#“Make it stop.” | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sephyathredon-writing · 7 months

Text

Whumptober #3: Locked in these Chains

Summary: Ambrosius wakes up chained to the wall in an empty cell, only to find out he's not alone. Ballister is in the cell next to his and a mysterious woman soon pays him a visit, calling him a heretic and a traitor to Gloreth's name.

____

Ambrosius jolted awake, to find that his hands were chained to the wall behind him. His armor had been removed and he’d been left in just his underclothes. He felt so very vulnerable without it on.

His hair had grown out since the day that the Institution and the old way of thinking had been dismantled. It was down to the bottom of his shoulders in length now, but at this moment hung in front of his shoulders, messy and unkempt.

His surroundings were barren, nothing but stone with a barred gate on the far end of the room. Ambrosius tugged at his restraints, trying to get free. Last he remembered, Ballister had been with him. His mind went wild just imagining what they were doing to him.

“Ballister, you there?” His voice betrayed how scared he was not to get an answer.

“Ambrosius…” He had to strain to be able to hear Ballister’s voice, but it was there. He breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Are you hurt?”

“No… Just confused… Ambrosius, do you know where we are?”

Instinctively, he shook his head, then realized Ballister couldn’t see him do that, so he spoke up, “No. No clue… but judging by the way we’re chained up… well… this doesn’t seem good.”

“Yeah, no kidding… looks like we’ve been taken underground… I hope Nimona can find us…”

“Me too.”

There were a few moments of silence before Ballister spoke again, “Wait a minute. I recognize this place. Not this area in particular, but the architecture is familiar. These are the tunnels underneath the Glorodome…”

Ambrosius hated being reminded of that awful day where Ballister had been branded a monster and he’d chopped his arm off. Ballister had used those very same tunnels as an escape route. The thought of there being cells like these under the Glorodome sent a chill down his spine.

“What do you think they’re going to do to us?” Ambrosius asked. He had no idea who he was talking about when he said ‘they’ because he had no idea who had taken the two of them down here.

“I don’t-” Ballister’s words were cut off and Ambrosius could hear the noise of the door in his cell opening.

“Well, if it isn’t the heretic, traitor to Gloreth’s good name.” The voice was female, eerily like the director’s but different enough for him to know it wasn’t her.

“Nice to meet you too.” Ballister responded.

The fact that he still retained his sarcasm in the face of whoever had just entered his cell and called him a heretic was something that Ambrosius admired.

“Hmph.” Ambrosius heard the woman scoff, “We’ll see if you still have that same attitude by the time we’re done with you.”

Ambrosius didn’t know what they were going to do, but he didn’t like the sound of it.

“Wait, It’s me you want!” Ambrosius struggled against his restraints, “If anyone has tarnished Gloreth’s name, it’s me!”

“Ah, don’t you worry, I have plans for you. After all, you’re Gloreth’s Great Failure.”

“Hey! That’s not fair! I’ve spent my whole life trying to live up to Gloreth’s standards!”

“And then you threw it all away. For what? For a boy?”

“I did what I knew was right!”

The figure didn’t respond to Ambrosius, instead addressing Ballister. “You must pay for what you did. You and your friend both, but since I don’t see her, you’ll have to take her share of the punishment,” she spoke, her voice void of emotion.

“I’ll gladly take her share if it meant she didn’t get hurt,” Ballister snapped.

The mysterious woman chuckled, “You may be singing a different tune here in a moment.”

“No!” Ambrosius yelled, wishing he could just break through the wall that separated him and Ballister. The shackles were starting to dig into his wrists with how hard he was trying to break free.

Ambrosius almost didn’t register the first of the screams from Ballister, and then when he did, his struggling increased twofold.

“You’ll pay for this!” he shouted, putting everything he had into trying to break free.

The woman ignored him once again and Ballister’s screams got louder.

Ambrosius felt like he was losing his mind. The love of his life was being tortured in the room next to him and he was powerless to stop it.

“Please! Take me instead! Take me instead!” he sobbed.

The chains that held Ambrosis down were fairly short, providing a very limited range of movement, but Ambrosius figured out that if he braced both feet against the wall and leaned his entire body weight forward so that it was all on the chains, the spot where they connected into the wall would start to come loose.

Ambrosius winced at another particularly loud scream. It cut through his heart like a knife, only motivating him further.

The connectors came loose and fell to the ground with a rattling noise. Ambrosius fell to his hands and knees, earning a few scrapes, but he didn’t care. He went straight to the wall that separated them and started to punch.

Cloaked figures came into the room, but Ambrosius kept them away by using the chains attached to his shackles as improvised whips in between punches. The connectors on the end were deadly and tore at the fabric of the figure’s cloaks a few times.

He could see the structural integrity of the wall deteriorate and he estimated one good, powerful punch would be the last thing needed to bring it down.

Unfortunately, as he pulled his fist back, the chain connected to the shackle on that wrist became taut. Someone else was pulling on it. The other one followed, and together two figures dragged him back to the wall. He kicked and screamed and struggled, but their grip was too strong.

“No! Nonono! Bal!” Ambrosius’ eyes were glued to the wall, tears welling up in his eyes. He was so close. He could have broken through the wall, grabbed Ballister, broken his chains, and got out of there.

He barely noticed a third cloaked figure enter the room, but he did notice what was in its hands. A hammer and another pair of shackles, this time with the chain shorter.

“Ambrosius!” He heard Ballister scream his name as they put the extra shackles on his legs and hammered the connector into the ground, “Ambrosius! It hurts! Make it stop!”

They then lifted Ambrosius up and hammered the connectors for his wrist shackles back where they’d been.

“Bal! I’m sorry, I tried!” Ambrosius called out to him. “I won’t stop trying until you’re away from there, till you’re safe, I promise!”

When the cloaked figures left, Ambrosius tested his restraints. There was no way he’d be able to do the same thing again.

____

Hours passed. Ambrosius was sure Ballister was going to die from everything they were doing to him. He struggled on and on endlessly, calling Ballister’s name, trying to find some way to break these chains and get to Ballister.

At some point, Ballister’s full blown screams petered out into soft sobs and cries, still containing Ambrosius’ name.

Ambrosius could swear he was actually losing his mind. Nothing else mattered to him but securing Ballister’s safety. Nothing else mattered except stopping this torture being inflicted on him. As he was struggling, he stared at the wall as if it would crumble under his gaze.

He hardly even registered when the whole place shook. Hardly even noticed a familiar voice in the cell next door.

He didn’t even notice when a familiar pink haired girl entered his cell, by breaking the door off its hinges.

“Yikes, you don’t look so good.”

It was true. Ambrosius’ hair was even messier than it had been before and there was a wild look in his eye. His posture gave away how exhausted he was, but he continued to tug on the chains.

He didn’t hear Nimona.

“Ballister… don’t worry… I’ll get you out of there…” he mumbled over and over.

“Hey, big guy, it’s over,” Nimona said as she reached a hand toward him.

In Ambrosius’ mind it was the hand of the woman that had been torturing Ballister.

He lashed out, biting Nimona’s wrist. She didn’t even flinch. Ambrosius locked eyes with her. His angry expression melted into sadness as more tears fell. He understood she could just shapeshift into something else, but she chose to let him bite her. He let go.

“See now, everything’s okay.” She made her other arm into a crab claw, “Just stay still, okay?”

Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip. He was free.

Ambrosius fell into Nimona who set him down gently on the floor.

“Where’s Ballister, How is Ballister?” he asked, his voice hoarse from all the shouting.

Nimona avoided his gaze, “He’s looking pretty rough.”

“But he’s still alive, right Nimona?” His panic showed in his voice as he spoke.

Before Nimona could answer, Ambrosius heard a voice from the other end of the cell.

“Ambrosius…” The voice was quiet and very hoarse, but he recognized it.

