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platypuslappy · 1 year
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Inspired by a fanfic! It has me on the edge of my SEAT rn, definitely recommended if you like some angst and thrill ! ….and dad Reigen and Tome ofc
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ziptiesnfries · 8 months
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The Interrogation, part 1
Ambrose and Roux are back! This isn't necessarily in-line with what I've written for them previously, but no context required - just that they've never met before in this one :)
CWs: torture, interrogation, broken fingers, nosebleed, blood, creepy whumper
It’s been hours, and Roux can feel their resolve starting to wane. Their body aches, their ears ringing with the questions they’ve been asked over and over: Who sent you? What was your mission? At first, they were creative with their answers, or at least snappy: Your mom, asshole. Who do you think? But now they barely have the energy to speak at all, their body limp in the chair they’re strapped to. Their head hangs, and they stare at the dried spots of blood their nosebleed left on their lap, regretting that they took this job in the first place.
The mission was supposed to be easy. Break in, steal a file, bring it to the client’s meeting place. Simple enough. Roux doesn’t even know who the client is—that’s not their business. They and their team just do what they’re hired for. There are risks, of course, and Roux knows that. Capture is one of them. And torture … well, that’s an inevitable follow-up to capture. But usually, they’d have some kind of warning about that. The client didn’t mention anything like this.
For now, their two torturers are leaving them alone—conferring, planning their next move, maybe—and it’s a welcome reprieve from the pain. Roux enjoys it while they can. They wonder if their team is on the way to rescue them yet. Roux certainly isn’t anywhere close to escaping. They flex their limbs against the restraints, their skin still raw from struggling. There’s no way they’re getting out of this chair on their own, much less this building.
They let out a shaky, measured breath. They’re sure the team is working on an extraction plan. All Roux has to do is survive until then.
A door creaks open, and Roux flinches, becoming alert. “Well? How’s it going?” asks a man’s voice, far too casual about the violence involved in this situation.
“They’re not talking,” one of the torturers replies, sounding annoyed. Roux counts that as a win.
“Really?” Roux tries to track the man’s footsteps by listening, unwilling to crane their neck and make it obvious that they care. “I thought you would’ve gotten something by now …”
His footsteps are getting closer, and Roux tenses, lifting their head. The man appears in the corner of their vision, an alarmingly tall figure in a navy blue suit. Roux assumes he’s the guy they were stealing from—he seems to be the one in charge here. A businessman, maybe? Someone vaguely important? Roux doesn’t keep track of that sort of thing. Besides his height, he doesn’t exactly look menacing—but looks can be deceiving. Of all people, Roux should know that.
He scans them over, his eyebrows shooting up into a swoop of blond hair. “This little thing?” he asks, glancing over at his men. “This is the intruder?”
Roux glares at him, but otherwise, they don’t react. They’re used to these kinds of comments. At 4’11”, with thin, freckly limbs, they don’t look like a threat. Hell, they hardly even look their age. Most people don’t take them seriously, and this man is no exception—despite the fact that they nearly got away with stealing from him.
He leans in with a smile, hands clasped behind his back, his face inches from theirs. “Tell me,” he says in a low voice. “What’s a little thing like you doing sneaking around in my buildings?”
They pause for a moment, as if they’re thinking about actually answering. Then they spit in his face, the glob of blood and saliva landing squarely on his chin. “Fuck you.”
His smile disappears as he flinches back, the glob dripping down his neck. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes it off, regarding them with a calm, oddly blank expression.
They glare straight back at him, but the complete lack of reaction sends a chill down their spine. Still, they refuse to break eye contact, refuse to squirm, as he continues to stare at them.
Finally, without taking his gaze off Roux, he says, “Leave us.” The two torturers vacate without question, closing the door behind them. Despite themself, Roux tenses, bracing for pain.
The man tosses aside his handkerchief, still watching Roux. The edges of his lips quirk up, slowly widening into a smile—a genuine, warm-looking smile. Roux continues to glare, even as their shoulders tense up, their stomach twisting into knots. He looks almost friendly now, and the sheer unexpectedness of it makes it worse than any raging outburst. “I almost forgot to introduce myself,” he says, as if they were just having a casual conversation. “I’m Ambrose—Ambrose Lacrosse. What’s your name?”
That’s a pretentious fucking name, they think, and only their own instinct that something is very wrong here keeps them from saying it out loud. For hours, all they’ve been asked is what they came here for, and they thought the man they were robbing would want to know the same thing. Why does he want their name?
Still with that smile on his face, he steps forward, tracing his thumb across their knuckles. It’s so unexpected that they flinch, curling their hand into a fist, but that doesn’t deter him. “You look so delicate,” he murmurs, fascinated as he runs his thumb over the bony ridges on the back of their hand. Their skin crawls—both at the sensation and the feeling that he’s examining them like an insect pinned to a corkboard. His eyes dart to their face, his fingers grazing the crackly dried blood on their chin. They jerk their head away, and he lets his hand fall, unfazed. “Well, clearly you’re sturdier than you look,” he muses, going back to stroking their hand. “Regardless, I’d rather not have to break anything, so I suggest you answer my question.”
His tone is so casual, his touch so gentle, that it takes a moment for Roux to register it as a threat. Icy coldness creeps into their veins. “Why do you need my name?”
He shrugs as he continues to stroke their hand. “It’s only polite.”
They’re still glaring at him, trying not to let on that his touch is making their skin crawl. It almost feels worse than the beating they got earlier. Violence, they can handle—but what the hell is this? “I'm not polite,” they retort.
“I can see that.” He maintains his smile as he presses his hand into their curled fist, crushing their fingers against the arm of the chair. It’s not enough to hurt yet, but Roux can feel the small bones grating against each other. Ambrose lowers his voice, leaning in. “So don’t make me ask again, sweetheart.”
They feel a flare of anger at the casual pet name—like they know each other or something. Condescending ass. Like hell they’re giving him their name.
Suddenly, his fist slams down on top of theirs. They hiss, their hand uncurling. He pins it flat and grabs their pinky. Before they can react, he yanks it backwards.
Pain explodes in their hand, a choked scream escaping their throat. Their wrist jerks involuntarily against the restraint, but his hand is still wrapped around their broken pinky and the movement makes it worse. They fall still, panting through gritted teeth.
Still with that pleasant smile on his face, Ambrose leans in. “How about that name now?” he asks softly. They glare at him, opening their mouth to curse him out, but they stiffen as he caresses their ring finger. “Unless, of course, you want another broken bone? I’d rather not have to, but …”
They don’t want to give in, but the panic that seizes their chest makes their decision for them. “Roux!” they blurt out. “It’s … it’s Roux.”
He smiles, his hand dropping away. “Roux,” he murmurs, like he’s testing it out, like he’s just as fascinated by their name as he is by their small hands. Suddenly his eyes light up. “Ah! I get it.” He ruffles their red curls, tucking a loose coil behind their ear. They flinch away, their skin crawling—they hate it when strangers touch their hair. He says something in French, and seems disappointed when they stare at him blankly. He shakes his head and switches back to English. “That’s very on the nose; you must have chosen it yourself. It suits you.”
It’s their code name, although by now, it might as well be their real name. They haven’t been called anything else in years. They like it well enough, but they hate hearing it in his mouth. “Fuck off,” they snarl.
He tilts his head, like he finds their swears endearing. Maybe he does; they can’t make sense of him. “Are all redheads this feisty, or are you just unique?”
Their hand throbs with pain, and they want to slump down in exhaustion. The torture took a lot out of them, but not quite as much as talking to him has. Still, they muster the energy to continue glaring at him. “I bet not all redheads would rip out your throat with their teeth.”
His eyes light up. “I’d love to see you try,” he says, like he’s truly curious to see what they’d do if he set them loose. What a goddamn freak.
They lean forward. “Why don’t you let me out of this chair, then?”
For a moment, he looks like he’s considering it. Then he laughs, roughly patting them on the cheek. “Nice try.” He leans in, head tilted, fondness in his eyes. His thumb brushes the dried blood on their chin, and before they can flinch away, he grips their jaw. “You’re lucky you’re cute, sweetheart, otherwise I’d just have my men kill you,” he says softly. “As it is, I’m not quite sure what I want to do with you yet.”
Their blood runs cold, and they find themself unable to pull away. If he wanted them dead, they could handle that. They could spit in his face again, curse at him, or at least stall until their team shows up to rescue them. But this? Him wanting them alive feels far more dangerous than that.
Before they can think of a response, he releases them, straightening up. “Well, I’m sure I’ll figure something out,” he says casually. “I’ll let you rest in the meantime. Poor thing, you look exhausted.” He gives them a sympathetic look, and they genuinely can’t tell whether or not he’s mocking them. But then he’s gone, patting them on the head on his way out the door.
For a moment, they’re frozen, still processing the interaction. Slowly, they slump down in the chair, dread settling over them. They’ve got to get the hell out of here—before he figures out what to do with them.
part 2 - Masterpost
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Jane's Pets Part 89: Powerless
TWs in the tags
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At first, Charlie suspected that the woman was orchestrating all of this somehow. It was hard to believe that a child would do all this without being manipulated, and the woman Jane calls 'Puppy' is the only adult they know of who interacts with Jane consistently besides them.
But… they've seen how Jane treats her. The more she hurts her, the harder it becomes to believe that the woman has any part in Jane… being Jane.
They still hate her, hate the way she does whatever Jane says, hate how broken she is, but they don't think she's the one making Jane torture people anymore. They don't think anyone's making Jane do this at all. She just… wants to. Like she keeps saying.
Charlie groans. Everything hurts, this is fucking unbearable, they can't take any more of this. And the woman is not helping.
"Stop, stop! Couldn't you at least warn me when something is going to hurt??"
The woman looks at them blankly, but does stop cleaning their wounds when asked.
"I know you don't talk, fucking- bootlicker, obeying her like that- but can't you… I don't know, signal in some way? Fucking- I don't know-"
She taps their arm twice and looks at Charlie expectantly.
