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#minor whump cw
deluxewhump · 2 years
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The Blackmuir Reign Snippet: The Knight and the Boy
CW: **whump of a minor** in the past, but resulted in permanent mutilation/injury (the boy doesn’t speak because of the fairly recent removal of his tongue) hurt/comfort, fear of punishment, communication issues, past abuse and threats, serious hand injury (Rudy).
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“You do know your letters, don’t you?”
The boy’s eyes flew to his, realizing his mistake. He’d been caught reading the ornamental inscription of an antique dagger. It was a dirty trick, but Rudy knew he’d be interested in a blade like that one and brought it to show him. He’d watched his eyes to see how they landed on the script, if they followed from left to right with any comprehension.
“It would do everyone some good if you would answer questions on paper for us, you know. We could keep it to yes or no.”
The boy looked away, all the color drained from his face. The dagger sat innocently on the tabletop. By my side or in my enemy’s, the hilt read in an earlier from of Muirish. Most native speakers still found it intelligible, if stilted.
Rudy sighed, re-tucking the end of the bandage that wound around his hand. The last two fingers no longer moved. If that was going to change or not, time would tell. It had been worth it to see the brute who would cut out a child’s tongue bleeding lifeless in the dirt. He only wished he’d had the luxury of making it last a little longer. Of making it painful.
“King Therrin is a good man, you know. He grew up as a ward in the far south. Not some spoiled, unworldly Prince waiting to inherit a Kingdom. I wouldn’t have ridden against the crown to take the capital with just anyone.”
The boy flashed a glance from under his floppy copper hair, so like that of the dead Usurper. He seemed to perk up at talk of battles, of riding in the vanguard against terrible odds. Rudy had seen him mesmerized in the Great Hall, hanging on the every word of a bard’s new song about the siege.
“Look at this. What if I placed an apple here.” He took a red and yellow apple from its wooden bowl (sour little things they were, this far north). “And a cup here…” He placed a pewter cup opposite the apple. “Apple means yes. Cup means no. You point at the apple or the cup to answer, and I don’t tell the King you know your letters. Would you answer some questions for us then?”
The boy stared at the apple. His mouth grew pale and tight whenever he was afraid, and Rudy didn’t know if it had anything to do with what happened, like he was clenching his jaw and holding his lips tight together to protect where he’d been hurt. His little heart began to pound— Rudy could see the rhythmic shiver of his tunic at the armpit.
“Someone told you not to talk to us,” he said flatly. Not a question. “Someone who hurt you.”
Quick green eyes met his. It was the loudest yes he’d ever heard, but still the boy did give an answer in any tangible way.
Rudy would gladly tell him he put his knife through the Tongue Cutter’s throat and opened it like gutting a trout if he did not think it would steal an innocence he could not put back. He wanted the boy to have no inkling of responsibility for that death. The blood was on his hands, and his alone.
“What if the King wasn’t there?” Rudy tried instead. “Would you answer questions for me?”
Rudy thought the apple might spontaneously combust from the intensity of the gaze on it.
“What if we start with you writing your name on a piece of paper? Your name is yours to give to anyone you please, is it not?”
He had pushed too much. To his dismay, the boy began to cry— a sudden welling of tears he turned away to swipe at with his sleeve as if embarrassed.
“Alright now, hey,” Rudy soothed. “It’s just me, little one. You’re not in trouble. We’re just looking for a way to talk to you.”
He placed a hand on the boy’s head and he turned quickly, nearly throwing himself into the Knight’s arms.
Rudy folded him against his chest and held him gently, loose enough he could get away if he wanted. The boy sobbed once— a hoarse, strained sound from a voice that has fallen into disuse and hugged him back tightly, as if someone were going to try and pull him away.
Rudy thought of the Tongue Cutter’s knife, how it had felt as he pulled him closer by his blade to kill him. He wondered if the boy had been cut by the same knife that sliced the flesh of his hand.
I’d have let him cut my sword hand too, if it would take back what they did to you.
He pulled away just far enough so he could take the little foxlike face in his hands. The boy looked up at him, openly trusting even though it was a Knight who had hurt him, in the same garb and armor as Rudy wore.
“I won’t tell the King you know your letters,” he promised. “And no one’s going to hurt you. Do you know that? I won’t let them.”
The boy nodded sharply, giving a tiny whimper on an exhale that would break the heart of even a soldier as weathered as himself.
“And what is this thing?” Rudy asked, plucking at the sleeve of the plain, shapeless tunic the servants in the kitchens had given him to wear. “If you dress in a potato sack, you’ll get confused for the potatoes. That’s what happened to the last kitchen boy, didn’t they tell you?”
He looked down at his ill fitting tunic and grinned through tears.
“They’ll throw you right in the soup,” Rudy said, and pulled a clean linen from his pocket he intended as spare bandage for his hand. He swiped gently at the boy's cheeks with it, then let him take over himself. He took the linen a little sheepishly, dabbing it on his eyes until they were dry.
“Come,” Rudy said. “Let’s get you away from those kitchens for a while. Have you ever swung a steel sword? Even in practice?”
His eyes went bright, excited as any young boy at the prospect of wielding something dangerous. He shook his head no, he hadn’t, and dropped his gaze to the hilt of Rudy’s broadsword.
“Not that one,” Rudy laughed. “That’ll flip you right over. There’s lighter ones in the yard, to learn on. Come on. I’ll take you.”
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jaws-and-canines · 2 years
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Winter On The Farm
This doesn't really fit into any particular story, I just thought it was interesting to tell as it follows a young (not older than ten or eleven) Fennec and his family. Content warning for mild injuries to a minor and referenced animal death.
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The forest is quiet, a frost settling on the branches, every living thing either hiding from the cold or in the deepest lull of a winter slumber, curled amidst the soft trappings of a burrow.
A branch snaps sharply underfoot, and a bird somewhere startles at the noise. The boy comes tripping and stumbling through the undergrowth, short sleeves barely covering arms raked by thorny branches and holly and covered in goosebumps. He’s sobbing as he half runs, half shambles through the forest, occasionally coughing on his own tears.
He stops, shivering, suddenly realising he’s freezing and bleeding from seemingly thousands of tiny snags and cuts on his arms from running through the undergrowth. He stops beside his tree, a pale and leafless thing, and crawls beneath a jagged outcrop of wood into the hollow interior of the trunk, pressing himself against the smooth wooden walls, hollowed out by time, rot, and industrious animals aplenty. It’s barely big enough to sit up inside the trunk, and he hunches over, wrapping his arms around his knees, still sobbing. His glasses are so stained with tears he can barely see the light creeping into the tree. It smells of warmth, of nature, but he can’t seem to use that to calm himself down like he usually can. He takes great gasping breaths, almost hyperventilating, just trying to calm down enough to put a coherent thought together.
All he can hear is the squealing of the pig ringing in his ears. His father had talked him into it, said he was ready at least to help him slaughter a pig, told him that it would be easy. It hadn’t been easy. The pig had fought. Bucking and squealing and thrashing around, hooves and snouts and all its weight. And the moment that had happened, he had dropped the knife. Bursting into tears, quite unceremoniously, he’d run for the safety of the hollow tree, through the brambles and the icy mud and the empty forest.
“Anton!” comes the cry from the edge of the forest. “Anton, come back!”
Fennec screws his eyes shut and presses his hands against them. He thinks again of the pig and wails, and then clamps a hand over his mouth, hearing his father’s footsteps suddenly pick up pace and come running over to the tree. “You will not go running like that, Anton!” exclaims his father. “You worry me that you are turning into your brother!”
Fennec doesn’t have to ask which brother. He always understood that Otto was different, spending most of his life in a government-funded hospital. All Fennec remembered of visiting Otto in the hospital was playing with a chewed up train set in an empty room full of forlorn toys whilst his parents talked next door about things he was too young to understand with a doctor who smelt of cigarette ash. He’d spent from the morning to sunset, alone, forgotten, even, but so deeply absorbed in fantasy that when his mother came back to collect him, he’d excitedly showed her the timetable he’d written out for the trains and the drawings of all the engines that ran on the imaginary line he’d created. She’d broken down crying on the spot. He still wasn’t quite sure why, and it kept him awake at night sometimes.
Fennec swallows sharply, pushing aside the memory. “I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
His father kneels down beside the hollow tree. “Don’t be sorry. It is an irrational fear of mine. Come on out, Anton,” he says.
Fennec peeks out from the inside of the trunk. His father sees the light catch his thick glasses and then sees him shrink back into the tree again. “You have blood on your shoes.”
There’s a pause. His father leans on the outside of the tree. “Yes, yes, I do.”
“You killed the pig.”
His father licks his lips, preparing for another wave of tears, predicting his son as if he was reading from a script. “I did,” he says gently.
“I’m useless, aren’t I?” sobs Fennec, and starts bawling again. His father sits down against the tree trunk. “Oh, Anton,” he says.