There, in the doorway, was Ballister. From his posture on the ground with his arms out in front of him and legs straight back, it was clear that he dragged himself to that spot. Ambrosius could see the extensive damage that had been done to him. He was shirtless, burns and cuts littered his body, more scars littered his face. It really looked like he’d been to hell and back.

“Ballister!”

Ambrosius willed his body to move. It seemed to have enough strength in it to get him across the room and to his love’s side. He scooped the man into his arms and held him close.

“Bal,” he sobbed, “Ballister, I’m sorry… I failed you… I couldn’t save you.”

Weakly, Ballister reached a hand up and placed it on his cheek, his expression loving despite the pain he was dealing with. “Shh, It’s okay. You did what you could.”

Nimona went to their side, looking at Ballister with a sad expression. “Boss, I told you not to move…”

Ballister gave her a pained smile, “I had to see Ambrosius.”

Nimona gave him a look of understanding. She stood up, moved outside of the cell and closed her eyes, beginning to grow.

“Get under me!” she shouted.

Ambrosius picked Ballister up and moved to duck under Nimona’s rapidly growing dragon form. She couldn’t fit in the space and the whole structure was coming down around them.

When she was fully shifted, she offered a paw to Ambrosius, holding it so they could sit on the pad.

As soon as Ambrosius was comfortable, Nimona pushed through the ceiling. Ambrosius held Ballister tightly, ready to protect him from any stray falling debris.

He watched as they emerged from the Glorodome, lights still on in the dark, even though the building wasn’t being used anymore. Ballister’s prediction had been right. Whoever these people were, they’d made their hideout in the tunnels underneath.

It didn’t take long for them to arrive at a hospital. Ambrosius was grateful for Nimona’s abilities at a time like this. Ballister was admitted quickly and Ambrosius was looked over, though his diagnosis was just to get some sleep.

So he was left in the waiting room with Nimona. It was only then that the impact of everything that happened fully hit him. He was shaking, leg bouncing nervously, fidgeting with his hands.

Nimona sat next to him. She looked equally concerned, but she placed a hand on his knee.

“Hey big guy, you know Ballister. You know he’ll make it through. He’s tough like that.”

Ambrosius didn’t answer her, didn’t trust himself to answer her without his voice wavering. He looked away, focusing on the opposite side of the room, but he wasn’t really looking at it, his head was too full of thoughts. In his mind he reviewed the situation over and over again.

He wondered what he could have done differently, how he could have saved his love from getting hurt.

He found that he remembered now, once everything was said and done, how they were brought down into those tunnels. They were ambushed in the middle of the Kingdom. Nimona had been off doing her own thing and they’d been on their way home. The sun had been setting and they’d just come back from a wonderful dinner date.

It happened so quickly. One moment Ballister had been laughing and joking next to him, his hand in Ambrosius’, the next, he’d been grabbed by a cloaked figure and knocked out.

When Ambrosius had tried to call for help, they’d knocked him out as well, interrupting his call mid sentence.

Ambrosius glanced over at Nimona, who had her legs pulled up to her chest, staring straight ahead. Unshed tears lingered on her eyelids.

He reached over and placed a hand gently on her shoulder, causing her to look up at him. He gave her a reassuring smile. It was the best thing he could offer in a time like this.

“It took hours for me to hear the news that you both had gone missing. I searched so hard, but I couldn’t find you guys…” She sniffled, the tears falling, “If I had been quicker, this would never have happened to Boss…” Her voice was stifled with emotion.

Right. He had almost forgotten how much Ballister meant to her. He was the first one that really gave her a chance, and now she might lose him.

Ambrosius bent down and enveloped her in a hug. She turned and sobbed into his shoulder, hands looping around his waist and holding him tightly. He brought his hands around her back holding her as tight as he could. When they pulled away, she smiled at him.

“Thanks, that really helped.”

“I’m glad. I just want you to know that you’re not alone in feeling like that. We can’t change the past, what’s done is done. In my experience it’s best not to dwell on the past.”

He needed to learn to take his own advice.

Nimona smiled, “Did the arm chopping incident teach you that?”

Ambrosius nodded.

Things went quiet between them, but Nimona turned into a cat and climbed into Ambrosius’ lap, allowing him to pet her and purring up a storm. Tears still fell, but that was to be expected given the situation. Ambrosius tried to make her feel as comfortable as he could and found that he didn’t dwell on his own sadness as much as a result.

It felt like ages before they were finally called by a doctor. The two of them were led down a hallway. Nimona changed from a cat to her little girl form, holding one hand up for Ambrosius to take. He did so, walking with her down the hall.

Soon they were led into a room with a bed that Ballister was laying on. He still looked in rough shape. There was an IV in his arm. Bandages covered his body and patches covered the new scars on his face. Still, he was clearly awake, and he smiled when he saw Ambrosius and Nimona.

“Boss!” Nimona called, running up to him and climbing onto the bed.

“Nimona, you’re in your child form.” Ballister reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, “Were you really that worried about me?”

She just nodded.

Ambrosius, however, turned to the doctor. “What’s the diagnosis?”

They looked down at their clipboard and then back up at Ambrosius.

“Looks like he’ll be fine with some rest. He lost a lot of blood, but a quick transfusion brought him back to safe levels. Many of the wounds he had required stitches, so he will need to be brought back in several weeks after the wounds have healed.”

Ambrosius breathed a sigh of relief, then looked over at Nimona and Ballister before addressing the doctor again. “Can we stay with him for the rest of the night?”

“I don’t see why not,” they replied. “Just be aware he will be woken up periodically to receive painkillers,” the doctor informed them before leaving. They turned off the lights on the way out, but there was enough light filtering through the window in the room that they could see.

He nodded and looked at Nimona who was already in cat form and making herself comfortable in Ballister’s lap.

He smiled and approached the bed. “Got room for one more?”

Without waiting for an answer, he climbed in beside Ballister on the opposite side of the bed than the one the IV was by.

Ambrosius slung one arm around Ballister gently and the other man responded by bringing his left hand up to rest on Ambrosius’ arm. In the condition that he was in, Ballister couldn’t turn his body to the side like Ambrosius was, but he could turn his head, so that’s what he did.

“I could have lost you today, Bal…” Ambrosius’ voice betrayed how upset he really was about it.

“I know, but you didn’t, that was the important thing,” he replied.

“Bal… I don’t know what I would do without you… I… I wish I could have been stronger… I wish I could have saved you. And what was with that woman? Why did she seem to revere Gloreth… she called me her failure and called you a heretic. Is there some kind of weird Gloreth cult we don’t know about… how long until it happens again?”

“Ambrosius.”

That was all Ballister had to say to keep his thoughts from spiraling. All at once, his thoughts stopped and all his attention was on Ballister.

“It’s okay. I’m here, I’m alive. If there’s something like that in the Kingdom then we’ll deal with it.” Ballister spoke in a soft voice.

“Yeah, besides we destroyed part of their hideout. And even if they do decide to make a move soon, I’m not letting my eyes off the two of you, at least not for a while.”

Ambrosius smiled. He knew Nimona had the best of intentions, especially after what happened today, but he could predict that it would get annoying really fast, especially when he wanted private time with Ballister. But he supposed he’d just have to deal with it. If they could knock the two of them out so easily, then it’d be nice for them to have someone like Nimona looking out for them.

“Sounds good. Now, I think we should go to sleep. It’s been an exhausting day and Bal needs his rest,” Ambrosius responded.

“Already on it,” Nimona replied, shifting a little to get comfortable.

“Sounds like a plan. There’s nowhere I’d rather sleep than next to my two favorite people in the world.” Ballister pet Nimona’s fur a little and then reached over to put a hand on Ambrosius’ shoulder before making himself comfortable and getting ready for sleep.