"...yeah, that'll work."
She taps their arm twice again, then goes back to cleaning the wound.
"...thank you."
She hums in acknowledgement. She's… so calm. She's always so calm, through Jane's threats and Charlie calling her a 'fucking bootlicker.' That makes Charlie angry too. She's just… accepted this. That this is her life. Why would being threatened or insulted upset her, when this is just how things are? It drives Charlie crazy. How can she just give up like that? How can she accept this??
The woman taps their arm twice before starting stitches. They don't know how to do stitches. Did she know before this, or did she learn out of necessity? They watch carefully, as nauseating as watching is. They know they'll need to be able to do this someday.
…in case they need to be able to this someday. It's not inevitable. They haven't given up, they're not like her.
The woman starts getting them bandaged. She's always so gentle with them, no matter how they treat her. Even when Jane orders her to torture them, she's gentle, using the least painful methods she can while still following Jane's orders. 
She is completely and utterly powerless. She's given up control over her voice, she's given up control over when she eats and sleeps, and she never disobeys. She's given up her name. And still, she is gentle. She's accepted that this is how things are always going to be, and she's still gentle. She listens when Charlie asks her to stop, and she thought up a warning signal when asked.
She accepts the status quo without complaint, and then tries to soften the status quo as much as she can. But she doesn't fight. She's happy with warning them when pain will come and never actually doing anything to fight the system that put them in pain in the first place. She's powerless because she chooses to be.
Charlie never, ever wants to be anything like her.
~-~-
Puppy gently brushes the fur of all her stuffed animals. She feeds them and soothes them and wipes their fur gently with a damp washcloth to keep them clean. She sets them on a windowsill so that they get plenty of sunlight.
Master never hurts her stuffed animals. She hid them that one time, sure, but they came out of that just fine, if a little shaken. Master (rightfully) assumes she'd be more upset by real people getting hurt, but it does provide a small comfort. Puppy can't protect her friends, but she can protect her pets. It would be horrible if she couldn't even have that, if she couldn't protect anything at all. But she can keep that secret from Master. Master can assume that her stuffed animals are just comfort objects instead of pillars holding up what little sense of self she has left, and Puppy won't correct her.
Kitty and Bunny are out tending to Bunny's garden. Puppy would love to join, but there are a lot of bees, and the last time she got stung Master poisoned everyone because she needed to rest after the epipen instead of making dinner, so… she's staying inside. She's glad they have each other.
"You're so cute, playing with your toys."
Puppy's gotten fairly used to Master appearing out of nowhere. She barely even flinches.
"My cute little Puppy. You've been so good lately. I can tell you really want to make up for speaking without permission." Master starts to undo the straps of her muzzle. She only put it back on yesterday, after their movie night. Puppy is surprised to have it off again so soon, at least for something besides eating. At least, it doesn't look like Master is taking it off for her to eat…
"You deserve a reward, I think."
Puppy's eyes narrow. Is this some sort of trick? Or is Master just using a reward to make punishments worse by comparison, and to make being good more appealing?
Master laughs. "Do you not believe me? Have I ever lied about a reward before?"
Puppy nods immediately. Yes, she has. Many times.
Master laughs again. "Oh, I have, haven't I? Well, I guess you'll just have to decide if it's worse to get caught off guard because you were expecting a reward, or worse to not fully enjoy your reward because you were too busy anticipating a trap. Anyway. Your reward is getting to speak today."
That's even more suspicious. She got to speak a couple days ago, even if it was just to interrogate Jared. Why would Master give her another treat like that so soon afterwards?
"Don't look at me like that-" 
Puppy's face immediately drops into a neutral expression. Master laughs. 
"See, you're such a good girl. You should have something nice. Your last reward must feel so long ago for you, since you're mortal. I lost track." Master takes out the remote that controls Puppy's shock collar. She flinches, but when Master presses a button, nothing happens.
"There. You can talk for the rest of the day. How does that sound?"
Puppy hums softly to test that the collar is really off. No shock. There's not really a reason to do that, the shock will hurt just as badly whether it's triggered with soft humming or words. She just… it would feel worse to have the shock interrupt her talking than her humming. "That sounds wonderful, Master."
She's still suspicious. But… it has been a while since her last reward. And even if it is a trick, she might as well enjoy the ability to speak while it lasts.
She also thinks… she used to be allowed to talk a lot more. But since Master started muzzling her, she stopped giving Puppy permission to speak for when she just wants to hear Puppy's opinions. She doesn't give Puppy permission to speak for a couple of sentences anymore, and she doesn't give Puppy permission to speak just on a whim anymore. It has to be something big, like a game or an interrogation.
Maybe it's part of her punishment for speaking without permission (which must have been months ago). Maybe having the extra steps of taking off the muzzle and turning off the collar, and then putting the muzzle back on and turning the collar back on afterwards, makes letting her speak just for a few sentences not worth the effort. Whatever it is… Puppy thinks that maybe, Master misses Puppy talking to her, even though Master is the one who prevented it in the first place.
Or maybe she's just projecting how much she misses those small moments, now that they're gone. It doesn't matter. She should focus on enjoying it while it lasts
"Thank you, Master."
She wants to go talk to Kitty and Bunny, but she waits for Master to leave or dismiss her. Just to be safe. Master pets Puppy's hair.
"Bunny doesn't really know anything about you, huh? I think you should tell him things. He was so vulnerable with you, telling you about his dad." Of course she was watching. Of course. "You should tell him something equally vulnerable." Master smiles cruelly. "You should tell him about how your so unlovable even your parents couldn't love you."
And then Master's gone. Watching from her void, Puppy's sure. The barb doesn't sting as badly as its probably meant to- she knows Master thinks Puppy's parents were the problem, not her.
"You were a child." She said. "You should've- they should've- and they think they're in the right!" (and then she broke another one of Puppy's fingers but that's not the important part of that memory-)
Master doesn't like 'evil people who think they're good,' as she put it. Being evil is fine, being evil and pretending to be good is fine, but truly believing you're in the right while doing evil things is unacceptable to her. Her emotions don't tend to be very intense, so it's more of a philosophical belief than any sort of disgust or anger towards 'evil.' It's… an interesting perspective. If Puppy's parents had been cruel on purpose, if they were cruel because they wanted to hurt her, Master probably would've just laughed about it. It's the way that they insist they did everything right that makes Master roll her eyes when they're brought up, at least usually. Master trying to hurt Puppy by saying 'your parents didn't love you' is honestly kind of funny to Puppy.
Really, that whole thing is just filling Puppy with a sense of relief. That's the catch, that's the trick- forcing her to share her story (and it is forcing, Puppy knows she'll be punished if she doesn't) on Master's terms instead of her own. It sucks, but she would've told Bunny eventually anyway. They're very close, and it probably would've already come up if she could talk to him as often as she wishes she could. There are much, much worse things Master could force her to say, anyway. Master's just bored and wants to see how Bunny will react. There might be another trick, but at least this one won't hurt.
She leaves her room and heads to the back door. The others seem surprised to see her unmuzzled, and even more surprised when she cracks the door open and asks "can you come inside, please?"
The two of them come in quickly, and follow her to the couch. Whe she sits down, they follow suit.
"Master's given me permission to speak all day today. She also said she wanted me to tell you about my childhood. Kitty already knows. I was allowed to speak a lot more when it was just us, because she'd rather let me speak than have to deal with comforting either of us herself, which she would've had to do in order to prevent us shutting down if she didn't let me speak. Now that you're here… I've been allowed to speak a lot less." She's rambling. When's the last time she was allowed to ramble? "That's not really important. Just… I'm going to tell you about my childhood, and then we can talk. About anything. For the rest of the day."
Bunny nods. "That sounds nice. I promise I won't… um, make you telling me a big deal. Unless you want me to."
She shakes her head. Wait, she can talk! "I don't. Thank you."
Kitty is staring at Puppy intently. Trying to focus, she guesses. This… this is better than them being tortured. She rather this than hearing them scream and cry in the basement. 
"I… um, I don't know how to start. I guess just… being born? My parents strongly believed- believe? I don't know, I don't know if they still believe that, or if they're even still alive… I'll use past tense, cause it's in the past. My parents believed that if you conceive a child, it's your responsibility- your duty- to raise that child to adulthood. They were, y'know, very anti-abortion, and said putting up a kid for adoption was the coward's way out… Um…" This is awkward. Politically charged topics tend not to come up, seeing as their main concerns don't really involve things that are influenced by politics. She guesses the way that Jane picks pets who have no one who'd notice they're gone, and how that tends to be marginalized people, is related to politics… but it's not like she would stop taking pets in a society where everyone had what they needed… Oh, and she guesses respecting Kitty's gender identity at all would be considered political, at least by some people…
She can share these thoughts. She's allowed. "It feels awkward to talk about something… so… separate from us. We're never going to be involved with society on that level every again." Bunny winces, but Puppy doesn't correct herself. It's true. "And I'm scared, I think, that you'll agree with my parents. Because this topic has never come up. I mean, I know Kitty didn't agree with them, but I don't know…"
"Don't worry. I mean, it's not something I've ever really had to think a bunch about, I wasn't very politically active, I uh… hope you don't hate me for that-"
"I could never hate you." She really couldn't. She can't even hate Jane half the time. But even if she could hate people the way Kitty can, she wouldn't hate Bunny.
"Thanks." He seems genuinely relieved. Puppy would very much like to delve into why he would think she would… and she can! After she does what Master ordered, though. "Anyway, yeah, I don't agree with your parents. People should choose what happens to their bodies, and if another body is completely dependant on theirs… that sucks, but doesn't take away that right. That's… I probably didn't need to go into exactly why- I just want you to feel comfortable sharing with me- sorry. I'll shut up now."