Fennec wails, distraught. “I’m no use,” he sniffles. “Max and Ike can slaughter a pig-”
“Max and Ike are not here.”
Max and Ike, the twins, could do anything. But they had left. Whilst Fennec hadn’t cried like his mother, he’d felt a sort of dread at watching them leave. He chews his lip. “Otto can do it, then.”
Otto practically revelled in the blood and gore of livestock. But Fennec knew his argument fell short. Otto couldn’t do anything without someone there to tell him what to do.
Fennec’s father just tuts. “He can slaughter pigs but cannot run a farm. Archie is too young to run a farm nor slaughter pigs. You can run a farm. Nobody else can keep the books like you, can they? Who designed this year’s field rotations? I know it wasn’t me nor your mother.”
Fennec shrugs, chewing on the fleshy part of his thumb, shuddering as he tries to calm himself down. It’s a step up from sucking his thumb, something which he remembers his dentist scaring him out of doing. “But I ran away crying. I failed.”
“Don’t be reductive. Running a farm is not just killing livestock. Failure in that does not mean you failed overall. Your mother never had the heart for it either, and look at her now. Perhaps you take more after her than after me.” He taps on the tree trunk, miming knocking on a door.
“Are you angry?” says Fennec. He peers out of the tree, shivering, trying to read his father’s expression.
“A little, but I shan’t take it out on you. Come out of there, it’s too cold to be out without a coat.” He offers a calloused hand to Fennec, who hesitates, and then takes it, pulling himself out of the tree trunk, blinking in the glare of the frosty sunlight.
His father shrugs off his coat and wraps it around his shoulders.
Fennec goes to hold it above his bleeding arms. “But-”
“Shush,” says his father, brushing his hands away and doing up buttons. “It does not matter if the inside is stained.” The coat swamps Anton, and he fidgets with the sleeves. His father puts a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get those arms cleaned up, yes?”
“Mmm,” says Fennec, chewing on his father's coat's sleeves, eyes starting to brim with tears again.
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steddierthings · 1 year
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I’ve read a few fics where Steve’s parents kick him out and he’s living out of his car for a while, and there’s usually a line about his parents signing the car over to him for one reason or another. I started playing out scenarios about how he would get the car if this happened and his parents hadn’t signed it over and I like the little headcanon I came up with for it.
I like imagining Steve got the BMW from his mom’s sister, his only and favorite aunt who hated Richard Harrington, who saw him for what he was when her sister was blinded by his money and status. Sure, their family was well off and well respected too, but you only stayed that way by marrying your own kind and Elaine had no problem overlooking Richard’s anger and small-mindedness to keep living the life she was accustomed to.
Charlotte, on the other hand, she wanted out. She wanted to make her own way. Travel across the world, meeting new people and helping, always helping. She did what she could to warn her little sister but she was in the middle med school, one of only two women in her program, when Richard and Elaine married, and as Elaine continually pointed out to her, Charlotte couldn’t control her. So Charlotte got her degree, did her rotations, and then took her talents to far off regions where she could be of most use. She came home when Elaine delivered, and fell in love with her nephew.
Steve loved his Aunt Charlie as a kid. As soon as he was old enough to understand, she made sure he always had her address so he could draw her pictures and, eventually, send her letters. She made Elaine promise that she’d always help Steve postmark them. Steve saved every postcard he ever got from Aunt Charlie, all addressed to Stevie Harrington, and when she came home to visit, he would dig through her pockets to find all the little gifts she’d tucked away for him.
As the years went by, Charlotte was gone for longer and longer periods. She was never one to be tied down, and even her beloved nephew couldn’t keep her in one place for long. Steve was never angry at her absence, but god he missed her. Sometimes he’d go months without hearing a kind word or encouraging word from his parents. He never realized what a lifeline her letters were, full of funny anecdotes and questions about everything he was up to, but every time one showed up in the mail, he felt like he could breathe again.
The letters Steve sent back were full of his own stories when he was younger, silly stories about the cool dog he saw that day or the prank he played on Tommy. When he was 13, she was the only one he told about the cute girl who kissed him behind the gym after school, and about the new boy at school with the buzzed haircut who was so cool—and maybe he was cute too—playing guitar at the talent show.
His letters got further apart as he got older too. Whenever he tried to write, all he wanted to do was beg Aunt Charlie to come home, or to let him go with her. He couldn’t be in this big house anymore, by himself or with parents who clearly didn’t give a shit about him. He didn’t have any silly stories, or sweet ones, anymore. He didn’t want her to know about the kind of guy he was now. He was afraid she’d start to hate him just as much as his parents did.
Charlotte could read between the lines though. She could sense his sadness, his isolation. Eventually she decided it was time she come back to Hawkins to stay.
Then she found out she was sick.
Being sick didn’t change her plans, it solidified them. She wanted to spend the time she had left making sure her Stevie was taken care of. She had a lot of money saved up, leftover trust fund money she never really had use for. She knew Richard and Elaine planned to get him a car for his birthday—it was the done thing. So she begged them to let her do it instead. Her final gift to her nephew, though she didn’t want him to realize that’s what it was. Elaine didn’t care, was happy not to have to spend the money, but Richard didn’t like it, which just made Charlotte more determined to do it.
When he finally gave in, she didn’t waste any time surprising Steve at school. She took him out of second period and drove him to the dealership. In the midst of his glee, she gently teased him about the boring color until he said, uncomfortable, “I think dad will like that better.” She simply nodded and said, “okay, baby” and hugged him tight.
After she signed the paperwork, she gave him the keys and an address, told him to meet her there. They showed up to a sedate office with a discreet sign out front, “Kimball Collins, Esq.” She took Steve inside, sat him down with a small, officious looking man and explained that she was not going to be around for much longer and this is the man who was going to make sure he could keep the car until he turned 18 and could own it outright.
Steve didn’t understand at first. Was she going overseas again? Maybe he could come with her this time. But once he got it, once he cried and tried not to and she held him and told him it was okay to, she said that there would come a day he’d need to leave home. Because his parents wouldn’t let him live there or because he couldn’t stand it anymore, and he’d need a way to get away. He’d need something of his own. So he could have the car, the only kind his father would stand for even if he wasn’t the one paying for it, and he could sell it if money helped or keep it if that helped more. And she and Mr. Collins had made sure no one would be able to take it from him. He would always have a way to leave, she’d made sure of it.
Aunt Charlie passed two months later. In the coming year, Richard tried to take the car, for disrespect, for bad grades, or just to be an asshole. But every time, Steve only had to call Mr. Collins, who was very quick at delivering very threatening letters via very official-looking messengers that saw Steve with the keys back in his hand within a day. It’s only a little time before Mr. Collins is delivering him the title outright.
And in the summer of 85, after his dad is fed up with Steve’s inability to keep the most menial of jobs—it doesn’t matter that the mall burned down, Steve shouldn’t have been working there in the first place—and swears he’s not supporting him anymore, Steve packs up some clothes, his nail bat, and a stack of letters postmarked from all around the world, and leaves his home for the final time. The first night, terrified and angry and so, so sad, he parks up at the quarry and pulls out a flashlight. He opens a sack full of paper and card stock and picks up the first piece he touches. Through blurry eyes he reads, Dear Stevie.
—————————————
I am still not back, but I missed y’all, and I had most of this sitting in my drafts so I finished it off and here it is! I hope you like it!
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somber-sapphic · 28 days
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Training Day
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〖Summary: Alex takes care of Lena while Kara is away.〗
〖Word Count: 1k〗
〖Pairing: Alex x sick Lena (platonic)〗
〖Notes: Please forgive me for my very little knowledge of military training. I've been trying to write this for a very long time so I also apologize if it's a bit iffy in places but I do really hope you enjoy it. Also were not discussing the title, I don't have anything better in me today.〗
Lena huffed and crossed her arms, glaring down the short-haired DEO agent in front of her. She had been forced to wake up at the ungodly hour of five am to beat Alex in a fight. For some reason, the DEO decided that even a scientist would need to go through the same extensive training as the field agents. 
It had started a few days ago and mirrored what she imagined Navy Seal training would be like plus a few extras directly on how to fight aliens. That included assembling special guns, a written test about which alien had which fighting styles as well as a basic course in how to treat different poisons the aliens might possess and which would kill you in an instant. These weren’t the only things but they were the ones she cared enough to remember.
The thing that had really gotten Lena was the mile swim. In what world would she need to swim a mile she had no idea but apparently, it was a requirement. She wasn’t a bad swimmer but she wasn’t fantastic either. She’d managed to complete the mile swim in just under the allotted time. The salt in the icy ocean clung to her clothes and hair making the experience all that much worse.
That was thankfully the only test of the day but it left Lena freezing, unable to warm up no matter what she did. The cold also reminded her of the scratchy throat she’d had for a few days and brought more attention to other symptoms that had remained milder. The barely sore throat quickly turned to something much more painful and it was like over the span of a few hours she had developed what she was sure would be an awful cold. 