The night passed as quietly as it could with someone waking Ballister up for him to take meds. They took those moments to check in with each other, and most importantly Ballister before going back to sleep.

#Whumptober2023 #no.3 #“Make it stop.”#nimona 2023 #fic #torture tw #wounds tw #hospital tw #ballister boldheart #ambrosius goldenloin #Nimona #goldenheart

18 notes · View notes

galehautstomb · 7 months

Text

Baby's first Whumptomber fic whoohoo! Read on for some IceMav

#whumptober2023 #no.3 #“Make it stop.”#top gun #fic #PTSD tw #nsfwhump #icemav

11 notes · View notes

crimsonlyinglilly · 7 months

Text

No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

Uryuu had frozen when the hollows arrived and had hid while grandfather fought, he had still been hiding when the Soul reapers arrived too late, and when one soul reaper had noticed him and pulled out his sword he hadn’t thought to run, so he had then woken up confused in a glass tube.

He wasn’t frozen when he noticed Grandfather laying on the table in the room outside the tube, he had thrown himself at the glass, and then screamed when the monster came, slamming his fist on the glass and ignoring the pain as they started leaving blooded prints behind.

The screams soon died down as his voice cracked and broke.

Stop it.

His blood is long dried on the glass in front of him when the monster leaves, his voice truly lost after the unlistened to pleas.

Grandfather is little more than a pile of flesh that Uryuu can’t bear to look at anymore, still hearing it over and over, Grandfather’s voice begging and the monster’s cold words ignoring them both to instead make notes and comments as he took him apart.

Uryuu threads his fingers in his hair and pulls, talking to himself in an attempt cover the memoires

“Make it stop.” the room is silent other than the tiny voice crying, repeating those words. “Make it stop.”

He’s alone for days apart from the visits of the monster but he shuts down during those times, if the monster wanted to take him apart like he had grandfather, Uryuu didn’t want to be there for it.

(Years later he would realise it was Nemu giving him an out when she gave him too much of the drugs, he would never thank her, never thank any from twelve, but he hates her less. He tells himself it’s the sole reason he lets the monster keep living.)

He’s alone in his glass tube until the pink haired girl with the bright grin finds him and shatters it.

#whumptober2023 #no.3 #“make it stop.”#bleach #fic #human experimentation tw #ishida uryuu #AU-Shared custody #bleach au #fanfiction

8 notes · View notes

zenithpng · 7 months

Text

Or, things are a little easier with a brother by your side.

>Whumptober 2023 Day Three: "Make it stop."<

as usual, read the warnings and tags! enjoy <3

7 notes · View notes

seldomscilence16 · 7 months

Text

Whumptober Day 3:

"Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon."

Journal | solitary confinement | "make it stop."

Fandom: Voltron

Prompt used: All

Soooo this ones a little intense- at least to me as I write this. Its never specified but Lance is alone for awhile, so tread carefully just in case. I think I may do a continuation on one of the other days for this one so keep a look out if you like this one.

TW for self harm, and Torture

...

There was little light in the room. He'd tried to figure out where it was coming from, scratched at the lips in the walls until his nails were broken and bleeding. He'd decided they simply glowed.

There was no window, and the door disapeared- no it blended in, it had to be there still it had to, it could just be gone that made no sense- after that first day. That first day when he'd woken up, confused and in pain, and had a strange alien come in and speak to him. He couldnt tell you everything they said, broken translator glitching every couple words or other sentence. But it was an experiment, and a punishment.

Lance wanted to go home.

"Journal entry uh… whatever. The water and bread like stuff appeared when I passed out again, I dont remember falling asleep… It tastes weird, but they got angry when I didnt consume it before… the walls are still glowing… or maybe it is dark and Im going crazy… how many days has it been journal? Why… what did I… its not like your gonna answer anyway…"

His head hits the wall with a solid thump, the sound better than when all he can hear is bodily functions, so he does it again. And again, until his ears ring and his head aches, and the noise has blended in too much to be different and he stops. His heart and head beat to the same toon, he holds his breath to stop hearing the inflation of his lungs only for the beating to get louder. Frustrated tears come to his eyes as he releases the breath in a shout, which turns into an angry yell as he turns and pounds his tender fists into the wall.

Its not the first time, there are smears of blood- old and new- from his many little moments. He thinks hes allowed such moments after all, locked up for who knows how long with no interaction. He cant even talk to Blue, the thin connection in his soul the only thing telling him shes okay. In the beginning, he equated his moments to Keith, when he went ham on the training gladiatiors. But now… staring at his ruined fists, and wall still intact besides the smears, he feels as pathetic as ever.

He knows for a fact the rest of the team would have found a way out by now. Pidge's curiousity and spite always leads her to solutions of some kind. Hunk would have found out how this box worked and rebuilt it ten times over. Keith would have samuraied his way out of course, and Shiro would probably find this childs play. But really the main difference… is they arent him. Lance did something wrong. Lance was stupid and weak and easily caught. Lance hasnt been able to find a way out. Lance- is referring to himself in third person. Again.

He deserves to be here. The team hasnt found him yet, blue is out of range, and Lance is being punished for something. He wouldnt want any of them in his situation anyway, theyre probably off saving the universe still, probably relieved hes gone. He… he hopes theyre getting enough sleep. That Pidge isnt stuck with her face in a screen, refusing to sleep. That Hunk isnt spreading himself thin, and bottling things up. That Allura is recharging her quintessence, and taking care of herself and not pushing too hard on her own mind and the teams. That Coran isnt lonely and doing everything by himself. That Shiro is remembering to laugh and relax and chill. That Keith isnt isolating himself and training to death and…

He misses them.

Lance thought that… even if he never saw Earth again, never saw his parents again, thatd at least, the last thing he saw would be his friends- his space family- safe and alive. Not some creepy alien, or the four same walls, but the people he cares about. He knows… he knows he wasnt their first choice. That Blue deserves better, the team deserves better. But… he still loves them so much. He just wanted to know they were okay.

A stinging sensation disrupts the static ache hes fallen into, his motions drag like paper through water and he looks down at his arms. His nails, brittle and broken and cracked, have still managed to drag angry red lines across his arms. Blood and that watery fluid have bubbled to the surface in some areas, and he feels a detached sort of dissapointment. His nose whistles.

The not bread and the ucky water have appeared again. Hes on his side, he doesnt remember falling asleep, from how tired he feels, hes not even sure he can call it that. He knows they get mad when he ignores the susstenance, but he can only stare at it blankly. What was the point anyway? If he was just gonna keep waking up here, he didnt want to anymore.

He thinks he counts for moment, to determine how long it takes them to get mad, but when he tunes back in to his own brain hes simply repeated the same line of lyrics over and over. He cant recall the song, or any other lyrics, and all its really doing is annoying him, but he cant find the energy to yell at his brain to stop.

'One. I can count to one. Two. I can count to two. Three. I can count to three. Four. I cant count no more. I can only count to four, I can only count to four, I can only count fooouuuurrrr-'

The room brightens and Lance tenses as a noise fills the room. But the noise was always there, a ringing in his ears, but it grows louder and higher until everything is screaming. He hold his hands over his ears, finds a warm wetness with undertones of crusty, his mouth is open his throat feels shredded, hes curled up as much as his ribs will allow- they poke out, he can see where theyre wrong, they warp as the noise increases. His heart pounds wildly in his chest, tears streak his face, he cant see anything, theres red in his blurred vision before it whites out completely, a warmth below his nose. Shivers wrack his tense body as the cold he'd been trying to ignore sets in bone deep.

"P'ease…m…m-make it… st…stop…"

He doesnt know when he went limp, eyes open but seeing nothing, the ringing is everywhere, the feeling of liquid drying on his skin makes him itch, but he cant even twitch.