"No need to be sorry. I guess I didn't really need to go into that at all. What's important is: my parents didn't want me, and they were against abortion, and they thought putting me up for adoption risked me having a bad childhood when if they kept me they could guarantee I had a good childhood. In their minds, at least. So they raised me. And… they told me about how they made that sacrifice, all the time. I don't even remember the first time, it feels like I've always known…
"Besides that, they were good though. Good parents. I never was afraid of them, and I had everything I needed. Even birthday parties and things I didn't need. I knew they didn't want me, but I thought…" she takes a few deep breaths to compose herself. She can't afford to cry, she doesn't know when she'll next get water. "I felt loved. So my childhood was good. And then, the second I turned 18, they kicked me out. I wasn't even done with highschool yet." She stops. "Sorry. I shouldn't complain, I know you were kicked out and didn't have anywhere else to go-"
"You can complain. That's fucked up."
Kitty nods. "I don't think you even realize how fucked up it was." They've said similar things before when the topic came up.
"I know it was fucked up! I just… if I'd been left homeless it would be even more fucked up. That's all."
Kitty opens their mouth to retort, but ends up not saying anything. They go back to their intense staring, doing their best to listen. 
"That's really it. One of my friend's parents had already offered to let me stay with them if things got bad with my parents. I was really lucky. They helped me finish highschool, and then I became a flight attendant and freelance writer, and then I got abducted by Master. I, um… I felt unlovable for a long time, but I made good friends who showed me otherwise. Um, before Master abducted me, I mean, but you guys are good at making me feel loved too." She laughs. "Believe it or not, I was pretty well adjusted before all this."
Bunny squeezes her hand.
"That's all. We can talk about something else now." 
She's worried Master won't be entertained enough by that conversation, but there's not really anything more she can do to spice it up besides lying, and Master mentioned wanting vulnerability. 
It doesn't matter. She has no control over how entertained Master is right now. There's nothing more she can do. She's powerless.
She lets that be a comfort. She's powerless, so she doesn't have any responsibility right now. Other than following her rules of course, eating or drinking or sleeping without permission will still get them hurt, but besides that she has no control. She can just enjoy her reward.
A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else, or if you want to be added to or removed from the tag list!
Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @whump-in-the-closet @scp-1296 @thecosmicmap @quins-whump-stuff @fuckcapitalismasshole
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jovialoddity · 5 months
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They took my fucking eyes
(Image description in Alt Text. Reblogs always appreciated!!)
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bones-of-a-rabbit · 7 months
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Afton Virus’d Y/N AU: Inciting Incident !
(don’t worry tho they’re ok they’re just murdering ppl now 😌)
(Alternative take on how the blood could’ve looked and a fun fact abt the au below!)
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Fun fact, in the very first original babies-first-au-concept of this AU, reader’s ‘inciting incident’ (aka what would’ve started them on the path of Violencing) was finding an old spring lock suit while clearing out some storage! They found a piece of the instructions on how to operate the suit, got curious, tried it on, and got spring’d! Ain’t that just the worst. They survive, but are now traumatized and covered in grisly scars, and FazCo, being completely and utterly unable to read the room, is like ‘heyyyy so we know u almost died but uh. What if we fire u and make u sign an NDA buuuut u get a nice check out of it <3’ and reader is like wtf no????? Ur gonna promote me and let me stay here or im telling everyone and FazCo is like ‘Jesus fine be like that’ AND THATS HOW IT STARTS IG LMAO
(Also, yes, reader’s hands were destroyed by this machine (no idk what it is exactly sorry lmao) bc they thought it was off when in reality the light that’s supposed to indicate when it’s on was busted or burnt out lol rip)
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justbreakonme · 1 year
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A whumper that likes the punishment to fit the crime.
Whumpee scratches them? Rip out their nails.
Refuses to speak? Gags them for days.
Whumpee spits at them? No water for as long as is physically possible.
Tries to run? Breaks their leg.
Everything whumpee does is met with brutal swiftness, and soon, their spirit is starting to break. The satisfaction of rebelling is not worth the pain it brings, not even close.
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academiccockroach · 4 months
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it's 1 AM and I have a very specific bone to pick with a very specific thing I consume, enjoy and endorse wholeheartedly
here's the thing about vampire bites. they are depicted as this little unhinged and nasty but mostly sexy thing right. our guy (gender neutral) gets bitten and it's like ah! it hurts but also it hurts good ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). and here im talking about like. proper vampire teeth, non of that twilight bullshit just two to four proper fangs nothing more nothing less
well clearly the person writing the sexy biting smut scene has never been bitten by a cat. I dont mean like 'ah no Scruffy bit me a little' i don't even mean 'oh no Sceuffy bit me a lot' i mean like a fully grown ass feral cat that has never been touched by human in its life and craves the taste of flesh biting thru skin muscle cartilage -even sometimes bone- whatever the fuck you got in your meat sack that tiny needle thin tooth is piercing right through it
and here's the thing. it doesn't hurt at first oh no. okay well it hurts but if doesn't hurt too much ya know what i mean. and it leaves a cute little mark nothing serious at all
but in a day that wound is gonna swell. and it's gunna. hurt like all fuck because it just directly injected about five gazillion bacteria directly into a neat little incubation pouch and then closed it right up. its gona swell its gonna ooze and throb and hurt and if that shits in your neck ur pretty much done for i mean an infection right next to the jugular is just easy mode for the bacteria
so unless your vampire boyfriend gargles with antiseptic beforehand you aint gotta worry about turning or bleeding out or developing a biting kink cus youre gonna be delirious from meningitis with a football sized phlegmone in your neck beggjng for the sweet sweet release of death thank you for coming to my ted talk please ensure your vampire boyfriend employs proper dental hygiene
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skarwriteswhump · 1 year
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Spy Whumpee
“You won’t ever have to go back there, ever again… I’ll make sure of it” Caretaker said softly into Whumpee hair, holding them tight. 
To caretaker’s surprise, Whumpee laughed lightly against their shoulder.
Their body was battered, several of their ribs were broken, their face was riddled in bruising and the poor, bandaged, broken hands were gently resting on top of the sheets. 
Whumper had taken a hammer to them, breaking each and every finger on each hand. Caretaker couldn’t even imagine how much it would have hurt.
Their throat was rough from screaming and their laugh was hoarse, nothing byt a wheeze really, but it was there. 
“Caretaker… do you really think it’s the first time I’ve run away?” asked Whumpee, resignation in their eyes as they looked up at Caretaker. 
“What do you mean? You made it here to the headquarters, Whumper can’t get to you” Caretaker said, confused. 
“Caretaker” Whumpee said weakly, like Whumpee was pitying them, like Whumpee knew something that Caretaker didn’t “I’m the spy, headquarters need me on the inside… they’ll send me back as soon as I’m healed up… as I said this isn’t the first time I’ve escaped… they always send me back.”
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Broken bones in whump? Yes. A classic.
But broken bones that don't heal right? Even better. Whumpees' with broken ribs, whose bones twist in the wrong way, curving in and out at the wrong angles, making every breath beyond painful. Every slight movement serves as a reminder of Whumper and the control they have over Whumpee. Whumpees' with fingers who have been crushed one too many times. Maybe they constantly tried to attack Whumper and after the last attempt, Whumper refused to set the broken fingers. Broken legs that leave Whumpee with a limp and no way to escape. It's one of the versions of: "You're going to regret that" that has lasting torment for Whumpee.
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whump-queen · 1 year
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drawings of my pretty baby @the-wind-anon
general whump taglist: @whumpshaped  @whumpsday @emmettnet   @a-whump-sideblog  @whump-it-like-its-hot  @wolfeyedwitch  @whumper-soot  @unorganisedalienrubbish  @kira-the-whump-enthusiast  @hidden-dreamland @whumpedydump @lonesome--hunter @ashh-ed @whump-in-the-closet @oriantthegiant @banditosong @anonymustyou @feralwhump @jieunie-23 @whumpasaurus101 @morning-star-whump @whmp @captain-bo-bob-bobby • lmk if you don’t want to be tagged in art!
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little-peril-stories · 6 months
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Whumptober 2023: Are You Nobody, Too?
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So these tags happened in June:
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Okay. Like, I know not everything needs to be explained in a story. Sometimes, things can just happen. But once an idea gets into my head, it's very hard to let go. So, here's Where She Learned To Do That.
(It's so long omg I'm so sorry in advance please forgive me.)
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Whumptober 2023 Masterlist
Warnings: angst, blood (only a little), traumatic memories
Chapter 46 | Chapter 49 | Box in Your Heart | TPOT Masterlist | Finale Part 1
Word count: 6500 || Approx reading time: 26 mins
Are You Nobody, Too?
Teaser: “Can I help you?” He looks me over with a vaguely confused and slightly appraising look. As his gaze travels, I remember what Stella said about him being a bad apple. More important, though, is the thing she said about him starting fights. “I think you might.”
“Oh. Look who’s back.”
I glance up from the gravy stain I’m scrubbing from the front of my apron, wondering what has lent the vaguely sarcastic, displeased quality to Stella’s voice. Not that it’s that different from how she usually sounds, but there’s a touch more disdain there. Even though I’m not sure if she’s actually talking to me or if she expects a response, I ask, “Who?”
Victoria, next to me, looks around at the empty dining room. “Um…”
“Not in here,” says Stella impatiently. “Out there.” She jerks her head toward the window, where the sun is shining brightly despite the chill that’s creeping in—hinting at the looming autumn, heralding the end of summer, turning the leaves from brilliant green to yellow.
Celeste, hearing the tone, joins us. “Oh, that Bailey boy.”
“Oh,” Victoria says. She sounds disapproving, as I guess she’s supposed to, but maybe I’m the only one who notices her cheeks turn a little pink.
“Who?” I think sometimes they forget I’m not from around here, and that Bailey boy means nothing to me, and it certainly won’t bring out the shocked-and-appalled reaction Stella is clearly looking for.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I steal a glance outside. All I can see of the man in question is a set of long legs, a relaxed, loping gait, and a head of golden curls. Nothing questionable that I can see, certainly nothing to put such disdain into Stella’s voice.
When I look back at her, she’s frowning. “If you don’t know him, Lucy, consider yourself fortunate. A bad apple, that one.”