Her nose was running nonstop to the point where she had just decided to hold a tissue against it so that she didn’t have to keep throwing them away. Her head throbbed with every beat of her heart and she’d wrapped herself tightly in a soft blanket before falling asleep on the couch, her hair still wet. 
None of that mattered. She couldn’t let it matter, there was just no time for that. She wasn’t sure when they would let her go through this training again. No matter how much she argued about her close combat skills she was still told that she needed to fight the second in command that of course being Alex. 
It had been a long time since she’d squared up against such a well-trained opponent and knew that in her current state, there was simply no way that she’d win. Her goal was just to go for as long as she could before either her body gave out or Alex got bored. She was hoping for the latter which would save her some embarrassment. 
So far that plan wasn’t working. Alex had pinned her four times, the rounds lasting only a few minutes each. The longest she’d managed to hold her own was five minutes and she knew that she’d need to prove she could last longer if she ever wanted to be officially allowed in the field. The field being her lab in the DEO.
“C’mon Luthor, let's go. One more then we break.” Alex ordered, raising her fists. Lena did the same, assuming a fighting stance. The world was swimming around her, making it difficult to keep her eyes focused on the brunette in front of her. She was trying to track Alex’s movements but the woman kept doubling and shifting, her movements glitching in and out of Lena’s view. 
When the kick swept her legs she didn’t put her arms out to stop herself much to Alex’s surprise. The young CEO began to fall, her eyes wide and bewildered. Alex reached out quickly and grabbed Lena’s wrist, managing to catch the bit of skin that wasn’t covered by her sleeve. 
Just by touching her wrist, she could tell that the heat was more than a normal higher temperature caused by exercise. Lena's skin was clammy and slick with sweat. As Alex examined her closer she noticed the red nose and hair stuck to her forehead with more sweat. Her friend was shivering hard, curling in on herself. 
“Geez, you’re burning up.” Alex moved the back of her hand from Lena’s cheek and laid her palm against the shivering woman's forehead. The sleepy woman sniffled quietly and shrugged, not speaking. She was too tired to talk, there was just not enough energy in her body to pretend anymore. 
“Alright. I’m going to take you home, did you bring a change of clothes?” She asked, wrapping an arm around Lena’s waist to take most of her weight. The younger Luthor sagged heavily against the agent, barely able to stand on trembling legs. 
“No,” Lena answered, offering no further explanation. Alex rolled her eyes, smiling fondly down at the woman she assumed would be her future sister-in-law. She’d seen the box in the drawer of Kara’s bedside table and her sister had sworn her to secrecy. 
“Okay. I’ll get you home soon, you won’t have to be in these clothes for very long. And, you’re showering as soon as we get back. You smell.” She teased, getting a little whimper from the woman leaning against her. With another eye-roll, Alex scooped Lena up so that she was carrying her bridal style. 
“Why?” Her charge asked, not hesitating to rest her head on Alex’s shoulder. She was pretty sure that she had no other choice, her body was utterly devoid of strength. 
“This is just easier Little Luthor. As soon as we get you settled I’m going to call Kara, alright?” Lena nodded, closing her eyes as she was carried out of the training room. She’d fought hard against this virus but for now, she was down for the count. At least she would have Alex there to look after her until the woman she loved got home.
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whumblr · 9 months
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Weapon
So, a lil while ago, @whumpedydump asked about Zayne working with Emery and why Zayne says it's better to be tortured by him than by Emery. Here we go.
Warning: Dead dove. Don't want to spoil, so if you're not sure, check the tags for warnings, if ya don't care, keep going.
Home is where the hurt is: Part 1
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“What the hell happened to your hands?” Jay gaped at the bruises and scratches over Zayne’s knuckles.
Zayne instantly pulled back and turned away.
“Punched a wall because I have to put up with your stupid questions.” His left hand – unconsciously – slid over his right, covering the worst of the bruises, the raw, reddish split skin, and lightly rubbed over it.
“Yeah, sure, a little one-two combo to a brick wall.”
“Now you’re just begging for a one-two combo to your face.”
“Just saying,” Jay held his hands up, “if you found someone else to torment, be my gu—"
Zayne sharply turned. “Don’t ask,” he snarled and pointed a shaky finger in Jay’s face. “Okay?”
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“Did I say you could stop?”
“Sir, he’s… he can’t take much more.”
Zayne took another step back, revealing the man kneeling in front of him to show Emery the state he was in. He was quite sure that another hit would knock him clear out. Which, honestly, would probably be a mercy at this point.
The man barely had any strength left to stay upright on his knees, his clenched fists ziptied behind his back were trembling, blood poured from his nose, and even with gasps and heaves he couldn’t get his breathing under control.
Emery remained unimpressed and stayed where he was, just a few steps behind Zayne. He merely glanced down at the man, who struggled to look up but glared at him with all he had left. “Yes, he can. Keep going.”
Zayne hesitated. He felt disgusted having to do this. It wasn’t like he hadn’t beaten on someone before. But this was… different. Too random. Impersonal. He had no idea who the man was, what he’d done to deserve this, what Emery wanted from him. He’d just shown up to this warehouse as Emery had ordered, was presented with nothing more than a man tied up on his knees and the task to ‘make him talk’. That’s it.
But the man didn’t talk. And by now, Zayne wished the guy had actually passed out like half an hour ago. But he was stubborn, like a certain someone he knew. Emery, unfortunately, was also stubborn, and Zayne knew the guy was going to be the first to break.
And he had to do the breaking.
Emery never lifted a finger. He had others to do his dirty work for him.
While the man was obviously nearing a limit, he was not hitting a breaking point. He remained silent, unwilling to give up a scrap of information, and with the bits of strength he did have every now and then, just glared past Zayne right at Emery.
But Zayne felt that he was nearing a limit as well.
His hands were trembling and not just from the pain of bone striking unrelenting bone. But also from the sickening crunch that followed every strike, the blood that stuck to his hands, the grunts of pain followed by agonising silence in front of him, judging silence behind him. How much longer was this going to take?!
A coughing sound escaped the man’s lips, along with some blood as he tried to speak and Zayne found himself hoping he’d finally spill. But when the man found his voice he merely said:
“Yeah, man, keep going.” His voice was soft, tired, but the defiance in it was thundering loud. “Knocked out you’d get just as much out of me as you are getting now.”
Zayne peeked a look at his boss to see how he’d take this.
Not well. Emery’s face darkened.
“Your knife,” he merely said, narrowed eyes still on the man.
Reluctantly, Zayne reached into his pocket. He didn’t go for his actual knife, the one he used with Jay. That was his favourite, meant for play. This one was a spare, meant for work, to be put away after everything had ended and snap it closed to keep the memories of the job contained. All kept separate.
He held it out for Emery.
But Emery refused it and took back a step, making room for Zayne to stand over the kneeling man and positioning himself in just the right spot to watch over the whole spectacle.
Zayne wasn’t really sure what he expected. Of course he was going to have to do it.
He made a show of slowly folding the knife open, but his heart wasn’t into it. Usually he’d love the twitches of fear, the widening of eyes, the flinch as the knife clicked. Here he was just furiously hoping it would make the man relent. When he didn’t, he stepped behind him, kept him in place with a hand on his shoulder, and pricked the blade over the side of his ribs.
Last chance, man!
The man tensed under him, flinched hard when skin split and red soaked into the cut fabric of his shirt. But the warning by just cutting skin deep was not enough to make him either scream or talk. And before Zayne had to make himself go a step further, he heard a tutting sound.
Emery sighed, shaking his head, and stepped forward.
Before Zayne could pull away, Emery’s gloved hand was on his and pushed the knife deeper into the cut.
The blade sank in deep. Way too deep. Zayne startled and meant to pull back, but Emery’s hand clamped over his and actually pushed harder, dragging it along. The blade slid in up to the hilt, carving through skin, muscle, blood vessels; indifferent to what it severed. Blood immediately gushed free. A sickening scream rose up and Zayne had to force himself to keep the man down by his shoulders before his trashing made things even worse.
Emery finally withdrew his hand. “Stop petting him and get him to talk.”
With some effort – and with a disgusting squelching sound – Zayne had to actually pull the knife free. Blood kept running down the man’s side, sticking his shirt to his skin. If he had to dig that deep, the man would probably bleed out after about three or more cuts. This was no longer threatening a man to talk by torturing him; this was ‘talk fast or die’.
And the guy seemed to realise as well that he wouldn’t be able to walk away with this.
“No… no, don’t do that again,” he wheezed. “No!” He bucked again when Zayne held the knife under the first cu— he couldn’t even call it a cut; it was a full on open stab wound.
“Talk,” Emery said over the begging.
And something burst. Along with his tears, the man’s words spilled out of him, talking as fast as he could through gasps of pain and in-between heaving breaths.
Thank god. Zayne let him go and stepped away, relieved he didn’t have sink the knife in like that himself, that it was finally over.