"M'ke it st…stop. Make eh stop… make it stop." A sob from deep in his chest, voice hoarse, everything hurts. "Make it stop please."

He couldnt even tell you if he'd actually spoken, or if wordless noise escaped a ruined throat. The pounding of his heart, the ringing of his ears, nothing seemed to exist past that.

Warmth on his cheek, he must be crying again…

Pressure on his back, his shoulder thanks him for rolling over, he cant recall doing it.

Something touches his neck.

He flinches violently, surprising himself and whoevers touching him. He throws his arms up, his back now against the stupidly familiar walls.

"Make it stop! I dont want to anymore! Just kill me already, Make it stopmakeitstopmaKEITSTOP!!"

Something rumbles in his mind, loud enough to block all the stupid noises, filled instead with crashing waves and warm sand, foreign yet familair.

"Lance." He flinches, he can only half hear what was said, head in a fishbowl of water and one ear clogged, but it was definetly his name…

"Leandro, please look at me hermano."

Tears bubble in his eyes as he realizes what this is.

Hes lost it completely.

Hes halucinating now. Maybe it really is finally the end-

"Lance please." It sounds so broken, she should never sound like that-

He looks up.

The door. It did exist, lying in sparking pieces as it is. Shiro is in the doorway, face drawn in concern, galra arm still smoking from whatever he used it for. Behind him Keith is glaring down his sword at something Lance cant see. Infront of him however, curled up in the too small room, knees an inch from his own, back bowed so his head wont hit the ceiling, arm brushing the smaller one next to him. Two sets of warm eyes, wet with tears and dark with bags, look at him with mournful sadness and yet, tentative hope, relief.

The tears spill over, his lips wobble as he sobs,

"Make it stop please. I cant handle it if youre not really here. Please."

"We're here buddy. Hermano, we're here. Give me your hand Lance, I promise we're real." Hunks voice wavers with emotion, Lance knows he's seconds from breaking down.

"We're late, but we're here Lance. Please." Pidges voice is small, hand held out beside Hunks, both tremble.

Lance is going to regret it. He is. He's gonna regret it.

His hands- cold, achey, maybe broken, filthy- meet the warm calloused palms of his friends. He slumps forward like his string have been cut, but the two dutifully catch him. Warmth. Not from blood or tears, but from real people. Lances eyes slipped closed, feeling safe for a moment, if he wakes up alone… at least he got to see their faces one last time…

>>next

7 notes · View notes

smallbeefwrites · 7 months

Text

Rain

it is raining, and Legend is too stubborn to take a break.

whumptober 2023 - day 3 "make it stop."

fandoms - legend of zelda, linked universe

Legend felt old. Sure, he was only 18, but he had been on too many quests, at this point. He had spent far too long as the goddess' little puppet, and now his bones ached and joints creaked and all he wanted was to stop, to go home, to finally be able to properly tend to his orchard and snuggle up with ravio with a mug of hot chocolate in the evenings.

But of course he couldn't do that, it had only been two weeks since he got back from Hytopia and suddenly he was dragged through a portal and onto another quest. He was just thankful that he was in the habit of carrying his gear with him always.

And the other heroes were driving him up the wall. Time was treating him like a kid, Wind wouldn't stop yammering to anyone, Sky kept waxing poetic about his girlfriend and how much he missed her, Warriors was just too much of a stuck up city boy, and for some reason Twilight Set off all his prey instincts. He was this close to snapping and running off into the woods.

He wouldn't even be the first to do it, just two days ago, wild had run off for a good three hours. Which, yeah. Legend would probably have snapped sooner if nobody spoke a language he could understand. He would thank the goddesses for Travellers Common, but that would mean that they did something good.

Then there was the sour cherry on the burnt cake: it was raining. The damp dug into his scars, his arthritis flaring painfully. Not wanting to draw attention to himself and give time even more of a reason to hover and fret, Legend grit his teeth and continued walking.

* * *

Something was up with legend, and Hyrule was about ready to commit crimes to find out what. He could taste the pain from legend in the air, and his fairy instincts were crying at him to fix the problem, heal the hurt. It was giving him a headache.

But any attempt to approach the other teen was rewarded only with angry glares and harsh words. However, hyrule was anything but stubborn. He wouldn’t have survived the hostile wasteland that was his home otherwise. So he persisted, legend’s attempts to fend him off only feuling his determination more.

By the time they stopped under a rocky outcrop for lunch, hyrule had approached legend and been harshly turned away no less than twenty times, and probably more. But legend had sat down, and judging by how stiff his movements had been, he would have a harder time escaping hyrule’s questioning than he did when they were walking. So hyrule took advantage of the situation. He sat down right next to legend.

“I can tell you’re in pain. Stop avoiding me and tell me how i can help.” legend jumped slightly at hyrule’s words. He probably hadnt noticed hyrule joining him, too focused on hiding his own pain.

“ Go away and stop bothering me ” Legend hissed. In traveller’s common. The one language they both knew and that Time didn’t know. Interesting.

“ You’re hurt and you don’t want the old man to know, huh? ” Roolie responded in the same language. Maybe ledge would respond better if the old man couldn’t understand their conversation.

“ He’s a mother cucco. He’d make a bigger deal of it than it actually is. He’s already treating us like children. ” finally, something more than a few curses and demands that he leave. Hyrule could work with this.

“ So you admit that there is something wrong. ” Legend glared at hyrule’s smug grin, looking vaguely like he wanted to strangle the younger teen.

“ Yeah, sure whatever. But its not like you can just make it stop with a potion or a fairy. It will go away when the rain stops. Satisfied? Now will you piss off?” legend switched back to hylian at the end, probably to try and hint that the conversation was over. Hyrule didn’t care.

“So if we stay here until the rain stops, you’ll be fine to keep going afterwards?” hyrule said. Loudly, in hylian, to make sure time could hear him. If looks could kill, hyrule would probably have been brutally dismembered, his organs and limbs tied up in little bags floating down the toxic rivers of his homeland.

* * *

Legend was just about done with the little shit. He was planning cold hearted, petty revenge. Hyrule would regret this for the rest of his life.

Time had heard hyrule, come over, and demanded to know what hyrule meant. And without remorse, hyrule had gleefully recounted that the rain was making legend hurt. The old man had then proceeded to announce that they would be staying where they were until the rain stopped rather than powering on to the next town (which was only 5 miles down the road if the last sign the saw was to be trusted).

Then it turned out that Wild, who they previously thought could only speak Sheikah, knew Travellers Common and had been listening in on the conversation. And just handed over a massive raw ruby wrapped in cloth. Which did help, but was definitely a shock. But seeing the scars poking out from under the kid’s hood, legend could guess how he knew the ruby would help.

Then, 2 hours later, the rain stopped. And hyrule had the most shit eating grin when he walked over to legend. “All better?” his voice was so sickeningly sweet when he’d said that that legend nearly punched him in the face. But he did have to admit, he did feel a bit better. Physically, anyway. According to ravio, it would probably take divine intervention to sort out what was going on mentally.

#whumptober 2023 #no.3 #“make it stop.”#legend of zelda #linked universe #lu legend #lu hyrule #beef writes fanfics

7 notes · View notes

mrmustachious · 6 months

Text

They never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor

Summary: He couldn’t believe this was actually happening. All of his dreams were gone just like that. And there was only one person to blame. Gordon Tracy.

Day(s): 3, 7, 8, 10, 11, 22, 23, Alt 2, Alt 3

Prompt(s): “Make it stop.”, Alleyway, “It’s all for nothing.”, Broken Phone, “No one will find you.”, “They never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor.”, “It’s gonna get me by the end of the night.”, Shadows, Stalking, “Who’s there?”, Aftermath of Failure, Brass Knuckles

He couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

All of his dreams were gone just like that.