Chuckling, Celeste murmurs, “Oh, Stella, he’s not so bad.”
I duck my head slightly, glad of my long sleeves, and wonder if Stella knows how skilled she really is at picking out rotten apples from the ripe ones. “Oh, I see.”
Victoria gives me a half-warning, half-amused look. I know what you’re doing.
And it works, too, because after a few long minutes of making Stella wait for me to ask about whatever gossip—and unsolicited advice—she obviously wants to share, she launches right into it. “He goes away in the spring and summer, that boy, off working who-knows-where, and I think we can all agree it’s hardly likely to be honest work, but he comes back when the weather turns cold.” She screws up her face. “I’ve thrown him out of here for starting fights more times than I can count, and he’s…well, he’s quite the Romeo—it’s no secret—more lecherous than I’ve ever seen or care to see again. Stay away.” She spins to face Victoria. “Isn’t that right?”
“Of course,” Victoria squeaks, her cheeks flushing fully. I swear Celeste, who has a far more palatable sense of humour than Stella does, is about to burst into a laugh.
So am I, but I keep it together. After all, I’ve only been here since the spring, not even a year, and I don’t want to ruffle Stella’s feathers too much. She’s the one who pays me every week, after all.
“You’re going to have to use soap on that apron,” Celeste says lightly, watching me struggle, “or it’s never going to come out.”
I nod, resigned to the fact that she’s probably right, but really only half-listening, anyway. Something Stella said is sticking in my brain, and it’s not the thing about staying away from That Bailey Boy.
***
I sit on it for days, obviously, because the very thought of putting my idea into action makes me break out in a cold sweat, and it’s easier to keep working my ass off and stay on Stella’s good side. I don’t even bring him up again, mostly because I don’t see him, and I have a feeling that if I get Victoria on the subject, she’s either going to talk my ear off about whatever happened between her and That Bailey Boy or get annoyed at me for prying, and I don’t have the energy for either.
But one day he’s just out in front of some house near the outskirts of town, chopping wood. It’s the sound, the thwack and crack of splitting logs that draws my attention first, then the bright sunny hair, and I recognize who I’m looking at.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped until he halts what he’s doing and says, “Uh…hello?”
And I suppose I have little choice but to say, “Hello,” and I guess my idea is now a plan.
“Can I help you?” He looks me over with a vaguely confused and slightly appraising look. As his gaze travels, I remember what Stella said about him being a bad apple.
More important, though, is the thing she said about him starting fights. “I think you might.”
He frowns and stands up straight, leaving his axe in the chopping block. “And how’s that?”
Before I can lose my nerve, and before I can think things through, I say, “I hear you like to fight.”
Fuck, what a way to begin.
Luckily, his mouth twists into a barely stifled laugh. “You’ve been talking to that old bag who runs the inn.”
“So?” Why am I so nervous? I’ve seen what a real bad apple looks like. This guy’s nothing.
Leaning against the handle, he tips his head to the side. “Who the hell are you, anyway? Never seen you around here before.”
“I’m Lucy.” I rush the name, throw it out before I can fuck up and say the real thing. “I want you to teach me to fight.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Why the hell would you need to learn how to fight?”
“I just do.”
In case anyone ever tries to hurt me again.
In case Constable Baden Hatchett ever finds me, and I have to choose to fight or die.
“I don’t know, Miss. I got enough trouble as it is.” There’s something off about the way he says it—like he doesn’t really believe his own words. Like he’s still fighting back a laugh. “But I sure appreciate you thinking of me. Even though we’ve never met before now.”
A smirk that feels familiar even though I’ve never seen it before slips over his face.
“I’ll pay you for the lessons.” I almost say, I can make it worth your while, but at the last second, I realize that is open to far too many interpretations. “It’ll be a business arrangement.”
“Girls don’t fight,” he says pointedly, and now it’s me who’s smirking.
“They do,” I say, “and they can get damn good at it if someone teaches them how to do it right.” Girls do fucking fight, and if they did it even more, they might have fewer worries and fewer scars. “I want to learn how to protect myself.”
He stands up straight again, resting his hand on the axe handle. He sweeps another curious gaze from my face to my feet. “And you’re asking me?” I nod. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Lucy.”
“Why you wanna defend yourself, Lucy? Who’re you afraid of?”
Clenching my jaw, I say, “I’d just feel safer if I knew how to protect myself, that’s all. Just in case.”
Back down goes his head, tipping to the side. “Well. Guess it’s the gentlemanly thing to do, saying yes.”
“Just lessons.” I don’t know if he needs the reiteration, but Stella’s warning is ringing in my head now that I’ve gone and done exactly what she said not to do. “Fighting. Self-defence. That’s all.”
“You really gonna pay up?” Up, down. The gaze flicks over me again.
What else can I do but nod? I don’t want to give up part of my wages to this stranger who I’ve been explicitly told to avoid. But who else would have even listened to my request?
“All right then, Lucy.” He extends a brown, calloused hand. “Henry Bailey.”
“Pleased to meet you, Henry.” I wonder if he can tell how nervous I still am.
“It’s gonna be a pleasure doing business with you, I’m sure.” He cracks another smile. It’s handsome, and I hate it, because it’s not even malicious. Sly, perhaps, and undeniably bemused. But there’s no cruelty or debauchery in his gaze.
“See them stables over there?” He points. “They’re not being used right now. Meet you there tomorrow.”
“I have to work.”
He snorts. “Then come after you’re done.”
“I work late.”
“You wanna learn, or what?”
“Of course I do, I just—”
He lifts the axe again, shrugging his shoulders. “Before work or after work. Your pick.”
I grit my teeth, already wondering if I’ve made a terrible mistake. “Aft—no.” Do I want to be alone with this man in the middle of the night, in the dark? “Before.”
“All right then. See you at sunup.”
The next log lands on the block, splits with a shriek, and the two halves hit the ground, the cut clean and perfectly precise.
***
“I’m not teaching you shit,” he says, “till you can make a fist and hold it right.”
I haven’t spent much time in barns before, and I’m not sure I like it much. A musty smell clings to the air, and even though it’s a bit too dim to see properly, I’m sure there must be dust everywhere. There’s still hay littering the ground, not particularly fresh, and I definitely heard something skittering around—or several somethings, more like—when we opened the door. Henry Bailey is wandering around, inspecting the space, kicking detritus out of the way to clear a space in the middle. Even though it’s early, with autumn light creeping up the horizon, he doesn’t seem tired.
Lucky bastard.
“What do you mean, hold it right?” I ball my hand into a fist and peer down at it. When I look up, he’s smirking.
“How d’you like broken knuckles? Shattered elbows?”
I watch him warily. When he doesn’t say anything else, I realize he actually expects an answer. “I don’t, obviously.”
“Then you’re gonna have to learn how to make a real fist.”
“Okay…” I relax my hands. “What do I do, then?”
He pauses now, studying me again. “Why do you want this again?”
“That’s none of your business.”
His mouth twitches. “You came looking for me, asking for lessons, but it’s not my business.”
“No.”
With a shrug, he says, “If you say so.” In a few strides, long legs sweeping up clouds as he walks, he appears in front of me. “Don’t slouch like that. You already look like you’re fucking terrified.”
“I’m not,” I say, glaring.
“Bullshit.” Out of nowhere, he winks. “That Stella hag told you all kinds of stories, didn’t she?”
“How do you know I know her?”
“She hates my guts and tells all the pretty girls to stay away,” he says with a grin. “I broke a chair in her inn once.” He pauses. “No. Wait. Twice.”
He hates my guts. Like everyone else.
I don’t hate you.
The same words—that conversation, that ridiculous sentiment expressed to someone I barely knew a damn thing about, almost a year old now—come back to me, and it sounds so real, as if he’s here standing in front of me, and not this guy. Fire sweeps through my face, just as it did back then.
Henry notices, and a flicker of laughter crosses his face. “Jeez. I’m not that scary.”
“No,” I agree. “You’re not.”
“Well, then, fucking stand up straight.”
We stare at one another, both of us sizing the other up, and I’m keenly aware of how much this first lesson is going to set the tone for all the ones that follow.
“You are an asshole, though,” I say, but I straighten my spine, put my shoulders back, and plant my feet.
That Bailey Boy barks out a laugh. “Now we’re getting somewhere. If you want to fight, we need more of that and less of the—” He adopts a high-pitched voice that’s obviously meant to mimic mine. “—pleased to meet you, Henry horseshit. If you got a spine, you’re gonna have to show it.”
“You really are an asshole.” He has no fucking idea. “I have got a spine.”
“Good. Then you’re gonna prove it.” In one smooth motion, he clasps my wrist and pulls my arm up, raising his eyebrows when every part of me goes stiff. “Thought you weren’t afraid of me?”
But it’s not him, not really. “I’m not.”
“Look.” He lets go. “You asked me for this. You just said you aren’t scared. But I barely touched you and you froze. You’re either in it or you’re not, so which is it?”
“I…”
Once again, he just waits for my reply.
“I’m in it,” I say.
“Then wipe that look off your face and get used to this.” He takes my arm again. “Lots of ways to make a fist. Thumb in, thumb out, below, on top. Straight on, twisted. They all work for different things, long as you know when to use them.”
This makes me glare. “I thought I was supposed to learn the right way.”
“Joke’s on you. They’re all the right way. Depends on what you’re trying to do and who you’re up against.”
 With my eyes narrowed, I wait for him to tell me he’s messing around.
Instead, he lets go, leaving my arm in mid-air, and says, “How would you hold your arm if you were about to punch me?”
“I am about to punch you.” I make a fist and draw my arm back.
The smirk on his face says that I most certainly am not, and his words confirm it as he points out everything I’ve done wrong in the last thirteen seconds in the simple motion of pulling my arm back for a strike.
“If you can,” he says, when he’s done, paying no heed to the flaming heat in my face, “you should try to build up your strength. Get some muscle. If you’re really serious.”
As if I’d know the first thing about doing that, or even have the opportunity to even try. “How much free time do you think I have?”