Emery nodded, seemingly satisfied with the info he got. “Good.” And before Zayne could even fold his knife, he followed up with his final order:
“Slit his throat.”
Zayne froze up. “I… I don’t think that’s necessary—”
“I do,” came the cold reply, effectively ending any further protest.
The knife nearly slipped from his grasp. His heart skipped a beat and it felt like it just plummeted down into his stomach, dunking into the pool of dread that started to violently swirl around. It didn’t. After that world-stopping split-second it kept going, thundering against his ribs. Wide eyes shot from Emery to the man and back until Emery’s patience ran out.
“If I have to do it myself, I will do it twice. Do you understand me?”
Zayne clenched his jaw and tucked away all feelings before a hint of the despair whirling through him could slip free. When he turned his back on Emery, a tiny bit did slip out as he couldn’t help but glance at the two guards Emery always had with him, estimating his chances. Slim. And he had no doubt that the man wouldn’t follow up on his threat.
Something hardened inside him. Him or me. Or rather, him and me or just him. Survival instinct took over, wrapping all around him like a cloak protecting him. He did hear the man’s pleas, but the words just bounced off, like arrows against armour, never fully registering in his brain so that even if he wanted to he wouldn’t remember them later.
Besides, begging him was useless. He didn’t call the shots here. He was just the—
He stepped behind the man again, so at least he wouldn’t have to see the shock and betrayal in those eyes turn blank when— He firmly grabbed onto the man’s hair and dragged him back up on his knees, holding him up. All part of his determined, cold act.
But when he bent over, settling the knife just under the man’s jaw, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Then he let the blade sink in, immediately going in deep – letting him bleed out as fast as possible was the least bit of mercy he could offer – and he dragged the knife over his throat all the way to the other carotid artery, cutting both.
The trashing stopped as the finality of the act hit them both. The pull of gravity on Zayne’s hand turned heavy and he let the strands of hair slip from his grasp. The man slumped to the ground, wrists digging into plastic as he struggled against the zip ties as if reaching for his throat could somehow stop the bleeding, and Zayne looked away. Would rather look at even fucking Emery than watch the final moments of the man under him.
Emery watched impassively and with a certain disdain, cold eyes fixed on the man, following every twitch until he finally stilled. Then he abruptly turned and walked outside to his guards.
Taking just the slightest moment to compose himself, Zayne took a deep breath – that did fuck all like putting a band aid on one of those cuts he just inflicted – and followed.
Cold air swept over the river towards him. He didn’t notice the cold as much, but the breeze tickled over the cuts on his hands and he found that he was still holding onto the knife, fist clenched around it.
Emery glanced back at him, almost surprised that he was still here. “Someone will be along shortly to dispose of the body,” he said, tone dismissive and colder than the night air around them. “You are done for the day.”
A vague sense of immense relief that he didn’t have to clean this mess up hit him, but not as hard as it should. It was dulled, along with everything else. Zayne went along as if on autocue, making eye contact and nodding, hoping it would uphold a stoic pretence.
But as soon as Emery turned the corner, his mask shattered.
Every emotion that he had kept at bay all night burst free in a whirlwind of chaos, battling each other over which one would get released first. It was overwhelming. He didn’t know whether to cry or to scream his rage.
Because what even just happened?! Was he—did he just—
He refused to look back inside, just wanted to forget about that image as soon as he could. But even if he wanted to, to get confirmation on what he just fucking did, he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot. Completely paralysed, making him just stand there watch over the dark churning water.
The protective cloak of survival instinct ripped away. Immediately making way for something dark bubbling up, taking hold of him.
Guilt.
It clawed up inside him, whispering to him, calling him names, calling him murderer.
No…
No! This was not on him. It was not! It was Emery. It was all Emery!
If he hadn’t been here, Emery would have killed the guy himself. If Emery had called some other pawn to order around, the guy would still have been killed. Even if Zayne had refused, the guy would still be dead. And so would he. Every possible outcome ended up with the guy bleeding out on the ground.
This was not on me. It was on him, on him, not me! On him!
Because Emery already had his mind made up. And any bit of mercy Zayne’d tried to—
His breath caught.
If you hadn’t tried to spare him… If you’d just knocked him out… maybe…
No!
The blood was on Emery’s hands! Not his!
His knuckles ached as his fist clenched around the handle of his knife. Split skin burst open further, stinging, making him look down.
It wasn’t his blood… coating his knuckles, running over the flesh of his thumb.
And with a scream, he threw the knife as far as he could into the river.
-
Continuation here
Tag list: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @hurtmebeautifully @rougenoirofthepurpleterror @susiequaz12 @whump-me-all-night-long @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @im-just-here-for-the-whump @restrainthenmaime @freefallingup13 @whatwasmyprevioususername @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @firewheeesky @redstainedsocks @hold-back-on-the-comfort @whumpawink @break-so-beautifully @approach-me-and-ill-cry @painsandconfusion @afabulousmrtake @wormwriting @soopytime @whumpedydump @pickleking8 @itsmyworld98 @scribbelle
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shion-yu · 17 days
Text
Ice Cream for Dinner
Chicken pox sucks. Some Shu and Alex father-son caretaking with a shocking lack of angst. This is pure fluff folks. To the anons who requested stories with Shu and Ryo sick, they’re in progress! But this is Alex’s turn, lol. 2,275 words, no TWs, CW sick 13 year old.
It turns out that having a kid in school for the first time means getting sick with every nasty school kid disease they bring home, and it doesn't matter if that kid isn't in preschool - middle school works just as well. In the year since Alex has come to live with Shu, Shu's been sick enough to miss work at least five times and had the sniffles on and off for the rest of the year. 
He doesn't blame Alex, who seems to find Shu’s pathetic immune system somewhat amusing as long as Shu's relatively okay. Shu would rather Alex not worry about him anyways. However it definitely doesn't soften the blow that Alex stays healthy almost no matter what. He was sick once with that upper respiratory infection but that was it - otherwise the kid's been the picture of health and Shu wonders how such a skinny kid has such an immune system of steel. 
"What did your mother feed you?" Shu asked him after he was diagnosed with yet another round of strep throat that had left him absolutely miserable for the past several days, but had somehow completely missed Alex.
"Mostly cereal," Alex said dryly. It came with a heavy undertone of 'if at all.' Shu sighed and went back to blowing his nose miserably. It seemed there was no secret there other than youth and a big attitude. 
It was annoying to be sick all of the time, but Shu just kept telling himself that at least it wasn't Alex. Plus, on the bright side, he had pretty much infinite PTO to spend on sick days since he'd barely taken a vacation in the past ten years working for the same company. His most important job was to take care of Alex and as long as he could manage that while ill, he could avoid calling his mom to take over. That had only happened twice so far, which seemed like a win all things considered.
With all of this in mind, Shu was quite eager to enjoy the days when he was neither sick nor being called into the principal's office to discuss the behavior of his unruly charge. Both had been true this week and Shu told Alex that they were going to enjoy the Fall leaves with a walk on the Hudson. Alex rolled his eyes and told him he'd rather sit at home and watch paint dry.
"Well, too bad because there's no paint to watch dry," Shu said cheerfully. "Unless you'd like to change our activity to painting your bedroom together, those walls could use it." A fresh coat of paint would hide all the plastered-over holes Alex had punched through. But Alex seemed to think a walk was less painful (or at least significantly faster) than painting a room together, so chose the walk.
It was a bit cold out and Shu bundled up in a scarf and his warm peacoat. He encouraged Alex to wear his own warm coat and a hat, but of course that meant Alex did the exact opposite and wore his light Jean jacket, no hat, and what seemed like useless fingerless gloves. Shu didn't argue though, he was just glad they managed to get out the door. 
It was a pleasant walk on the river side, despite the cool breeze. Shu was happy about all the bright orange and red leaves, something Alex wasn't that used to given he'd spent most of his childhood in California. Shu did the vast majority of the talking, but that was to be expected. However after a while he noticed Alex shivering and subtly cut their walk short by crossing the closest bridge and turning towards the direction of the car to complete their loop.
"Want my scarf?" Shu asked casually. 
"Nah," Alex said. He looked distracted and kept scratching the back of his neck. 
Shu kept an eye on Alex as they walked back and noticed Alex seemed to be dragging his feet more and more the longer they walked. "You okay buddy?" Shu asked him.
"I'm fine," Alex responded predictably and picked up the pace. Shu went back to talking about Avatar the Last Airbender, hoping Alex would relate to Shu's fondness of it since it was known to be a popular cartoon. "Will you stop? I don't know that show," Alex snapped irritably. Well, that didn't work, Shu thought. They fell quiet until Shu caught Alex trailing behind again, this time itching his head.
Suddenly the thought of lice popped into Shu’s mind. He stopped and waited for Alex to bump into him. 
"What now?" Alex scowled. 