He had been so close. If he had only been a fraction of a second quicker he could have won. He could have been holding that gold medal in his hands. He could have been up there on the podium, the crowd cheering for him, his national anthem playing behind him, his country proud of him.

None of that had happened, at least not for him. He was a failure, and had to go home a disappointment. He wouldn’t be able to show his face again. His family, his friends, his whole country had watched him fail, had seen him be too slow, had seen him mess up on that last turn which had snatched him from not only gold but from any other medal.

He ground his teeth together as he thought back to his time in the pool. He had been in the third lane after he’d done well in the previous heats. He had promise to take first place, he just had to push past his competition and he would come out on top.

It had started well. He tried to not get too distracted by the other swimmers and concentrated on his own swimming, but he knew he was ahead.

But then, when he was reaching the end of the first length, he couldn’t help but catch sight in his peripheral of the swimmer two lanes over.

Gordon Tracy.

Read on AO3

5 notes · View notes

stormxpadme · 7 months

Text

Whumptober 2023 No. 3 - "Make it stop."

READ THE FIRST SCENE OF THAT STORY ON AO3.

That the promised night of passion together with his more-or-less-boyfriend would be even far more challenging than expected, Scott already realized on the way to the car.

What had been a minor annoyance before turned into a serious affliction with every step, especially on sensitive membranes inside not meant for contact with ingredients like pepper and Tabasco. Nothing that a cleanout couldn’t fix but only now that the excitement dampening his senses was wearing down for the moment, Scott became aware of how enthusiastically Logan had been with his hand earlier. One or two small abrasions on his slightly swollen rim and deeper was something he gladly accepted for the arousal that came with such explorations, usually even welcoming the spike of pain that added even more sweet adrenaline to that ride of occasional total submission … But in combination with what was left of that sauce in locations where the latter shouldn’t be, every foot up the stairs from the bar and to the parking lot nearby became torture. Not wanting to burden his lover with such a triviality, Scott gladly, silently accepted Logan taking the wheel, not least because he'd lost count of his alcohol consumption at some point in the course of the evening, and sat down in the passenger seat as gingerly as possible, swallowing every smallest noise of pain down, though that cramp in his lower body became a nuisance at this point. Stubbornly suppressing that best as he could, he turned the radio up to let the sheer shrill volume of Jagger's pipes drown out the slightly too uneven breathing on his lips and closed his eyes behind his glasses for a couple of minutes, with the not entirely wrong excuse that he was beat as fuck after this too long day. He must indeed have dozed off because he only came around to the bang of the jeep's driver's door being slammed shut far too brusquely. Blinking his vision clear, he, slightly clumsily in his disorientation, opened his seatbelt, wincing softly at the sting in his lower abdomen from just the pressure of his lower arm reaching across.

By that time, Logan had almost made it to the door leading inside the mansion already, without even looking back over his shoulder. For a moment, Scott was convinced, his lover wouldn’t react at all to Scott calling out to him, with Logan's hunched posture, the way his fists were clenching inside the pockets of his leather jacket, revealing how pissed off he suddenly was out of the blue. When Logan turned around to him, with an expression of both honest hurt and unbridled aggression distorting his rugged features, he almost wished, his lover would have left. "What's the problem, Slim? Could swear you'd rather be on your own, with you keeping your mouth so firmly shut about how I just fucked you up and all."

Scott rubbed his still slightly heated forehead with a sigh, feeling his cheeks suspiciously flush next. At this point, he really should know better. "I didn’t think you'd …"

"What? Not smell that that you're bleeding? That your shirt is soaked with sweat? The rustling from your jeans because you can't sit still for a second?" Still visibly fuming, Logan at least came back to him, crossing the at this time fortunately entirely empty garage to lean against the car opposite to where Scott had sunk back against the jeep's frame with helplessly crossed arms and his head lowered. His voice only softened when Scott's shoulders grew tighter with every word and he was looking for an explanation in vain in his usually rich vocabulary. "You wanna tell me why this keeps on happening, Slim? You got no problem telling me when I make mistakes in the field. I'm not made of glass, you know. There's no need to go easy on me as soon as we're in private."

"That's not what this is about," Scott replied hesitatively, not sure if he could – should – voice what was going through his head. He already had a pretty good idea of what Logan would have to say about it, and actually, the guy was pissed off enough already. But Logan had also just very unambiguously told him something, and if Scott wanted to treat him with the same respect and affection he was feeling for this peculiar feral more by the month, he indeed couldn’t hold his tongue just to avoid a little arguing. That was exactly how he'd lost Jean for good at some point. "It's just that I'm not made of glass either, Logan. And I love everything we do. You should be able to sense that too. Sometimes my body just doesn’t get the whole memo. Nothing that won't be fixed in a couple of hours though. I didn’t want that to ruin our night. We don't get too many of those as it is. I don't want to be the reason that we have to cancel a little bit of fun when that would never happen the other way around, don't you get that? I guess ..." Untypically shyly, he reached out for his lover, glad when Logan stepped into his circle, rolling his eyes, still chewing on his cigar and his anger, but possessively buried his hands in the back pockets of Scott's jeans. This time, he didn’t bother trying to hide his wince when another cramp hit at the too-tight pressure of the fabric against his groin. But Scott only tightened the grip of his arms around Logan's shoulders when his lover tried to pull away again because that rare, harmless embrace felt far too good to want to give it up again already. "Guess I'm just trying to keep up."

"And how exactly do you think you can when you end up on the sick bay because you fail to show me your limits?" When Scott already opened his mouth for another defense but closed it again because he couldn’t think of any, Logan nodded bitterly. Now he let go of Scott after all, but only to sneak his hand between their bodies and open two of the buttons of Scott's jeans again as if they were still in the darkness of that damn bar, then pulled his shirt back over that slightly improper appearance that immediately ended that painful clench inside though. "Which is where we're going now, by the way. I'm sure your ex will be delighted to be called from Warren's bed at this time to see you naked instead."

"I don't need a doctor, Logan." Scott shivered just at the thought of what Jean would say about having to deal with a stupid little accident like this at 3 fucking a.m. in the morning. "I don't," he insisted when Logan snorted and tried to turn away, pulling Scott with him. With a little bit of effort and enough practice after a couple of years of sparring against that bastard, he managed to keep him where he was with the right pressure against sensitive muscles on the side of Logan's thick neck. "Stop. You want me to talk to you, then I'm going to need you to listen. This isn’t my first rodeo. You think Jean never went wild on me with her telekinesis? I know what to do, I got the stuff in my room. I'll be alright in an hour. You rather want to watch a game and crash on the sofa in the meantime, I get that. It's me who fucked up tonight, not you. It's only fair that I get to jerk off alone in frustration before going to bed tonight."

"Yeah, not gonna happen. That would mean punishing myself, and I'm not half as masochistic as you, Slim." Logan shook his head at Scott in growing exasperation and turned away again, without letting go of Scott's hand though. "Until you finally get it in your thick head that no one's asking you to be invulnerable, least of all me, you need someone to watch that dumb back of yours. Move it before I get tempted to call Jean on you after all."

Scott found that a very convincing argument to hurry.

*****

Logan insisted, of course, so it wasn’t but 10 minutes before Scott found himself stomach down and buck naked on his bed, with a thick pillow under his hips, and his cheeks once again flushed for a whole unsexy reason. Logan's slightly shocked hiss when he sat down next to him on the mattress had him draw in his shoulders again but this time, he didn’t even try to come up with an excuse. "Looks worse than it is, I reckon."

"Don't tempt me to photograph your damn ass just to prove you wrong. I don't put it beyond some of the kids here to hack our damn phones." A growl on his lips, Logan bent down to him for a surprisingly gentle kiss to the side of his neck, to his shoulder, distracting him from the suddenly no longer half-as-pleasant sensation of a carefully probing touch in most intimate places. The result of that slightly clumsy scan apparently was indeed not half as dramatic as Logan seemed to have feared because Scott could see his tense posture give in from the corner of his eyes, and his hand was no longer shaking when he reached for that small unmarked tube with Shi’ar instant healing salve that Scott had laid out on the pillow.