He shrugs. “Just a suggestion.”
Without warning, he moves behind me. “You scared of getting jumped?” It’s unsettling how his voice has gotten closer to my ear, but I can’t see him anymore. “That why you want to learn?”
“Sure.” I doubt Baden Hatchett or any of his constables would be sneaking up from behind if they got close enough to rearrest me, but it’s a true enough statement.
“You been jumped before?”
Long ago, a boy and a girl in an alley. Their faces flash in my mind. A year later, another alley, a man, falling snow, and that same boy, with his hands brushing my face.
I swallow the sudden temptation to cry. “I guess.”
“You guess?” Still behind me, Henry snorts. “You’re a real puzzle.”
Good. I’m going to keep it that way, too.
“Still. Smart.” He laughs. “Lotta nasty people out there.”
I whirl around, stupid Stella’s stupid voice in my stupid brain. “Don’t you dare try anything, Henry Bailey. I’m trusting you, and I’d you—”
“Jeez, Lucy.” He sighs and takes a step back. “This doesn’t seem much like trust, does it?”
And now we’re back in another long stare, a stand-off. I hate myself for looking away first. “You’re trying to scare me.”
“You think you’re gonna take on a grown-ass man who wants to hurt you, and you can’t even handle being a little scared?”
…She was looking for good pickpockets but also ones who could handle being scared a little…
“Stop messing with me.” Anger spills into my voice. “I’m fucking serious about this, and you’re hiding behind me and making fun of me. Are you going to teach me, or should I fucking find someone else?”
That Bailey Asshole is grinning. “You sure got a mouth on you.”
“So I’ve heard,” I snap. “Are you helping me or not?”
“Where the hell did you come from, Lucy…?” He pauses then, realizing that I never gave him a surname.
With a huff, I spin on my heel and head for the door. What a goddamn waste of time.
Footsteps, dust, and a grip on my wrist.
“Let go.”
“Lesson one,” he says smoothly, ignoring the command. With his free hand, he takes mine and guides it up to the wrist that grabbed me. “If someone grabs you. How to get out.”
The panic that was welling within me begins to ebb. He’s serious. He’s going to teach me.
He’s serious, and so am I.
***
Victoria practically goes into hysterics when she sees the bruises for the first time. “Lucy! What on earth happened to you? Are you all right?”
A quick glance in the mirror reveals the weeks’ worth of bruises that have built up on my arms, legs, and back, most of which have resulted from me falling into things after losing my balance or tripping over my goddamn skirt. I told Henry I wanted to wear trousers, thinking it would be easier to learn, and he just laughed in my face.
“Uh…no?” He’d cracked up, even twisted the knife a little harder by pretending to wipe tears from his eyes. “Why would that be a good idea? Are you likely to be wandering around in pants? If you don't learn how to fight in a dress now, you won’t know what to do when it really counts.”
Infuriatingly, he was right, and now I have purple and yellow splattered all over my limbs to show for it.
Of course, Victoria doesn’t know that this is all pain I’ve willingly signed up for, and she flies across our room, only half-undressed, to clasp my hands. “Who did that to you? Are you all right? Who’s hurting you like this?”
“Oh, my goodness. Victoria.” I know I should take her questions seriously, but the earnest concern in her face is so sweet and endearing—and misplaced—that I have to giggle. “No one’s hurting me. You don’t have to worry.”
“Lucy! Don’t lie to me!” She stares at a nasty one on my upper arm, dealt when I fell directly onto the corner of the barn’s windowsill by pure bad luck. “Look at the state of you!”
I bite my lip. Telling her I’m spending hours outside of work letting Henry Bailey put his hands all over me as he teaches me how to defend myself in case my former fiancé and jailer ever reappears to cart me back to prison or to the gallows… Not a wise idea.
“I’m…” Even though I lie to her every day of my life, I still hate it. There’s not a mean bone in her body, not an ounce of spite in her blue eyes, and I can’t imagine how hurt she’d be to learn I’ve never once been truthful about who I am.
“You’ve been sneaking out, too,” she says, “so early in the morning, and—”
“I fell.” I’m not sure Victoria’s stupid enough to believe me, but all I can do is try. Then again, I told her the IA tattoo, something I succeeded in hiding for only about a month, was a religious thing I got in church as a child, and she believed me, so… “I go out for walks before work. To wake up. Um…hear the birds.” Good god, I’m really giving myself away with that one. It’s almost winter. What birds? “Watch the sun come up. But I fell down the hill the other day. It hurt like a b—”
I stop myself just in time, and to my relief, Victoria pretends not to giggle.
“It really looks awful,” she says, brushing a finger over one of the lesser bruises, lightly enough that it doesn’t ache. “You must be more careful.”
“I know.”
When she lets go of my hands, she begins to pull away, then pauses, twisting a golden curl around her finger. “This has nothing to do with…”
“With what?” I keep my voice calm, face unworried.
“Never mind,” she says. “Just take care, all right?”
I wonder… If she can tell I’m lying about this, does she know I’m lying about other things, too? But she hasn’t said anything yet.
“You must be exhausted,” she says, returning to the task of getting ready for bed. “We’ll turn down the lamp early tonight.”
I smile, relief and gratitude warming my chest. “Thanks, Victoria.”
Because she’s right. I’ll be back at it again tomorrow, and before winter hits full force, I am going to knock Henry Bailey on his ass.
***
I’m going to knock Henry Bailey on his ass because he’s still an asshole, but we’re this far into our arrangement, and he’s only gotten more confusing and more annoying. He hasn’t yet taken a cent yet that I’ve offered, despite his apparent interest when we first met, which is beyond concerning, but has instead promised he will the first time I best him, something I haven’t had the chance to even try, let alone succeed at.
That’s only part of it, though. He still does things to irritate me, and the more I ignore the attempts at flirtation that started in earnest about a week into our lessons, the harder he tries.
“Congratulations kiss?” he teases the first time I land a kick, dislodge his grip, and “escape” to the designated safe spot we’ve set up in the barn.
“You wish,” I say, jumping back down.
With a wink, he just says, “You know it.”
Standing behind me, observing silently as I hurl practice punches at a sack of old hay (as if I’m letting you throw at me before you can do it right, he said), he guides my arm with deft, steady fingers, a little too close.
“Back off, Henry.”
“Just trying to protect you from damaging yourself,” he says, and even though I don’t turn around, I can tell he’s grinning.
After a particularly tiring session, watching me pant and try to catch my breath, he asks, “Want me to carry you back to old Stella? It’ll be heroic and romantic. Her head might just fall right off.”
“No, thank you,” I mutter, swiping at the sweat on my forehead with one hand and brushing away dust from my skirt with the other.
“You know, you wouldn’t be so bleeding hot if you just pulled up your sleeves.”
“I don’t want to pull up my sleeves.”
“Afraid to show a little skin?”
“Around you? Definitely.”
He’s sprawled on the floor. Just watching with undisguised amusement. “You’re something else, you know that?”
“Why? Because I’m not swooning over you like everyone else?”
He was in the inn last night, with a group of men I assume go out with him to work during the warmer months. I told him if he broke any chairs or did anything to make Stella mad—which inevitably makes my life ten times more difficult—I would be the one cracking chairs over his head. Every girl who passed through, even the ones who were obviously there with their husbands, spent a few extra seconds staring at his stupid chiselled jaw and glossy golden head. Including, as was noted by me and Stella and Celeste, our sweet Victoria.
“Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?” Stella snapped, confirming my suspicions that there was some encounter in the past she hasn’t told me about, and Victoria blushed and avoided looking at him for the rest of the night, at least when she thought no one was looking.
For his part, I’m not even sure he noticed she was there.
“Is that jealousy I detect, Miss Prim and Proper?” He snorts. “Miss Prim and Proper who’s secretly plotting to kick someone’s ass in the future?”
Oh, and he’s constantly badgering me about why I want to fight. Who I want to fight.
“Henry, just mind your own business, for god’s sake.”
Outside, the wind picks up. Autumn is in full swing, with maple leaves now the colour of crabapples, some of them already starting to fall and coat the ground, painting it the hues of the season—sun-bright yellow, brilliant orange, and of course, blood red.
I love it and hate it at once. It’s beautiful, but there’s little I can do to quell the memories that are steadily rising as we draw closer and closer to the one-year mark of what happened to me last fall.
“Hey!” Henry sits up, snapping his fingers. “You even listening?”
“No.” I look away from the window. “What did you say?”
There’s a knowing glint in his eyes. I don’t like how well That Bailey Boy can read people—or, at least, read me. “Who you thinking about all the time, Miss Lucy?”
“No one.”
He rolls his eyes. “I can’t figure you out. You’re not thinking about anyone, you don’t got a sweetheart as far as I can tell, but it’s always back off, Henry.”
“Not everyone has to fall in love with you, you know, you insufferable dickhead.”
That makes his jaw drop. “How’d you get so feisty? You were falling over all winded three minutes ago.”
“I’m better now.” I am suddenly regretful of my choice to do our lessons before work begins. The idea of facing the day after all this, particularly this stupid conversation, is exhausting. “You’re being an idiot.”
And I’m being mean, but I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about who I’m thinking about all the time.
“Never had a girl call me a dickhead before,” Henry says, and instead of being pissed off, he just gives me the most ridiculous little pout I’ve ever seen.
In spite of myself, I laugh.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, getting to his feet, and without another word, he disappears.
***
For some stupid reason, I expect things to get better and easier once he actually lets me spar with him. It’s all slow and pretty fake—he never looks that concerned when I’m going for him—and still I end up with more bruises and even less confidence than before.
“Your head’s always somewhere else.” It’s almost a scolding. “You get caught up in thinking about your lost love, you’re gonna get caught off guard.”
“There’s no lost love. Don’t you ever listen to me?”
“Then why won’t you let me kiss you?”
“You’re such a prick, Henry,” I say, and he falls to the floor, howling.
“Where have you been all these years?” he asks, not for the first time, and I can’t help but smile.