"Anyone at school have lice? Or scabies?" Shu asked cautiously. Alex made a disgusted face, though whether it was regarding the vermin or Shu himself was unclear. Possibly both.
"I don't have lice," Alex snapped. "Those don't feel like this."
"Then what does this feel like?" Shu asked, leaping on the fact that Alex had inadvertently admitted that some discomfort was present at all.
Alex growled and started jogging towards the car. Shu tried to keep up, but the kid was way too fast for his own good. At least, usually he was, except today by the time he reached the parking lot he was panting as hard as Shu was. He looked pale - well, paler than usual - and Shu frowned, moving his hand forward to check Alex for fever. Alex yelped and dodged him, glaring. "What are you doing?! Don't touch me!"
"I wanted to see if you had a fever. Bud, do you feel okay?" Shu asked.
"No, I feel like you just forced me on a stupid walk in the cold. Let's just go home already!" Alex snapped. Shu tried not to smile at the use of the word home as it most certainly would not earn him any points right now. He relented instead and got into the driver's seat, making sure Alex buckled up (once, this was another heated point of contention) before he pulled out of the gravel parking lot. 
The drive home was about thirty minutes. Alex leaned against the door and pulled his knees close to his chest, making him look ever more childish. He was thirteen and as gangly and tall as a mung bean sprout, Shu's mom said, but he still acted like a kid. He wasn't mature and given everything he'd been through, Shu expected it might take him longer than other kids to get a handle on his emotions. That didn't mean it was easy to get through all the fighting and outbursts, but Shu told himself it was just something they’d have to work through together. Alex was already doing so much better than when he'd first come to live with Shu, after all. Progress felt slow at times, but it was there. 
Progress was Alex admitting to Shu as they pulled into the driveway, "I don't feel good." 
Shu made himself not-smile at Alex trusting him to know that and said, "Let's get you inside and in bed then." Alex went straight to his room and changed into comfortable clothes, then dove under the blankets, shivering. Shu brought in the thermometer and Tylenol and sat on the edge of Alex's bed. Alex was scratching his chest and looked flushed.
"Can we take your temp?" Shu asked. Alex grumbled but obeyed. 100.8. Shu cringed - Alex really was sick. Shu felt bad he'd forced Alex to go out for a cold walk with a fever, but he hadn't known. "Sorry bud, you're definitely sick. Now what're you itching, can you show me?"
Alex reluctantly dropped his hand. Shu delicately peered at Alex's neck and down Alex's shirt. There were a handful of red marks that looked like pimples. Shu tried to think of what they would be and came to a quick conclusion: "Alex, have you had chickenpox before?"
Alex shook his head no. Shu grimaced. "Well I think you've got them now." Alex should have been vaccinated, but Shu suddenly remembered the long list of 'religious' waivers Alex's parents had signed to get him into school with the bare minimum of requirements. He'd been meaning to get those updated but they'd just been so busy that Shu must have forgotten to reschedule that vaccine clinic visit they'd missed. Crap. If Shu remembered correctly, there wasn't much to do for chicken pox other than stop Alex from itching and keep the fever down. "I think I'll call the pediatrician. Maybe we can avoid a trip to the office for you, okay?"
That seemed to earn Shu a few points and Alex nodded. Shu called the doctor's office from his spot on Alex's bed and managed to get a nurse on the phone who went over the list of symptoms, which Shu then relayed to Alex before confirming or denying. Headache? Check. Sore throat? Check. Itchy rash that looked like little red bumps? Definitely. 
"Sounds like chicken pox, and if he does have them it's better you keep him at home away from any other kids at the office," the nurse said. "No school until the blisters are gone, about a week. Keep him from scratching. You can do Tylenol and calamine lotion and Benedryl but as long as his fever stays under 102 after meds he should be fine. Good luck." 
Shu didn't know if he liked the sound of her good luck, because that meant she thought he'd need it. Shu sighed and hung up. "Well, guess you've got all of next week off school," Shu said. "Any requests? Books? Soup?"
"I wanna sleep," Alex said grouchily. Shu had expected that. He made sure Alex took his Tylenol and gave him a bottle of calamine lotion to dot onto the pox and then left him alone to stew in his teenage misery. He was sure Alex’s friend Ryo would be getting a slew of upset texts any second now. 
Shu mostly tried to let Alex be alone like he wanted, but the problem was that Alex got bored very quickly and soon wandered out to the rest of the house, scratching and whining about anything and everything. Shu tried to remind himself that Alex probably felt like crap and wasn’t purposefully being a pain - probably. After Alex’s third pass through the living room though Shu made him sit on the couch and insisted on putting calamine lotion on Alex’s back where he couldn’t reach. He supposed it was a testament to how uncomfortable Alex really was that it didn’t become an argument.
By the next morning Alex’s spots had turned into angry looking blisters and he got upset every time Shu told him not to scratch. Shu tried to tape oven mitts on Alex’s hands like his mom suggested but Alex was too old to put up with that and nearly decked him in the face. “Alex, don’t hit me,” Shu said sternly. Alex glared but didn’t try it again. 
The fever was worse. The headache was worse. Alex could barely talk because his throat hurt so much. When Shu took a look down Alex’s throat with his phone flashlight he could see how red it was; google said he probably had chicken pox in his throat and that liquid Benadryl could help. He set Alex up on the couch and took a quick trip to the pharmacy, purchasing basically everything he could think of to get Alex to settle down and came home with two bags full of supplies. Alex was napping with the TV on, and Shu didn’t think there was any point in waking the beast before he had to so just sat next to him and let him sleep.
Alex looked particularly young with chicken pox blisters all over his skin and limp, messy hair that was damp from a tenuous fever. Shu sighed fondly as he watched him and thought to himself that this week couldn’t go by fast enough. Eventually Alex woke up, predictably grumpy, and Shu pulled out all the stops. He made vanilla pudding on the stove because that always tasted better than the pre-packaged stuff. He served Alex tea and Gatorade with a curly straw, which Alex called stupid but didn’t remove. He slathered Alex’s entire body with calamine lotion and probably gave him a bit more Benadryl than was strictly the correct dose, but he felt terrible about how miserable Alex seemed. The fever stayed manageable though, so Shu was able to keep him at home at least.
Around dinner time, Shu made Alex soup and served it on the couch. “How’re you holding up, bud?” He asked, sitting next to his miserable, blanket-covered kid.
“This sucks,” Alex croaked. “I hate chicken pox.”
Shu couldn’t help but laugh a little, which earned him a glare from Alex. “I know, it sucks a lot. But this is the worst day, it’ll get better. In the meantime, let’s have some soup.”
“I don’t want soup,” Alex grumped. 
“So what do you want?” Shu asked patiently.
Alex looked away, pulling the blanket closer around himself. “...Ice cream?” He mumbled.
“Alright,” Shu said easily.
Alex looked at him in surprise. “Really?” He asked, his voice rising one tone in excitement, although he was clearly trying not to get his hopes up.
“Sure. Ice cream for dinner it is. You get special treats when you’re sick, you know?” Alex hadn’t known, it seemed. Shu served him a large bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup and Alex ate the whole thing. Then he fell asleep next to Shu as Shu ate the now cold soup, a satisfied, sugary smile on the boy’s face.
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justplainwhump · 10 months
Text
Walk-In
Creating a timeline raised some questions; here's an answer. Backstory on Blanca. This is a heavy one, please heed the warnings. It's not necessary to read to keep up with the plot.
Blanca signs up with WRU.
[Pet Safety]
Content/Warning: BBU; minor whumpee (she is 17; there is no whump in this piece itself though); human trafficking; mention of teenage pregnancy; implied discussion of abortion; implied parental grief. Everything discussed from the outside by horrible people. This is a heavy one, even though everything is only implied. Please be safe.
"So, Miles. Tell me. What do we have here?" Raquelle peeked through the blinds of her office in the back of the WRU recruitment centre.
A young woman, probably still a teenager, sat on the edge of her chair, swaying forth and back like a seedling in the wind. She was short, almost petite, but well shaped. Tanned skin, fascinatingly light eyes, brown hair in a messy ponytail. And soft lips that would make any man break a sweat just looking at them.
She'd bring in a fortune.
"Why are you even here talking to me, Miles? Seal the deal. Girl is perfect Romantic material. Sweet face, pretty lips, big tits, barely legal? Get that signature, right now."
Miles bit their lip. "She's, um. That's the point. She's not."
"Not what?"
"Barely legal."
Raquelle spun around with raised eyebrows. "Oh?"
"17." They held up a dark red passport. "Foreigner, too. Spanish exchange student. Unwanted pregnancy. Doesn't dare get home like this. Doesn't dare do anything about it, either."
"That desperate, huh?" Raquelle clicked her tongue and looked through the blinds again. The girl was beautiful. Provisions alone would probably pay her that five star vacation on the Seychelles she'd clicked away just yesterday.
"Very desperate," Miles affirmed, catching her smirk. "We'd practically be saving her."