That Logan had brought something on his own to this improvised First Aid session, Scott didn’t realize until he felt a frown on his face because nothing was happening. He forced his eyes open again, cranking his head to the side to try and look his lover in the eye. Immediately, his heart was pounding faster in his chest. A very welcome, familiar kind of heat started to pump through his veins again when he saw a considerably thin but long toy in his lover's hand not holding that tube. Oh.

"That would speed things along if you can handle it," Logan said calmly, making no move yet to use those two items in combination. "I've had some bad experiences with making assuming about the latter though, so you're gonna need to give me some pointers here."

Scott was many things but – though he knew a couple of people who would probably disagree – not a slow learner. And he was usually only irresponsible about his own health until persons caring for him hit him over the head with a brick to get him to seek help. He apparently just needed to get used to the thought that Logan, his old rival of old people, was indeed now part of that intimate circle of beings allowed to get so close to Scott. He closed his eyes again with a reluctant shudder and spread his legs slightly more in a clear invitation, letting out a groan at the next cramp hitting, making him feel like something between his legs was on fire. "Please. Hurts. Make it stop …" Another tender, appreciative kiss to his neck made it easier to relax the way he needed to, because that still wasn’t a horribly pleasant affair, alien miracle medicine or not. But when the toy was finally in place, quickly and without too much agony thanks to his lover's surprisingly gentle movements, and the touch of the cooling substance on raw spots immediately brought relief, Scott sank deeper into the mattress with a sigh of gratefulness, blindly reaching out to rest his hand on Logan's still fully clothed leg. "Thank you."

"See? Wasn’t that hard. Next time without the whole screaming and arguing part." Only now that Scott was quickly doing better, Logan gave him a well-deserved slap to the back of his head. Then he reached for Scott's hand where it was already – half out of teasing habit, half following the re-rising warmth in his cells at the arousing sensation of a harmless stretch inside – drawing small provocative circles on the inside of Logan's thigh. Instead of pushing it away as Scott had half and half expected, he guided it higher much to Scott's delight. "You know, for someone who pretends to hate to be called that so much, you sure as much do your best defending your slut reputation."

"I have yet to hear you complain, Claws," Scott answered lightly, the lewd grin on his lips already feeling a lot more natural, with every second that the burn and itch inside eased up more. The light brush of a certain plug against a highly sensitive location inside as he braced himself on his elbow to get closer to his lover, quickly went to his middle, hardness beginning to stir between his legs again. "Now, since we're gonna have to put a rain check on all those things I've asked you for earlier … I remember someone asking for a blowjob in that bar."

Logan let out an unbelieving huff but lost no time, falling back on the mattress to offer Scott's searching hands and wandering lips more room to play as buttons and zippers quickly were a thing of the past. "One of these days, I'll let Jean know in detail what she gave up on so lightly with you, Slim."

"Unless you want me to shoot something off your body that will take at least a month to regrow, I'd reconsider that," Scott warned him dryly. Then he knelt over his lover's legs with his lips pressed against the coarse hair of those broad, strong loins, to dedicate his mouth and hands for a few minutes of apology only to said, already swollen and leaking body parts. It soon turned out, not everything that they'd put on the wish list for tonight over their drinks earlier was off the table after all.

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

Please note that this was once a preexisting oneshot based on a prompt, to which I added the above scenes to make it a legit Whumptober-entry.

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

@whumptober | @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2023 #no.3 #“Make it stop.”#x men #fic #tunnel games #nsfwhump #everything after x2 didn't happen sue me #x men original timeline movies #x men movies #fanfiction #stormys fanfics #scott summers #cyclops #wolverine #scogan #scott x logan #always use brain and caution for tunnel games guys

5 notes · View notes

emcscared-whumps · 6 months

Text

WHUMPTOBER 2023 - 03: "Like Crying Out in Empty Rooms; With No-one there Except the Moon

Whumptober 2023 Navigation Post

Journal | Solitary Confinement | "Make it Stop."

This was fun! But it took a while, whoops ^-^' But that's just what happens when you put too much on your plate I suppose lol. Next, I am going to write some real, proper mer whump :)

CONTENT and WARNINGS: Disordered eating, domestic abuse (mother against adopted son), broken bones, a vague death wish/regret of survival, so much self-loathing, dehumanisation, minor animalisation (it's mostly just the dehumanisation), dissociation and entrancement, nonhuman whumpee

wc: ~2.5k

ANOTHER STARLESS NIGHT

Pete felt so, so stupid.

In the mornings, Kate would always take care of her mail and various bills and budgets over her first brew of the day. While she was busy, she would never acknowledge Pete, even if he spoke to her. He knew he should’ve taken that oppourtunity to eat his first decent meal in days, but, as always, he was a weak, mewling coward that was too afraid to even face her. He needed the energy for the coming night, he should’ve been building up his reserves for days, but he didn’t, not even when the hunger pains grew so severe that they left him retching on the floor.

Stupid.

He did try though; multiple times, he had crept from his room toward the staircase, and each time, he never got past the first couple of steps before the throbbing of his darkening cheek reminded him of what awaited if he drew her ire.

Each time, his heart would start pounding, tearing the air from his lungs.

Each time, he fled and hid under his bed, burrowing into his pillows and blankets like a damned toddler afraid of the dark.

Pete stifled a sob, cheeks burning with salty tears and shame. He had never been so afraid, so pathetic; he’d never felt so utterly useless. All he was, was a burden. He couldn’t do anything for himself anymore, not even the simple task of descending the stairs, reheating some leftovers, and coming straight back up.

Timmy would offer—Liz too—to coddle him, to lie to his face and say that he wasn’t weak, he was just unwell and recovering. They’d say for him to be easy on himself, but it had been months. He hated that; he hated this feeling.

He sniffled, whining, hating himself for being so… so…

What kind of friend would use the people that cared about him?

Pete reached for a pillow and curled tightly around it, pressing his face into its soft fabric so there was no chance Kate could hear him cry. He laid there until his body had nothing left to give, and wallowed in his misery a while longer, too drained and sore from his efforts with nothing to replenish the energy or tears he just wasted.

The hunger pains had faded overnight, but a dull, empty ache persisted, and the jut of his shoulders and ribs into the hard, wooden floors served as a morbid reminder that he wasn’t going to last much longer; he needed something, he was so hungry.

As if everything else wasn’t enough, a sharp, persistent pain throbbed behind his eyes.

Pete groaned. He needed water, too; he was parched; but the mere thought of it made him sick with fear. One single drop from a clumsy sip was all it would take to earn him another bruise, and that was if he was lucky.

On the nights of the full moon, he was never lucky.

The moon…

A heavy sense of dread loomed over Pete, its stifling weight twisting and crushing his heart. Every time, it would take his mind and destroy any healing he managed over the month. He felt trapped, like nothing he did was ever enough. It laughed in the face of each feeble attempt to regain his former health and independence.

Just make this hell stop, please…!

Some pitiful survival instinct must’ve kicked in, because at last, as if on its own, Pete’s body untangled itself from the nest of blankets and pillows he’d built and pushed himself upright on thin, trembling legs, picked up his cane, and staggered to the door.

He stared at his hand as it rested on the doorknob. The knuckles of his cane hand went white. The sharp tips of his claws clicked and slid easily against the brass; he hadn’t trimmed them in weeks. His breath stuttered in his chest. If he was fast, maybe Kate wouldn’t notice.

Pete took a slow, deep breath, and steeled himself, cementing in his mind what to do, and not to screw up: he would eat a little food, drink some water, and come straight back up. He wouldn’t linger, he wouldn’t bother Kate with more than his presence, and then he would be gone, locked in his room safe.