“You like being insulted right, left, and centre?”
Flashing me his most winning, beaming grin, he says, “By you, darling? Of course.”
“You’re so disgusting.” I wrinkle my nose, and as usual, he doesn’t seem at all put off. “Why don’t you make up with Victoria?”
“Who?”
“You’re a pig,” I tell him, and he shrugs. I can tell he’s lying about not knowing who she is.
By the time the trees are almost fully bare, my bruises aren’t doubling in number at the rate they were before, and I’m tripping over my skirt less, and it’s starting to feel intuitive every time I shake off his grip when he tries to catch me off guard.
But the sky darkens early, and the candles have to burn longer, and wind whistles through every door and window.
And in the night, there are memories whose hold no amount of training can dislodge.
“Again,” I say. It must be the third time he’s pinned me today; honestly, I’m not even certain. He looks down at me with a piercing gaze.
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Again,” I repeat, pushing him off. He doesn’t resist. One of these days. I’ve got to get the better of him one of these days. Otherwise, what’s the point? If I can pin him, I might have a chance in hell of pinning anyone else who might ever try to lay their hands on me.
He purses his lips. Is he annoyed? What the fuck reason does he have to be annoyed? He’s the one who keeps winning. “I think maybe you should take a break.”
Irritably, I point out the window. “I have to work soon. This is all the time I have. One more go.”
It’s still dark, even though my duties at the inn start soon. Autumn is well and truly upon us, almost over—any day now, it’ll turn to winter—and I don’t want to walk back to Stella’s alone and cold in the gloom, thinking about having had my ass kicked again and again and again.
“All right,” he says, but I can tell he’s not happy. “One more.”
I guess he could sense the mood I’m in today from the moment we started, because he hasn’t made many jokes at all. Or perhaps the cold weather and dark sky bring back awful memories for him, too.
“Fuck it, Lucy, pay attention!”
My head cracks against the barn floor, and it fucking hurts.
I hit my head on a cobblestone road, once. Years ago now. It bled, leaking hot liquid down my face, and a boy whose name I did not know pressed a handkerchief against it to stem the flow. It hurt like this, if I remember correctly, around the same spot. I went back alone to a room in a sleazy boarding house and cried myself to sleep.
“Fuck! Hey! You okay?”
I sit up, moved by the worry in Henry Bailey’s voice. “I’m fine.” Wincing, I gingerly touch my fingertips to the throbbing spot on the side of my head. “Shit.” The skin is broken; the pads of my fingers come away red. “Shit.”
“Fucking hell,” he says, next to me now. “I didn’t mean to knock you over that hard. Are you all right? How many fingers am I holding up?”
I bat his hand away. “Seriously. I’m fine.” If he’s upset now, he’d lose his shit if he knew what kind of shape I was in around this time last year. One little knock to the head is nothing.
“Answer me, damn it. How many—”
“God damn it, Will! I’m okay! Just give me a min—”
A boiling surge of mortification hits me so hard, it’s more likely to knock me out than the smack of my skull against the floor.
Fucking shit.
“Henry,” I say quickly, but I said what I said and I can’t take it back. “Henry. I’m okay.”
He leans back on his heels. “You hit your head real bad, or are you still thinking about No One even while your head’s bleeding?”
No one. No one.
I close my eyes. I don’t want to look at him right now.
“Just hold on a minute.” I hear him stand up and walk away, and it’s a relief to have some distance between us. I can’t pretend that my head isn’t throbbing, or that this miserable anniversary I’m living through isn’t fucking me up big time, or that I don’t sometimes look at Henry and see Will. Wish I was seeing Will.
“Here.” I open my eyes when he comes back. There’s a wad of cotton in his hand. “To be honest, I’m surprised you haven’t needed patching up before today.”
Somehow, that makes me smile. “You’re an ass.”
“And you’re a clumsy scatterbrain.” Henry presses the cotton against my temple. “Wanna actually tell me what’s eating you?”
All I can do is shake my head and say, “I’m fine.”
He sighs. “Y’know, out of everywhere in this boring-ass shithole of a town, I’d be the last person to judge you, right? You get that?”
I do. I really do. But he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Stella thinks he’s such a rascal, a bad apple, a no-good sort of man with no decency at all, but I think even he’d be floored to find out what’s hiding in my past.
“I appreciate that.”
He studies me, quiet for a while, blue eyes more serious than I’ve seen them. “It’s all right, you know. If you're…if you’re not. Not all right, I mean.”
I’m not all right. But I don’t think I need to say it. He obviously knows.
“You remind me,” I say, “of…” Can I say it? I don’t think I can. “Someone I knew. Someone it…” I swallow a lump in my throat. “Someone it hurts to think about.”
“Will, huh?”
I don’t look at him, and I don’t answer.
“Will is No One, your tragically lost sweetheart.” He leans back on his hands, and before I know it, he’s spinning the wildest fucking tales I’ve ever heard in my life. “Died too young of a mysterious fever. No! Poisoned by a jealous rival.” At my incredulous look, he keeps going. “Uh…a sailor lost at sea? No. He…shot a man through the heart, all to defend your honour, and now he’s on the run.” I laugh, wiping my eyes, annoyed at how close to and yet how far from the truth that one is. “He left you at the altar, and you’ve got a secret kid squirrelled away somewhere.”
“Henry!”
“He broke your heart, and when you see him again, you’re gonna give him the punch in the kisser he deserves.”
Ignoring the voice in my head screaming at me that Will wasn’t the one doing things like running away and earning a punch in the kisser, I tell him, “Wrong. Wrong. Unbelievably wrong.” Since I can’t correct him, I just finish with, “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “I bet.”
After a few breaths, he stands up to grab his scarf and begins to wrap the scratchy grey wool around my head.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand, pawing at him to get him to stop.
“What? Don’t got any real bandages for this. I’m gallantly saving you from bleeding out in this gross-ass barn. You should be thanking me.”
“Gee, thanks.” But I’m laughing, even though my head still hurts and probably will for the rest of the day. “I don’t think we’re in bleeding out territory, though.”
He sighs again. “Well. That’s good news, I guess.” At the pause, I know what’s coming, and even though I want to get my back up, I know he’s right. “Can’t drift off like that. You do it all the time and I keep telling you, you gotta stay focussed.”
“I know.”
“And if it’s really not that bad…” He gestures toward the cotton pressed to my head. “Then you’re lucky, but what if I was actually trying to hurt you? Being sad isn’t an excuse for acting like an idiot.”
I know I deserve the chiding, but despite that, the scolding forces out of me a sideways glare. “You’re one to talk.”
With a snort, he says, “You think I got my reputation because I’m sad? I’m just an asshole.”
“No, you’re not,” I say impatiently. “Just an idiot. Like me.”
He’s quiet for a moment or so, just staring.
“What?”
And then he grins. “Got you to say I’m not an asshole.”
“Ugh.” The urge to take it back is strong. But I’m laughing again.
“Tell you what.” He fixes his shirt—tucking it in neatly (sort of), rolling down the sleeves. “Take a day or two to sort yourself out. Make sure that isn’t worse than it looks.”
“But—”
Holding up a finger and shaking his head, he goes on, “I’m not going anywhere, anyway. I’ll be here till the spring, so what’s the rush? Take a few days off. But I’ll give you a challenge.”
I frown, suspicious. “What kind of challenge?”
“You come back, all fixed up and fired up and ready to go, and we get back at it. Practice as long as you want or whatever, but when you decide you’re ready, we spar.”
“How’s that different from what—”
But there’s that annoying, mischievous grin. “Forget paying up. You win, I’ll never hit on you again, ever.”
I blink. This was not what I expected him to offer.
“You pin me, knock me off my feet and get me at a disadvantage, then I promise I will let you sulk in sorrow and self-pity about your long-lost Will for as long as you decide that’s what you want to do.”
“But if you win?” I’m not sure I’m going to like what’s coming.
He winks. “Then I get to give you one kiss and see what happens.”
“You’re so disgusting,” I say. “You don’t even want to kiss me. You just want to say you did.”
Laughing, he says, “Then I guess you better win.”
The cotton is red when I pull it away from my head, but not nearly as bad as I feared. His gaze, when I look up, is fixed on me, glinting and laughing and full of challenge.
“So? What do you say?”
“I say Stella was right about you all along.”
But.
Outside, the sun is teasing its way into the morning. If I don’t get moving soon, I’m going to be late, and then I’m really in shit.
His proposition is unbelievably stupid, a trap because he thinks there’s no way I can get the better of him, and he’s sick of me getting lost in thoughts and memories while we’re supposed to be fighting.
“One week,” I say. A smile spreads across his face. “A few days off. Time to practice. And then in a week, I’ll take you up on your stupid offer. And I’ll win.”
Narrowing his eyes, he asks, “You serious?” I nod. “Then shake on it.”
His grip is firm, like this is some kind of binding contract to him, and I suppose it is. I try to match the pressure and steadiness of his hand curled around mine.
“One week,” he repeats, and I do the same. When we let go, he sweeps a still-concerned-but-less-so-now glance over me. “Want me to walk you back to the inn?” I shake my head. As if I want Stella, Celeste, or Victoria to see me strolling up with him That Bailey Boy on my arm and blood on my head.
“Just you wait, Henry Bailey,” I say, getting to my feet. “You’re gonna rue the day you ever agreed to teach me how to fight.”
With a laugh, he shoves his hands into his pockets and heads for the door. Before he heads out into the grey morning light, he shoots me his signature sly grin, and said, “Can’t wait, darling,” and vanishes.
“You’re an ass!” I call after him, but he’s gone, his hearty laugh already fading.
He is, and maybe I’m a fool for taking him up on his offer, but for the first time in weeks, I’m feeling something other than the empty dread these long, bitter days have brought.
For the first time in weeks, there’s a fire burning inside me, buoyed by an old friend, one I haven’t met with in far too long.
Hope.