"Well then. We need to bend one rule, we can bend three as well. I'll take care of the identity, and schedule an appointment at the clinic. You do protocol C."
Miles grinned, as they picked up one of the glossy leaflets from her desk. "Gotcha, boss. The right thing to do, huh." They left, a spring to their steps, while Raquelle pulled out her phone to call one of the more discreet contacts in her book.
By the time Miles brought the new trainee in through the back door an hour later, everything was prepared for her intake.
"I, uh. I want to do this, become a pet. Just... Please, I just don't want to be a Romantic," she said, with the cutest Spanish accent.
"Of course, dear." Raquelle smiled warmly. "You're safe with WRU."
The girl looked up at her from huge gray eyes, tears shining in her dark eyelashes, and brought up a shaky smile.
Raquelle almost had to hold her breath.
Yes.
400168 would be fantastic.
--
The video clearly showed the leaflet and passport in the girl's hands, her looking up at Miles, half confused, as they pointed at the leaflet with an understanding smile and accompanied her to the door. The video also very clearly showed her leave, and Miles watching past her with the most caring sigh.
"This is standard protocol," Raquelle explained and pointed at the screen. "She'd shown her ID, and of course we couldn't accept the application of a minor, let alone a foreigner. My colleague gave her our curated list of contact points for teenagers in dire situations. Maybe your daughter showed up at one of those? I'm so sorry. Maria seemed like a formidable, brave young woman. I'm sure she caught herself, and she's somewhere out there." She gave her most reassuring smile. "I do wish you all the best for your search, Mr Romero, Mrs Garcia."
She looked past the grieving parents to the pinboard on her wall.
Ticket to the Seychelles. She'd be leaving on Monday.
She promised herself to drink a toast to Maria Romero Garcia then. Maybe even two.
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Text
The child of god turned in human weapon | Merry Whump of May edition
Day 1 - “no pain, no gains” | kitchen
CW: minor whumpee (12/13 years old); emotional manipulation; mind control; mention of cannibalism; mention of children’s death; mention of gore (whumpee is an undead/ghoul, feeding on flesh); broken fingers; technically child abuse. Yup, Kyriel is a piece of work!
“There is no victory without sacrifice. There is no sacrifice without pain. The universe, as does magic, demands payment.”
Kai sat primly on the floor, listening to his Magister talk. His silver eyes shone into the shaded room, undead irises more at ease into the darkness than in the light. His whole attention was trained towards his Master, the boy hanging off his every word. He couldn’t do otherwise, the compulsion of his mind making him attuned to the angel’s every need, every command.
Kyriel smiled at the little boy, body frozen and revived at the age of twelve, sitting all prettily at his feet. He was dressed in his colours, purple lines on black, his cheeks flushed for the recent feeding off the slaves under the Tower’s belly. Kyriel made sure to feed him only the best, the plummiest children and all the newborns he could put his hands on, for he knew what his undeads needed to thrive. Even though that morning, for the first time, Kai’s breakfast had been a captured Prince - the leader of the first of the conquered lands east, the first principate of the Ryus territory.
The man had been so pretty too, desperate, chained to the floor with a gag in his mouth. Kyriel had already made him wish to have never been born by then, but still he’d struggled and screamed in rage and terror both when he’d seen Kai, the little boy who’d caused the fall of his land, approaching him slowly to feed.
Why do they yell so much, Magister? His boy had asked him, blood dripping off his teeth and chin, his hands and clothes, once he was done. Is there a way I can charm them into silence, like you do with me?
Which was why Kyriel had now brought his pupil to his study, to teach him magic to compel his preys. For he took care of the boy, took care of his feeding and his power, and it wouldn’t do well to disregard his emotional needs. If Kai didn’t like screaming - and he’d seen him cover his ears and wince in battle, multiple times, before unleashing the silver magic inside him to annihilate Kyriel’s enemies - there were ways to make victims more amenable to the slaughter.
The angel had to remember that Kai was, after all, a child. No matter how deadly, no matter how sweet, no matter how compliant.
“Do you understand, pupil?”
The boy nodded, his pretty face serious and attentive. His white hair were short, well tended and combed behind his ears. Kyriel had only to commend for the care that his chief of staff - Thiebaud, the Mandarin - always put into the boy’s appearance, the child perfectly put together at all times. Even after the worst of his training, the few times Kyriel had made him bleed, erasing his pupil’s memories after the deed.
“No pain, no gain,” the boy paraphrased back, serious and concentrated, making a note in his papers with a quilt. “Yes, Magister.”
The angel chuckled, leaning back into his chair, dark wings stretching behind him.
“Where did you learn that phrase, love?”
He’d erased his memories when he’d killed the boy. Erased them so much he’d feared Kai might not have known how to speak the common tongue any longer after he’d revived him - just to find out with a certain pleasure that he still spoke three, and that the babble he’d given him when he’d first come back to life had simply been his native dialect, quickly rectified. Kai had forgotten how to read, if he’d ever known it, and anything about his past, though. Had forgotten everything about his people, his past mannerisms, or the traditions of the small northern tribe who had once bordered with the angel’s lands he’d heralded from. He wouldn’t know common phrases as that one, not unless he’d heard it from someone.
The boy flushed, the stolen blood off the prince’s flesh colouring his undead cheeks.
“Brilde said it, in the kitchen,” he murmured, lowering his eyes towards his papers. “She was making pie.”
Kyriel watched his pupil with amusement, something stirring in his chest. The little mouse, scuttling to places where he shouldn’t be. Always getting out of his fucking sight, even though he’d placed three guards on him at all times to stop him from running away. It didn’t matter really, for he always did come back - the compulsion on his undead’s mind like a rubber band, eventually snapping back and bringing his weapon back to him. But still.
“You know you shouldn’t fraternise with the slaves,” Kyriel chided, placid. “I remember telling you not to go to the kitchens, if I am correct.”
The boy was a prince, the closest thing the angel had to a heir. It wouldn’t do for him to grow attached to the human slaves, the poor bastards tasked with cutting other humans into meals for his Fallens to consume. They would be eaten, sooner or later, and he didn’t need the child to develop a conscience, to grow attached to his food. What a terrible weapon he would be, feeling sorry for his prey.
Kai’s blush deepened, the boy keeping his eyes trained on his notes, body language suddenly meek.
“I know, Magister,” he murmured, his voice feeble like a kitten’s meow. “But I like the smell of the cakes.” He kept his eyes low, his little face flush and chastised. “The sugar is so pretty.”
Kyriel frowned. There were a few Fallens in a separate section of the kitchens, a selected few in charge of the slaves and of preparing Kyriel’s meals, the only edible thing that wasn’t living flesh for his undeads. He hadn’t technically prohibited the boy from going there, but it worried him that he’d managed to go around his orders so. That he had the mind to dance around his direct commands, the compulsion of his words - that he had the intelligence to find the loopholes in his hold over his mind. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing - he wanted the boy to be clever, and be capable, for intelligence was a power in itself - but which gave him pause. Besides, the boy shouldn’t be able to smell cake and feel anything but disinterest. He should be attracted to blood, to still beating flesh, and want to rip it off the bones.
Kyriel’s frown deepened, wondering which part of the boy’s suppressed memories pulled him to kitchens, attracted him still to human food.
He was a scrawny little thing running for his life, he reminded himself. A peasant boy, barely scrapping by. Of course he would have loved a king’s kitchen, the abundance of it.
The angel shook his head, sending the thought away.
“Come here, love,” he ordered after a moment, pushing his chair back. He patted his tight, leaving space between himself and his mahogany desk for Kai to kneel in, widening his legs.
Kai stood, knees wobbly, obeying without complaint. He paled, still, and Kyriel had to pull at the compulsion of his mind, just slightly, when the boy hesitated before stepping towards his Master. Falling to his knees on the floor in between the angel’s legs with a fluid movement, his head at the height of his Master’s tights.
Kyriel cupped his boy’s face, pushing his hair away. He smiled, feeling him melt into the touch, his tears forgotten in the face of the angel’s compulsion over him.
“Now, love, what did we say about controlling ourselves?”
It wasn’t an academic question. Kai had had problems with self control, both in going around his orders and in the battlefield. In feeding, even, having assaulted a poor peasant in the streets a few weeks prior, eating their guts out in the middle of the day. Which wouldn’t do, for Kyriel had to maintain a degree of law and order in his lands, and even though there was a hierarchy between his Fallens, the peasants and the slaves, only prisoners of war and convicted criminals ended up in the belly of the Tower for feeding purposes. There were plenty of them in there, the social contract being that all the other humans living in his empire were going to follow his laws and, in exchange, be safe.
Kai couldn’t go around eating them, no matter how entertaining it was, how entrepreneurial of him.
The boy bit his lower lip, thick eyelashes covering his silver eyes. He looked away from the angel, kneeling in between his legs, shy and ashamed - knowing where this was going, the lecture awaiting him.
