered like radiation, thick and unwelcome. He wiped his mouth against his sleeve.

“There you go. Don’t you feel better now?”

He nodded.

She regarded him distantly. They had not simply sat together and talked in so long. He missed her, truly and utterly, even if he only missed the kind side of her. But when she was kind, she wasn't hard to like, somehow able to hold his stuttering heart still. That’s what he thought, at least. That’s what he remembered. Was the basement ever so cheerful, or just better in comparison? His memories were a blur.

“Do you still love me?” she asked abruptly.

“Yes.”

“We barely even know each other. You’re just saying that to please me.” Her expression went dark, like a passing shadow. “It’s working. Say it again.”

“I love you, Heather.”

She smiled, a little sadly. “With that look on your face, I almost believe you.”

Maybe she was right, and he didn't really mean it. Attempting to label organic things was never simple, no matter what the biologists said. He would have told her anything if it could get him out of that basement. Of course. That damned basement, that dreaded room, that blasted concrete four-walled hell. Dante would choke if he ever saw it.

He had imagined, many times over, meeting Heather again. It was a good distraction. In the beginning, he wanted to tear into her throat and finish what he’d started, but as his isolation went on, his fantasies mostly consisted of begging for her forgiveness. And there was nothing more compelling than a confession. He would have done anything to leave. Shameful, to give in so easily, but shame was not an unfamiliar sensation. Better to wallow in shame than in agony.

For a moment, Heather tried to say something—but she gave up, and brushed the bangs out of his face instead. He breathed in, breathed out. The tightness in his chest was heavy enough to ache. She was wrong about one thing. He knew her very well. And she knew him. To touch someone’s beating pulse, to nearly kill them—could most lovers say the same? There was nothing as vital as the lungs. There was nothing deeper or more sacred than the heart.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

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#whump #whump writing #Spiderwebs toyybox #my writing #immortal whumpee #intimate whumper #La maladie d'Amour😍#anyway Never ask Jackie for relationship advice

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