Chapter 46 | Chapter 49 | Box in Your Heart | TPOT Masterlist | Finale Part 1
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Whumptober 2023 Prompts Fulfilled
No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.” | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”
No. 5: “You better pray I don't get up this time around.” | Debris | Pinned Down | “It's broken.”
No. 14: “Feed me poison, fill me ‘till I drown.” | “Just hold on.”
No. 15: “I don't need you to help me; I can handle things myself.” | Makeshift Bandages | Suppressed Suffering | “I’m fine.”
No. 30: “It’s okay, just to say, ‘I’m not okay.’”
16 notes · View notes
zip-toonz · 1 year
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For the art challenge: 14 and Jewel Sparkles
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14: I threw glass at my friend's eyes and now I'm on probation.
Admittedly a hard song to make lalaloopsy fanart for so rather than looking at the lyrics I took insp from the title and the genre
48 notes · View notes
oasisofgalaxies · 10 months
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did we make the right choice? was there a chance that if we made him live we could have found another way out? i cant tell if it was a mercy or if we just gave up.
9 notes · View notes
daughterofcainnnn · 3 months
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I'm tired of you
Still tied to me
5 notes · View notes
spanishsenpai · 6 months
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Whumptober 2023 - Day 1
Hey all! I'm steering a little of course from what I usually write lol! I'll update Daycare Attendant soon! I've just gotta write out this sudden obsession with Aitor from Dying Light 2. He's so bb gurl frfr.
What if Aitor had given any sign of life before Aiden bolted for the car factory?
Read it on AO3 if you'd rather! :D
“What the hell…?”
Aiden’s knees felt weak as he struggled to his feet. 
“My head … it's pounding …” He grit out. “What’s happening to me?” 
His throat was sore like he'd been screaming for hours. His body felt like one big bruise.
He lifted his head, looking around in a daze at the bodies on the floor. 
“What happened here?”
His thoughts were cut off with the static of a walkie talkie on the body in front of him. He stumbled to it, searching the pockets until he found the radio. “We’re about to start. Where are you?” 
Aiden’s eyes narrowed. Waltz.
“I’m almost to the car factory…”
Before Aiden could hear the rest, a groan sounded from further in the tunnel. His gaze snapped to the sound, barely processing the blue of a PK body struggling to get its arms under it. His eyes widened. Not just any PK body; Aitor.
His aches seemed to disappear as he stepped closer. How many times had he woken up surrounded by bodies and one was still alive? 
Never it felt like.
“Aitor… ?” He called, a small note of panic in his voice leftover from the adrenaline of whatever the fuck just happened. 
He’d rolled his limp body off his legs. He’d been sure Aitor was dead.
“Aitor?” He called again, sounding a little more confident.
“... Aiden?” Aitor coughed out, the word barely more than a wheeze. He grunted, falling limp on the concrete, speaking the one word seemingly taking all his energy.
Aiden could see his face now. Aitor’s eyes were just barely cracked open. Blood stained his teeth as he grimaced in obvious pain. Aiden knelt down next to him, hands hovering over his body. Should he turn him on his back? What if his neck was hurt?
The walkie buzzed again as someone spoke though Aiden was too caught up in his worry to hear the words. Immediately he was reminded of the stakes though.
“Fuck! Waltz has the key!” he snarled. Aitor didn’t react to this news. He was barely conscious. 
Desperation ran through Aiden. That key was the only way he was going to find Mia. He couldn’t let Waltz get away with it. 
Guilt filled him as he looked down at Aitor’s limp body. He was still awake, just barely though. Aiden had to go. He didn’t have time to get Aitor somewhere safe. 
This tunnel was surrounded by natural light and it was midday. He’d … He’d have to be okay until Aiden got the key back. “I’m sorry Aitor. Hang tight! I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 
Aitor didn’t react to this other than to slowly close his eyes as he went slack again. 
There wasn’t time! Aiden growled, hesitating a moment longer before bolting to the tunnel entrance.
Aitor was tough. He’d be okay until Aiden got back.
Well shit, that was a mess.
“Run!” The sniper screamed, bolting for a building in ankle deep water.
Aiden almost went to follow her but even through the delirium of being nearly choked to death, he remembered Aitor. 
“No! I have to go back!” Aiden turned, bolting for the broken freeway. He was sure he could get back across. 
“Go back? Are you crazy?! He’s transforming!” She stopped going for the building and, seeing he wasn’t turning around, began to chase after him.
“The sun will buy me time!” He was at the edge of the solar panels, scrambling up what little footholds he could find. He didn’t expect to hear footsteps following him, especially after a familiar roar echoed from the factory. 
“Waltz will kill us!”
“A good man needs help!” Aiden yelled back, breathing hard as he climbed the asphalt. “I promised to come back for him.”
He heard a faint “Shit” behind him before the sniper was climbing after him. 
Just as he’d hoped, the sun stopped Waltz from being able to follow them. Even with his terrifying agility and immunity to the UV rays, midday was no joke on a volatile. 
Aiden’s hands shook, nearly making him fall a couple times. Aitor could be dead. He could be risking himself and the sniper for a dead man. It would be dark in only a few hours though and if Aitor was alive, if there was even a chance, Aiden wouldn’t leave him to die like that. He’d taken bigger gambles than this anyway.
His eyes widened as the tunnel entrance came into view. Almost there!
He was gasping for breath as his feet hit solid ground. He vaulted over the few cars and sprinted into the tunnel. The bodies were still here, undisturbed, making Aiden breathe a sigh of relief. No zombies had gotten in then. 
“Aitor!” He called, quickly spotting the group of blue bodies. He slid to kneel next to Aitor’s body, shaking hands reaching for his neck. He hadn’t moved from where Aiden had left him. 
His heart was pounding too hard to tell if Aitor’s heart was beating. He hesitated for only a moment before he carefully began to roll Aitor over onto his back. He nearly had a heart attack when Aitor jolted with a sharp cough as Aiden got him on his side. 
“Oh thank god. Aitor? Can you hear me?”
He didn’t fully process the sniper kneeling next to them. He did look up as she hissed though.
“He’s bleeding. There’s a puddle over here. Not a big one so probably not that serious,” she said, poking careful fingers along Aitor’s spine. “Keep him on his side. If he’s on his back he might choke on his blood.”
Aitor only wheezed as he was poked and prodded. When the sniper gently pressed a palm to the center of his vest, Aitor cried out, trying to flinch away from the pressure.
“His ribs are probably fucked up.”
“Yeah,” Aiden finally said. “Waltz got him pretty good.”
“Fighting Waltz and living? He’ll have serious bragging rights if he makes it.”
“Hear that Aitor? I’d say you’re keeping that promotion,” Aiden called, hoping that Aitor was going to respond. 
He got a huff. He’d call that a win.
“Where are we taking him?” She asked, done with her inspection for now.
“There’s a safe house near here. It’s too close to dark to take him anywhere else.”
“Alright, we’ll have to get him to wake up more if we want the best chance though. Think you can do that?”
“Yeah… yeah I can do that.”
Could he though? He’d try at the very least. 
“Aitor, hey, you need to wake up.” Aiden patted his cheek, wincing when Aitor wheezed a little louder. A few more calls for him to wake up did nothing. The sniper was starting to look impatient and Aiden wasn’t sure he could get Aitor to the safe house on his own. 
Fuck, sorry Aitor. He pressed a little harder on Aitor’s ribs. Hopefully not enough to knock him out fully, but just enough to wake him up. 
Aitor gasped, hands finally moving to weakly push at Aiden’s arm. 
“F-Fu… St-Stop…” he ground out, eyes fluttering open. Aiden felt one of his legs bump him from behind but Aitor was too weak to really do anything. 
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. You have to stay awake though Aitor.”
Aitor’s eyes seemed to focus on the face above him. Aiden happened to notice the nasty bruise on his jaw and the blood soaking into his hair from his temple. 
“Yeah, just like that. Come on Aitor.”
“Wha... What… hap-pened?” He gasped out. 
“Waltz nearly killed you.”
“... My… s-squad… ?”
“I’m sorry. They… They didn’t make it.”
Aitor looked like he wanted to give up on being awake as he processed the words. 
“No, no! Stay with me Aitor!” Aiden frantically patted Aitor’s cheek as his eyes threatened to close. “Come on!”
Aitor’s eyes opened again.
“There you go. How… How many fingers am I holding up?” When he didn’t answer for a moment, Aiden repeated himself. “Aitor? How many fingers?”
“... F-Fo-ur…”
No, that was wrong. Aiden curled his two fingers back into a fist. That was fine. He could fix that later. For now, thinking was waking Aitor up again. Which was good. Great in fact. Just a little more and they might be able to walk him out of here. 
“Aitor, we need to get up. There’s a safe house we can go to but you have to walk.”
Aitor let out a weak cough that sounded like an “Okay”. 
“Puddle’s a little bigger back here,” the sniper interrupted. “We gotta get moving.”
Aiden swallowed thickly, “Alright. Aitor, get ready to sit up.”
Aitor huffed. 
“I’ve got him back here,” the sniper said.
“Okay, I’m lifting in one, two, three.”
They slowly brought Aitor’s torso off the ground. No matter how slow they went though, it wouldn’t have felt any less painful. Aitor let out a strangled cry, legs weakly shuffling as a hand came up to grip Aiden’s wrist as hard as he could, which wasn’t much. Internally, Aiden winced but didn't stop until Aitor was almost fully vertical. The pain seemed to wake him up further though. His eyes were a little clearer as they darted around, taking in the situation. 
“You with us?” Aiden asked. 
“Y-Yeah-” Aitor gasped out. “My… ri-ribs.” His words were halted and stuttering as his lungs desperately tried to avoid even grazing his ribs. Of course, the effort was futile.
“We know. We’ll take care of it once we get to the safe house.” Aiden brought one of his hands in front of Aitor. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“T-Two.”
Aiden let out a breath of relief. “Head damage must not be that bad then.”
“Getting to his feet’s gonna be worse,” the sniper piped up. “He might pass out.”
Aitor jolted at her voice, immediately trying to twist around to see who was behind him. He froze mid motion though as his body practically seized from the sudden movement.