…As safe as he would ever be…

The thought felt too optimistic. Nothing ever went well for him, but before he could psych himself out again, his mind conjured tantalising images of the leftovers he would find waiting for him in the fridge. His mouth watered and his stomach growled at the prospect of Kate’s stew. He found himself halfway down the stairs before he could stop himself, and soon, he was downstairs, padding through the hall to the kitchen. The only sounds that gave him away were the soft tap of his slippers, and the dull thud of his cane. Thankfully, there was no one in the kitchen to hear his approach.

The terrace seemed quiet… almost too quiet.

A furtive scan of the kitchen and one more glance down the hall confirmed that Kate was nowhere to be seen. Before long, Pete sat at the peninsula, picking at a small bowl of warmed stew and a slice of buttered bread, and sipping carefully at a cup of water. The taste of the stew was unparalleled on his starved tongue, especially when it soaked into the soft, fresh bread and mixed with the butter. Even the first few bites filled him with a comfortable warmth he had not felt since he was last at Timmy’s.

He really should’ve eaten faster.

“You didn’t ask before you took.”

Pete jolted at the harsh voice and turned to find himself squarely under Kate’s withering glare. Even leaned against the wall at the kitchen entrance, her presence oozed malice.

“M-m’am, I—I’m s- I’m sorry, I was ju—j—”

“Shut it. I don’t care about your excuses. In a hurry to feed your own greed is what you were just doing. You know better than to steal; I raised you better than that, even if you are a demon,” she spat.

Pete shrunk under those hard, brown eyes, stung. He may’ve been taller, but he certainly didn’t feel like it; all he wanted to do was disappear under his dressing gown’s hood and flee back upstairs to the safety of his bedroom.

He didn’t though, he couldn’t, not when he was frozen to the spot, daring not even to breathe without her say-so.

“What brings you down here anyway?” Kate asked curtly, “You haven’t had the gall to show your face for days, so. There must be a reason.”

The knot of dread that sat in Pete’s stomach abruptly tightened. There were so many different answers and excuses to skirt the truth warring for his attention that he couldn’t pick any single one to force from his dry, tight throat.

“Answer.”

“I’ll—I-I’ll just—go—” he stammered, moving his stool and abandoning his half-finished bowl, I w-won’t both-bother ye, s’rry ma’am, I—”

“It’s the full moon tonight, isn’t it.”

The words died on his tongue.

The colour draining from his already pallid face must've shown his terror, because she knew without his answer that she was right.

She glanced at her watch, and then fixed her darkening gaze on him.

Pete wished he was faster.

He wished he wasn’t so useless.

Kate was around the peninsula in a heartbeat, taking a fistful of his streaky, ratty auburn hair and forced his head low.

Pete cried and tried to turn away, reaching for the bench before he fell, but Kate’s strength was no match for his starving body. His fumbled attempts at reaching for his cane before she dragged him too far only resulted in it clattering to the floor. He had nothing to support him as he staggered, trying and failing to follow her brutal lead to…

The cellar.

“No, nonono, please!” Pete begged, “Please don’t--!”

“SHUT IT,” Kate barked, tightening her already painful grip on Pete’s hair until he stopped babbling his stupid, pointless pleas. As much as he tried, he couldn’t choke down the dreadful whimpers and cries that his body made regardless.

Pete tried desperately to relieve the strain, but between his injured leg’s complete, agonising inability to take weight, and Kate’s cruel pace, he had no choice but to grab her arm instead.

She hissed a furious insult, voice dripping with venom.

Warmth beaded on Pete’s scalp and a trail of glimmering blood slowly inched its way past his hairline. The terrible sting of the new wounds brought tears to his eyes.

Kate did not let go. Instead, she stopped in front of the cellar door, dragged Pete upright, and set his world spinning and his ears ringing with a vicious slap.

Pete yelped.

A thin stream of blood dripped down his reddening cheek; her ring must’ve caught.

Kate let out a furious breath, seeming to calm; her furious, hateful look cooled, but she wasn’t done with him yet.

Kate released Pete’s hair and reached past him.

The cellar door, it was right behind him. He was leaning on it. Panic shot through Pete, but she opened it and shoved him in with such sudden force that Pete stumbled back, missing the step. He instinctively reached out and caught Kate’s arm in a grip far tighter than before in a desperate attempt to catch himself. Before he realised, he had pulled Kate forward and his claws sunk through her cardigan and pierced her skin, tearing four deep claw-marks into her arm.

Kate shrieked.

Pete’s heart stopped and he released his grip immediately, causing him to fall and hit the stairs awkwardly with a thud and an impact that threw him into a harsh tumble the rest of the way down until he rolled limply to a stop. He lay stunned at the bottom of the stairs, numb until the fall caught up with him and new pain exploded all across his body at each point of impact.

He barely noticed his ability choking his breath and mangling his low, pitiful keens over the blossoming bruises that throbbed on his shoulders and hips, the hot, angry pain that dotted his back where the edges of the stairs collided with fragile scars, and the white-hot agony that set every nerve in his injured leg on fire.

Was he still spinning? Pete’s mind told him that he was motionless on the floor, but his body told him otherwise.

Through hazy double-vision, he could see Kate’s silhouette in the doorway above. He couldn’t make out her expression, but he was sure she glowered on her failure of a phony son, hating him and wishing punishment on him as she watched him shallowly gasp in his pitiful fight for air, clutching her arm.

His gills flared in another failed breath, visible past their coverings.

“Tch,” she hissed.

I’m… I must look hideous… like this, he thought, I am.

The wet was on his hand; blood.

It was her blood on his hands, he realised dimly, wiping it off.

Suddenly, his chest released, and he drank in the dusty air with a deep, horrid gasp.

Everything hurt.

Though the agony in his leg faded, he couldn’t help but choke out short, hoarse sobs as his bruised and cracked ribs quickly made their displeasure known, punishing him with blunt but intense jabs of pain.

Slowly, Kate prowled down the stairs, still holding her arm. Blood had seeped through her sleeve, staining the pretty whites of her clothes red.

Pete knew what she wanted, but why she didn’t thrash him then and there as a precursor was beyond him. Maybe, she thought he’d been punished enough.

“Get in the cage. Or I’ll drag you in myself,” she growled.

It didn’t matter that the last of his strength gave way when Pete tried to pick himself up, he had to take this mercy and obey… even if that meant he crawled like an animal.

He ached in despair at the thought. He didn’t survive for this.

Had he known this was the home that awaited him if he survived that man, he might just have given up. But… what had he expected…?

There was no floor in the cage, only a harsh metal mesh identical to the sides that bit into the skin he couldn’t cover with his dressing gown. He couldn’t remember dragging himself in, but he collapsed, panting. His body must’ve sensed the thin safety the walls granted and kept moving; he wouldn’t—couldn’t be struck until he was let out again.

Click.

Kate’s thin fingers wrapped around the small padlock that looped through the gate and locked the cage shut.

Pete sobbed, but Kate ignored him, climbing the cellar stairs and pulled the door closed behind her. For one fleeting moment, she seemed to hesitate, lingering in the darkened threshold.

Pete wished he was good enough for her, human enough, so that she would love him again, and he could wake up every day and come downstairs for breakfast without fear, so they could sit together and chat over tea or a movie, like they used to. Another shuddering sob wracked his body.

“’m s’rry,” he whimpered.

Alas, there were no stars in the cellar ceiling; only pipes that glimmered with condensation.

Pete made her bleed. There was no going back, she would never forgive him.

The door closed with a soft click, and Kate was gone.