“Self-control means that we can’t always have what we want,” he recited, low. “That we can only get what you say we ought, Magister.”
“That’s right,” Kyriel praised, and Kai blushed slightly at the words. “And if I say you shouldn’t go into the kitchens because it is not good for you to fraternise with the slaves, does it mean that you should go to the kitchens when you know there would be only Fallens there?”
Kai’s deepening blush was the only answer. Kyriel lifted the boy’s chin with one finger, the movement not unkind, forcing him to look back at him in the eyes. He raised his eyebrows, expectant.
“No, Magister,” Kai mumbled, chastised. “I am sorry.”
Kyriel hummed in approval, quiet and low.
“Very well then. How many times did you go into the kitchens after I told you not to?”
Kai opened and closed his mouth a few times. Trying to speak, no word coming out of him. Trying to lie, Kyriel realised with a little shock - the little shit unknowingly fighting the compulsion that prevented him from speaking only the truth to his Master.
Impressive. Terrifying.
“Three times, sir,” the boy whispered in the end, and Kyriel knew it was only the truth. Couldn’t have been anything but that, the boy’s very being under his command. “But it was not my fault, Magister!” Kai blurted, heat rising further to his cheeks. “Brilde wasn’t supposed to be there. The cook called her up from downstairs for a job, and besides no one saw me. I used the veil’s enchantment you taught me, and no one could hear me after we trained in stealth, so really I was only practicing - just looking at the cakes as they were made-“
Kyriel silenced the boy’s river of words with a snap of his fingers, Kai’s mouth falling shut with his unspoken command. He watched in wonder as the boy whimpered against his sealed lips, voice trying to come through his forcibly shut mouth - still trying to speak even though his flesh did not obey him. Not realising that his control over his own body was subservient to his Master’s will, Kyriel able of controlling his undead prince like a marionette, if it came to it.
“My boy, I am very, very disappointed in you.” The angel let his tone go icy, fingers tightening over his pupil’s chin. Kai froze, no longer trying to speak, like a deer in the lights. “This is truly unbecoming behaviour. You know better than to go around my commands, finding loopholes. You are making me really, really sad.”
Kai whimpered again, silver doe eyes widening in pleading. But his sound wasn’t in protest, nor in fear. No - the boy’s eyes were filled with concern, worry over the angel’s emotional state. He trembled, leaning forwards into his Master’s touch, desperate to please.
Kyriel let go of the enchantment over his pupil’s mouth, letting the boy speak.
“Magister, I’m so sorry,” the boy blurted, his voice a terrified meowl. “Please, please, forgive me. I will not do it again. I will think twice, thrice, when I am not sure. I will check with you, every time I am in doubt. I promise. Please, what - what can I do to make it better?” His eyes widened, panicked, trained over his Master’s face. “Please.”
Kyriel smiled, magnanimous, cupping the boy’s face again. His beautiful prince, his weapon - unable to conceive a life that wasn’t for his Master’s pleasing. Just as he had designed him, just as he should be.
“Oh, love, I am already feeling so much better,” he reassured him, soothing, wanting to laugh for how much Kai relaxed, sagging in relief under his hold. “You are going to be so good for me, I know.” His thumb caressed Kai’s cheek, the child leaning into his touch like a needy puppy. “I am going to help you learn now. Is that okay?”
Kai nodded, quick and eager.
“Please, Magister,” he whispered. “I want to be good.”
The angel’s smiled widened, a hint of cruelty seeping through.
“Very well. Give me your hand, then.”
Kai obeyed, no hesitation in his movements this time around as he placed his fingers over his Master’s leg. Kneeling obediently in between his tights, eyes trained over Kyriel’s face, eager to please.
The angel picked the boy’s slender hand in between his, Kai’s fingers so small, so delicate, compared to his.
“Today we are going to train your self control, love, since you struggled to stay away from the cakes.” The angel slowly caressed the boy’s palm, soothingly drawing its outlines with his fingers. “That is why you went downstairs around my orders, right?”
Kai nodded again, wincing slightly. But he seemed to steel himself, to grasp at his resolve, eyes focusing on his Master’s fingers over his.
There was a slight tremble in them. The boy not dumb, not dim despite his age.
Kyriel smiled, his stomach twisting in giddy anticipation. “I am going to break your fingers now,” he said, slowly, eyes trained over Kai’s face to catch any hesitation, any fear on his features. Any rebellion, conscious or unconscious, flashing under the surface of the enchantment. “Three of them, since you went downstairs three times against my orders.” His hold tightened over the boy’s hand, squeezing slightly, fingers still caressing his palm. “It will hurt, but they will heal. And most importantly - I want you not to make a sound as I break them. I want you to keep quiet, in control, no matter how much it hurts.” The angel cocked his head to the side, studying the boy kneeling in front of him. “Can you do that for me, love?”
Kai’s eyes were filled with tears. Still he nodded, brave little thing, only sniffling slightly. Bracing, squaring his shoulders, like the good little soldier he was.
“Yes, Magister,” he whispered. “Thank you, Magister.”
Kyriel smiled, unable to hide his delight.
Then he snapped the first bone, clean and in half.
Kai flinched below him, visibly repressing a whimper. His hand jerked in the angel’s hold, the boy instinctively trying to retreat it. But he caught himself, stopping even before Kyriel could tut at him and add another finger in punishment - setting his jaw, stubborn, only letting one tear fall down on his face.
It must hurt, Kyriel knew. His undeads didn’t feel pain like humans did. He could switch the pain receptors off in battle, when he needed them to go berserker, and he could increase them at will when he needed to punish.
And Kai, he knew, was feeling a lot right now.
“So good, love,” the monster cooed, letting go of the boy’s fist finger to move to the second one. Slowly, drinking the child’s trembling, how his free hand had closed in a fist at his side, nails digging in his palm. “You are doing so well.”
Kai closed his eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks, chest lurching silently in pain as Kyriel snapped his second finger in two. The bone cracked loudly in the silence of the study, the boy suppressing all whimpers even as he shook.
Kyriel smiled, positively impressed.
“Good.” He licked his lips. “Last one now.”
This time Kai jerked away, bringing his other fist to his mouth, biting down to suppress a scream. But he still didn’t let it out, only biting down on his flesh to the point of drawing blood, writhing in the angel’s hold. And Kyriel watched in amazement, snapping the third and final finger, as the little stubborn thing successfully clamped down all sounds within himself.
Incredible. Fucking incredible.
“Oh, love, well done,” the angel breathed, amazed, grabbing the boy and drawing him into a hug. Feeling Kai shivering, flinching below him, still suppressing all sounds of pain within his chest. “I am so, so proud of you.” Kyriel sighed, petting the boy’s head, his hair. “So good for me.”
Only then Kai let himself wail. And Kyriel smiled, feeling the trembling child melt into his touch below him, into the praise, despite the pain.
“Oh, Kai.” The monster smiled, brushing the sobbing thing’s hair. “You are perfect.” He leaned forwards, slowly kissing him on the head. Paternal, triumphant. “My perfect, perfect boy.”
Kai and Kyriel’s masterlist
Tag list: @suspicious-whumping-egg @forthetaintedsorrow-whump @flowersarefreetherapy
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pigeonwhumps · 9 months
Text
Laces
Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist
Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch
Fiona (aka Phoenix) tries to teach Alicia how to tie her laces.
(this was a little drabble for a discord server, but I figured I may as well post it here too)
657 words
CWs: minor whump (Phoenix is 8 and Alicia 5), child abuse, fear of punishment, threats, withholding food, disabled whumpee, slap
"I don't get it!" exclaims Alicia, throwing the shoe down in frustration. She can feel her eyes filling with tears. She's tired and she doesn't understand what she's doing wrong. Why's it not working?
"Copy me. You need to make sure the loop goes through, um, through the rest of the knot."
"We've been here for hours! I can't do it!" She throws the other shoe as well, and it bounces off the opposite wall, flopping onto the floorboards. There's no point in continuing to try if she can't do it.
"Please, Lissy. One more try? I'll give you a sticker if you try again."
She shakes her head, clutching her small lion. She can't do it. What's the point?
"Please."
"Stop it!" she yells. She doesn't know why her sister's pushing so hard. "Just stop it!"
"Alicia. Fiona. What's all this fuss? Stop it at once."
Alicia freezes and looks up to see their dad in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows slanting downwards. He's not happy then.
He's never happy.
"I'm teaching Alicia how to tie her shoes," explains Fiona.
Their dad raises an eyebrow. "Not very well, apparently. Get on with it. You know what happens if she can't tie her shoes by school tomorrow."
"Yes, dad."
"Alicia. You've dirtied the paintwork, no dinner until it's clean. And I'm taking that until you've learned how to tie your laces, it's taking up too much time."
Their dad snatches Larry the lion from her hands, and her heart screams. Fiona's on her feet immediately, before Alicia even has a chance to do anything.