“Hey! Don’t do that,” Aiden barked, using his free hand to steady Aitor.
“Wh-o… ?”
“She’s a friend. Don’t worry about it right now.”
A quiet growl was his response. No one would be happy in this situation, least of all Aitor, but he seemed to accept there was little he could do about it. Already, Aiden could feel him starting to tremble. Hopefully it was from pain and not shock.
The sniper had already shifted to a crouch to lift Aitor up. Aiden quickly followed suit. 
“Are you ready to get up?”
Aitor nodded stiffly. Aiden felt him tense up in preparation for the pain that would surely follow.
“Three, two, one, and- up!”
Aitor cried out as they brought him up to his feet. He would have immediately toppled over if the two hadn’t secured their grip on him. He gasped raggedly as he fought to get his jellied knees to hold him. He stumbled before he got them to lock up. 
They gave him a moment to breathe. His body was trembling worse now. God, Aiden hoped that wasn’t shock.
“L-Let’s go,” he gasped out, taking a shaking step forward.
“Wait. Wait a second.” Aiden carefully put Aitor’s arm around the back of his neck, the sniper doing the same before they started forward.
The tunnel entrance, the one leading back to Old Villedor, was a short distance away, yet Aitor’s brow was already shining with sweat. His steps were slow and he practically tripped over his own feet. The only thing keeping him up was Aiden and the sniper. 
Aiden prayed the power to the door was working now. A breath escaped him as the metal creaked with rust but lifted all the same. The zombies he’d cleared out before he’d come in here hadn’t replaced themselves, leaving them a semi straight shot to the closest rooftop. 
Walking was one thing, climbing was another. Aiden hadn’t even thought about how they’d get Aitor up to a roof yet.
“Judging by how walking’s going, I’d say climbing is out of the question,” the sniper said, like she was reading his mind. “We’ll probably have to clear out a few floors in this apartment to get him up there.”
Aiden looked between her and the apartment building they’d stopped in front of, nodding finally. Four floors. Usually he only had to clear out one but he could work with this.
“Can you stay out here with him?” She’d come this far with them, surely she wouldn’t turn on them and kill Aitor now.
She nodded and they set to getting Aitor on the sidewalk. He choked down any cries, but his breath still came out in harsh pants as he was settled with his back against the building.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Aiden assured before he quickly slipped into the front door. 
Clearing out the building wasn’t hard. The zombies here were feeble from being locked away with no food for so long. A few molotov’s and one shattered tire iron and the place was clear from the ground floor to the roof.
Back outside, the sniper was collecting an arrow from a zombie’s chest across the street. Aitor looked like he was on the verge of passing out, face pale and eyes barely open. They needed to hurry. 
“Hey!” He called as loud as he dared, “It’s clear now.”
She jogged back over to them. Together they crouched and lifted Aitor up far less carefully than they had the first time. Aitor didn’t complain, just let out a sharp huff. Somehow he was even worse on his feet than before. They had to practically lift him up each step of the stairs as his legs fumbled with lifting that short distance. Whether Aitor was aware of it or not, he had started to grip the shoulder of Aiden’s jacket with an iron grip as they went. Aiden didn’t mention it.
He also didn’t mention how the shiny red spot on the front of Aitor’s shirt was growing. He wasn’t sure where the cut had come from but it couldn’t be helping Aitor’s already feeble balance.
“We’re almost there. There’s a bridge connecting this roof to the one with the safe house.”
“Good. Your friend’s starting to get heavy.”
She was right. Aitor was slowly putting more weight on them as his steps grew sloppier.
“Hear that Aitor? Almost there,” Aiden huffed as they lifted him up the last step. Thank god. The sun was close to setting and Aiden’s own body was protesting that fight from earlier.
“Y-Yeah.” Aitor’s voice came out more like a whisper.
The ramp wasn’t wide enough for them to walk side by side, so they opted to crab shuffle across. Aitor tried but his legs were basically only able to hold him up at this point.
“This is not how I saw my day going,” the sniper huffed as she stepped onto the other roof.
“I don’t think anyone did.”
Aitor didn’t respond.
“There it is, Aitor. Almost th- !” 
Aitor’s leg buckled, almost taking them all to the ground. They righted themselves but the movement was sharp enough for Aitor to cry out again. Aiden and the sniper’s heads snapped to the right as a couple growls responded to the sound.
Unfortunately, while the bridge had been helpful for them to get to the safehouse, another bridge leading to the neighboring zombie infested roof was less so. The zombies stumbled for them. Towards the back, one looked like it was about to start sprinting. 
“Shit! We gotta move,” she snapped.
Aitor seemed to understand as his grip on Aiden’s sleeve tightened. His steps were a little more solid as they dragged him along faster, shaky pained sounds spilling out of him. Aiden’s watch beeped, signaling that it was officially nighttime and they were still several yards from the safe glow of the UV lamps.
“Take him! I’ll hold them off,” she ordered, sliding Aitor’s arm off her shoulders. 
Aitor nearly crumpled to the ground as his arm flopped down and smacked him in the side. “No, no, no, come on Aitor.”
“Sh-Shit,” he wheezed, feet scrambling to keep up with Aiden’s too fast steps. Damn those heavy PK boots. 
A shriek to his right made Aiden jump. A decayed face climbed over the side of the building and bolted right for them. Aiden kicked it in the chest, nearly losing his grip on Aitor as the lieutenant let out a choked cry. His once limp arm grabbed Aiden’s jacket with trembling fingers to keep from falling completely. The sniper was back then, pushing the zombie the rest of the way off the roof. 
As soon as the purple light enveloped Aitor’s face, Aiden breathed out a sigh of relief. The sun was down and zombies were coming but they had made it. Quickly, the sniper came around and flung open the door, allowing them all to shuffle inside. His back was screaming from supporting Aitor for so long, yet as he went to set Aitor down on the pile of blankets called a bed, she came over to help, just as slow and careful as he was.
Aitor groaned as he nearly went boneless once his legs weren’t supporting him. Aiden had to quickly grab his shoulders to keep him up. “Can’t lay down just yet Aitor. Hey,” he called, raising his voice so the sniper would know he was talking to her, “can you-”
“Already on it.” 
She had gathered every soft thing in the little safe house and begun stacking them behind Aitor. The pile was just high enough to keep him elevated. Now he could lay on his back without choking. They eased him down. As Aitor’s body registered something even semi comfortable, he went limp and passed out.
Before Aiden could freak out about it, the sniper spoke. “Well I guess it's time to doctor him up while he’s out.”
“Y-Yeah. Thank you… for helping me get him here.”
“I’d say no problem but it was. Favors are good to have though.” They worked in silence for a moment, carefully undressing Aitor’s upper half to reveal the dark bruises and cut on his front. Even with how gently Aiden was wrapping bandages around his ribs, Aitor’s breath still hitched with pain at any pressure. 
“Hey, since we’re stuck here for the night, you can call me Lawan.”
Aiden’s hand jerked, making Aitor gasp even when unconscious. “Shit!” He cursed, resuming his careful wrapping as he glanced up at Lawan. “I’ve been looking for you for weeks. Dylan sent me with this-”
They talked through the night about Dylan, the GRE, Waltz, all while they checked that Aitor was still alive. A couple hours before morning, Aitor groaned as he slowly became aware again, eyes blinking rapidly to try and clear away his fuzzy vision. 
Almost immediately, Aiden was by his side. “Hey, careful. You’re not even close to being ready to move yet.”
“What,” he took in a sharp breath at the return of the pain in his chest and his face and his back and everywhere really, “What happened?”
“Waltz.”
Aitor had to think for a moment, struggling to remember. His eyes widened and he tried to sit up fully as he gasped out, “My squad.”
Aiden quickly stopped him from sitting up, though his face was somber. “I’m sorry. Waltz killed them all. I’m sure you’re lucky to even be alive right now.”
Aitor coughed out a ruthful chuckle, settling back into the soft pile, “Yeah… lucky.”
“I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say. 
“Where’s my armor?” He asked after a minute. He’d looked down and found himself only in his unbuttoned brown shirt. Bandages covered his chest while a blanket had been put over his legs. 
“Over here. I don’t think you should put it on for a while though. Your ribs are busted up.”
“Yeah. Could tell that from how they feel,” he coughed out. 
“Is there anywhere we missed? Any other place that hurts?”
Aitor squinted up at him. “We?”
“You don’t remember me and her carrying you up here?” Aiden asked, shuffling to the side so he could point out Lawan. 
He was quiet for another moment before slowly nodding. “F-Faintly.” He sighed, relaxing fully into the pile of various pillows and backpacks behind him. 
“I think my ribs are the worst. Nothing is really screaming at me other than that.”
“You’ve also got a cut down here.” He pointed to just above Aitor’s pant line where another bandage and gauze were placed. “One of your knives probably got you when Waltz knocked them out of your hands.” He didn’t say, when Waltz kneed you so hard you passed out. If Aitor didn't have a memory of that, Aiden didn’t want to be the one to give it to him. 
“This is a real shit show,” Aitor breathed out. He brought a stiff arm up to rub over his eyes. 
Aiden didn’t comment on that and neither did Lawan. The former Pilgrim sighed, “As soon as morning comes, we’ll walkie the Peacekeepers to come get you.”
Aitor let out a huff, closing his eyes for a moment. Aiden didn’t envy how he was likely feeling. 
“Thank you Aiden. You’ve helped me out again.”
Aiden gave him a small smile. “No problem at all.”
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franks-mixtape · 1 year
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Danny: "I'll NEVER leave you..."
Frank: "I'll see you when we Re-Spawn."
//Mun Luke: I just wanted to share this AWESOME piece of art that @therichestweeb re-did with my frank and danny!!! The gore in this piece is SOOOOO good and I fucking ADORE it. Frank and Danny's interactions don't always end with Danny getting the upper-hand... sometimes Frank does... but its unfortunately at the cost of his life usually. He does NOT go down without a fight.//
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