In the dim, Pete curled in on himself with a sniffle, and wrapped his arms around his belly, imagining someone was there to hold him close and whisper softly to him that everything would be alright. Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could trick himself into thinking he was in Timmy’s bed, cosied up with his back against the cool, terrace wall, and his head nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

The hole in Pete’s heart that Timmy’s presence usually filled remained dark and cold, shattering his little dream before he could trick himself into believing it was real.

By the weak, orange-tinged light that shone through a single window at the end of the cellar, he could tell it was late afternoon. It wouldn’t be long before moonrise. Anxiety nibbled at his nerves. Without a clock, there was no telling how long he had. He didn’t know what he would do, or what punishments he would earn, and that scared him deeply.

He just wanted Timmy there to sooth him and assure him that it wasn't anything he’d truly regret when he became lucid again.

It didn’t take long for the window to darken, and for Pete’s thoughts and fears to slowly slip away until he was just a desperate, mindless creature, that strained weakly at its confines for even a drop of moonlight to touch its long-starved skin.

He stayed like that, lost in the trance’s stupor, until the moon set just after dawn, leaving him to slump and fall unconscious at last.

Taglist

@a-crumb-of-whump

@dang-i-like-whump

@nowjustanothermain2notjudge

@painful-pooch

@pigeonwhumps

@whumplovers-collaborate

@whump-cravings

@whumptober-archive

@willowtreewhump

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

#whumptober 2023 #no.17 #“Like Crying Out in Empty Rooms; With No-one there Except the Moon”#solitary confinement #“make it stop.”#OC #writing #emc's writing #Pete Spencer #Kate Spencer #dehumanisation tw #abuse tw #domestic violence tw #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #original whump #nonhuman whumpee #nonhuman whump

4 notes · View notes

tantive404 · 7 months

Text

Summary: Taken captive by Darth Vader, Leia makes a desperate attempt to escape. It doesn't go well.

Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: “Please don’t leave me.”

Whumptober Day 3: Solitary confinement and “make it stop”

#bad things happen bingo #whumptober2023 #no2 #no3 #solitary confinement #“make it stop.”#fic #prompt: please don’t leave me #fandom: star wars #leia organa #darth vader #leia and vader

3 notes · View notes

sheepgirl3 · 7 months

Text

#whumptober 2023 #no.3 #solitary confinement #“make it stop.”#silmarillion #lord of the rings #fic #imprisonment #delusions #brief s*ic*dal ideation #ambiguous ending #past torture #referenced abuse #tw #maeglin #glorfindel #gondolin #Maeglin needs a hug

2 notes · View notes

koscheiisms · 7 months

Text

Whumptober Day 2/3

@whumptober-archive

Prompts: “They don’t care about you” and “Make it stop”

Crawly is having a no good very bad day (whump fic about what her experience of falling was like)!

#whumptober 2023 #no.2 #no.3 #“they don't care about you.”#“make it stop.”#good omens #fanfic #burning tw #fran’sgoposting #frances writes #fran’sficrecs #fran’swhumptober2023 #crowley good omens #she/her crowley #hey wouldn’t it be fucked up if you fell from god’s grace and were so tragically alone

2 notes · View notes

its-my-whump · 7 months

Text

Whumptober 03

“Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.” | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”

You don't need to read the whole story. Everyday can stand for its own. And that poor soul has to suffer through every single one of them, I promise!

Hummingbird 03

(Story starts here) previous

Just blackness.

Breathing was uncomfortable. Warm wet air was all that got into his nose. It tasted used. It tasted old, it tasted like there was not enough oxygen in it.

The next sense awakening was his hearing. Or more hearing his own desperate short breaths. But they were muffed. He could feel himself breathing, but it sounded far away or at least like it was muted by a blanket or something. 'Maybe he was laying under a blanket. That would explain the warm air, he was pulling into his lungs."

He was defenitely laying down. Not only the hard surface his shoulder and hipbone were pressed against, but also the certainty, that he wouldn't be able to stand on his own two feet, reassured him.

Sam was pretty sure he had opened his eyes, but everything was still dark. Maybe it was still night.

He had been to the club, the restroom. A car?

He had bumped his head. 'Maybe, he was temporarly blinded.' The headache was back.

'Where was he? Why couldn't he see anything?' His heartrate picked up. 'There was something on his head. A blanket?'

Out of reflex, Sam wanted to pull away, whatever it was, that forced him to breath his own air. His muscles were still so heavy. A metallic sound and his moving arms were stopped. He had them on his back, while he was laying on his right side. The sound was from some handcuffs restricting his attempt to bring his arms to the front and to free his face. 'He had a hood over his head. That's why the air tasted used. Because it was. That's why, he couldn't hear properly.'

More fabric was wrapped around his eyes and the back of his head. It was slightly warmer and tighter in these places. So his eyes were externally blinded in addition. That's why, he couldn't see nothing at all.'

His heart was hammering almost painfully hard and frantic inside his chest by now. The stomach pain was there again too or was he just panicking too much? His breathing had picked up even more in the meanwhile, he hadn't noticed at first.

In an attempt to get more, so desperately needed air in, he tried to breath through his mouth. Also to fight down the bitter taste in the back of his throat.

Horrified Sam realised, that there was ducktape over his mouth. 'He would suffocate!'

A whimper escaped him. Tears started streaming in desperating. The fabric around his eyes took them without objection. He struggled against his cuffed hands and weak muscles, just to realise, that his feet were restrained too.

Another whimper blocked by the ducktape over his mouth. A though jumped into his head. 'Crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.' It wasn't only the situation, but this random lyric from a classmate years ago letting his panic rise. 'Why was he remembering it now and why this one in particular?' He couldn't make heads or tails of his brain overloading.

Loneliness and fear overtook him completely. But he couldn't surrender to these overwhelming feelings. The urge to throw up was rising every second he was hopelessly fighting. He had to swallow hard, his Adam's apple moved painfully, trying to keep down what was about to rise. His heart wanted to escape his chest and was hammering painfully hard against the inside of his ribs. But it seemed every attempt of it pounding away for more space was futile.

'He would die here. He would suffocate on his own vomit! He needed to calm down!'

Breathing was so hard, there was just not enough air. His head was pounding mercilessly in the rhythym of his heartbeat. He tried to force himself to calm down. 'Make it stop! Just make it stop!' But not being able to breath was shutting down every other unnessessary function in his body and brain. The immobile metalrings around his wrists were drawing blood by now. His feet scrapped over the cool concrete ineffectively. The panic was surpressing any pain.

His own muffed whimpers, between frantic breaths through his nose, were the only sounds.

His stomach cramped, his gullet protested. The strap around his eyes was soaked by his own salty tears. He had hit his head numoures times against the concrete in his desperate fight for survival. Dizzyness was getting worse. 'He was going to die!'

His muted scream was interruped by acid shooting up his tube. But he couldn't open up. Bitterly burning stuff summoned inside his mouth, blocking his airsupport while making its way up his nose. He tried to swallow.

'He couldn't breath. He was going to die now!'

His body violently protested against missing vital support, but his struggle died with every breath he couldn't take.

White stars exploded in his vision and were dancing.

He couldn't hear his own animalistic sounds anymore. He couldn't fight anymore. The pressure in his lungs was pulling him apart from the inside out. His head was going to implode. Darkness was reaching for him. His body went limb.

...

Commotion in the background, someone suddenly appraoched. The hood was violently yanked from his head. He was rolled to the side even more. Ducktape ripped apart.

His jaw was spread open and a hand forced itself into his mouth.

Suddenly there was space for air to get in. His body instantly switched into survival mode and sucked in a liftsaving breath.

TBC

Hummingbird masterlist

@whumptober-archive

#whumptober2023 #no.3 #“Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”#Solitary Confinement #“Make it stop.”#OC #drugged tw #suffocation tw #fear of dying tw #almost dying tw #panic tw #whump #writing #whump writing #whumplr #hummingbird

4 notes · View notes