"Stop it! That's not stopping her from learning, she needs it. Stop being mean!"
"Fiona," their dad says warningly. Fiona shakes her head.
"She's trying her best! You're a meanie!"
The crack from the resultant slap resounds around the room. Fiona reels back, stumbling over Alicia's feet. Alicia pulls her legs up out of the way, feeling guilty but not wanting to be hurt.
"Don't you dare talk back to me like that. No dinner for a week, and be grateful it's only that. When I was your age my father would have spanked me until I couldn't sit down for days for that disrespect. Do you understand?"
"Yes, dad," whispers Fiona. "Sorry, dad."
Their dad nods sharply. "Alicia, learn to tie your shoes and quit making a fuss. You're old enough to know how to behave yourself." Alicia nods. "And use your words in future, you did earlier with Fiona."
Alicia doesn't know how to explain that it's different with Fiona, that with her she doesn't feel so much like her throat's choked up and her words empty. And even then she can't always talk.
It's too late anyway. He's gone.
She hugs herself, unable to take the contact from anyone else but needing it, needing it, needing it. She needs Larry back.
"I, um, I have Gerry if you want him. I can't get Larry back yet, I'm sorry."
Alicia shakes her head, taking the small giraffe from Fiona and hugging him. Just breathing until she can speak.
"What's dad gonna do if I can't tie my shoes tomorrow? Is he gonna put you in the shed?"
"Doesn't matter. Um, we can stop for now if you want."
Alicia does. But she doesn't want Fiona to get into trouble.
There's a sticker sheet between them that Fiona has been using to reward her with, and she picks out a green smiley face, sticking it to her sister's t-shirt.
And then a gold star to go with it, because her sister's so good. She gives Fiona a toothy grin that she knows might cheer her up.
"Thanks Lissy. You're, um, good to go one more time?"
Alicia nods, and Fiona fetches the shoes from across the room. Her sister's hands are shaking as they move slowly through the steps, and she still can't get it but she has to.
She has to.
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whump-in-the-closet · 11 months
Text
Raising Chaos.
cw: flogging, sadistic whumper, bad caretaker, inhuman whumpee, whump of a minor (chiar is 17), for context Chiar refuses to obey the orders of his. uh. employer and gets punished
masterlist.
***
The door unlocked. Finally. It felt like it had been hours since they had taken Chiar.
Syl brushed past the man who held it open. Blue shadows warped around his skin, buzzing with an irritation he could not hide.
Syl ran before Fain could stop him.
The entrance to the Yard was left open, allowing Syl to take in two things at once.
Two things that hit him with all the weight of a physical blow. The electricity inside him coiled tight in his chest, winding around his ribs, coating the bones in burning anger.
He desperately wanted to set something on fire.
The first: a discarded whip, blood-flecked and hanging from the wall. As terrible as any curse and far more painful.
And then Chiar chained by his wrists to the wooden post set in the middle of the Yard. He didn’t look conscious, his limbs hanging at odd angles and his back–
God.
He really was going to set something on fire. Syl was by Chiar in an instant. Close enough to hear the cryptid’s ragged breathing. Close enough to see there were far more than the ordered five lashes on his back.
Syl stepped in blood and gagged, bile rising up in his throat. The tiles were coated in blood.
Fain snorted derisively.
Syl ignored him. Forcing his hands to hold steady, he pried the leather gag out of the boy’s mouth. Gently, he brushed aside Chiar’s hair, whispering to him to hold on for me, okay? Just hold on.
He turned his attention to the chains around Chiar’s wrists.
“Let’s get you down from there,” he muttered. “You idiot.”
Chiar groaned, pressing his forehead into the wood.
Syl yanked at the chains, careful not to prod at Chiar’s damaged wrists. The bands were locked. Of course they were. He yanked at them again. It was pointless.
He could practically hear Fain’s smile, cold and bitter.
Syl whirled around, hands balling into fists at his side. “Get him down!”
Fain didn’t move. The key hung from one finger, swinging back and forth as Fain pretended to consider what Syl had demanded. Then he smiled. “That’s not how you address your betters, now, is it?”
The corners of Syl’s mouth twitched into a snarl. He glanced at Chiar, his back covered in those god-awful lacerations and snapped at Fain.
“That’s far more than five lashes you gave him! Now so help me, get him down, or I’ll fucking–” He bit the word off.
Fain was no longer smiling. He cocked his head, daring the boy to go on. To finish the threat.
Syl trailed off, inspecting the blood on his boots. Then, slowly, he spoke again. Carefully this time: “Can– can you get him down?”
Fain sighed in mock disappointment. “One more try, Westerling, I know you can manage this. It's such a simple thing and yet you manage to mess it up so well.”
Besides Syl, Chiar’s breathing picked up. Fast. Consciousness brought cramped muscles and the taste of leather and the smell of sweat– Chiar choked on it. And then the pain brushed everything else out of his mind. He cried out without really meaning to.
Syl stiffened. He worked his jaw in a tight circle, glancing at Chiar. And then he exhaled softly. “Lord Fain, please, let him down.” He infused as much venom into the words as possible.
Fain backhanded him. The blow took Syl by surprise and he stumbled, falling to one knee.
A handprint, violet-red, began to form on one side of his face.
“Almost there, Westerling. None of your sarcasm.”
Syl wiped his mouth and stood, eyes blazing. But he swallowed blood and dignity. “Please, Lord Fain, let him down.”
Fain smiled. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
One day, Syl would make that man burn. One day. But not today.
Fain unlocked the chains and Chiar slumped to the ground, Syl barely managing to catch him in time.
He was far lighter than Syl expected. There was blood on Syl’s neck and clothes as Chiar’s head thudded against his chest. Syl could hear the boy’s heartbeat, beating fast and hard against his chest.
Syl pulled the boy’s arm over his shoulder, doing his best not to touch his back. “Can you walk?”
Chiar struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on Syl. He nodded, refusing to make eye contact.
Carefully, Syl led him out of the Yard. With each step, Syl was sure Chiar would collapse, the floor spinning beneath him. The very air seemed to become blood-stained around them.
Bloody arm around Syl’s neck.
Bloodier breathing.
They managed to reach Syl’s room with Chiar still conscious. Syl breathed a small prayer of thanks to whatever gods were watching over him.
He lowered Chiar onto the cot.
“Lie down.”
Chiar didn’t move. He stared straight ahead, hands shaking.
“Lie down.” Syl repeated, snatching up his bag of medical supplies and slamming the cabinet door shut.
Chiar flinched at the noise. “Sorry.” Wincing, he did as Syl said, burying his face into the blankets.
Syl knelt down and grabbed a pair of small scissors, cutting away the remains of Chiar’s shirt. This completely revealed how deep the lash marks were. And how Fain had not held back in the slightest.
As Syl worked, he seethed, air coming in sharp hisses from between clenched teeth. “You’re an idiot, you know that? An absolute idiot.”
Chiar muffled a curse as Syl began cleaning the wounds, pain flaring up his back. Everything was on fire.
His voice cracked.“But– but you talk back to Fain all the time.
“Hold still! You are not me, Chiar. Stop acting like it. Besides, see where your tough act got you?” Syl’s ranting did not end there. “I can’t believe you! Do you have no self-preservation at all? When Fain tells you to do something, you fucking do it.”
Chiar whimpered. “Syl–”
“Don’t Syl me. It’s like you have a death wish.” He paused, “Alright, four of these needs stitches, the rest are fine if we bandage them tight enough. Hold still, okay?”
“Is it–” Chiar could hardly get his voice to work. “Is it going to hurt?” He hated how weak he sounded. How pathetically his voice carried up to a high note.
Syl rested a hand on Chiar’s head, messing up his hair. That was as gentle as he knew how to be. “Deep breaths for me.”
Breathing deeply hurt. It made his ribs ache. And it did not make the sharp pain on his back any better. The needle bit deeply and set trails of fire underneath his skin.
But the comforting weight of Syl’s hand in his hair in between tugs of the needle– that did not hurt.
Even if it was just to hold him down, Chiar found a measure of comfort in the small touch. It was a kindness Chiar rarely felt.
tagging: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast, @pigeonwhumps (lmk if you want to be added or removed!)
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whumpering-heights · 1 year
Text
Aftermath: Chris and Jackson fight
MASTERLIST
A/N this one follows about two weeks after this flashback. You guys really liked that chapter, so I felt inspired to write the aftermath!
Taglist: @pumpkin-spice-whump @octopus-reactivated @fanastyfinder @whumpy-arts-and-crafts @arsonfrogger @burtlederp @harri-00 @akito-fuckn-fear @potatoo-angst @sunflower1000 @whumpycries
CW: bullying, homophobia, gaslighting, emotional whump, Hero being a dick even in his younger years, minor whump (all characters involved are about 15)
Jackson heard Chris before he saw him: he chatted away at people as he made his way to the back of the bus, before throwing himself on the seat next to him. Jackson didn’t need to keep it free: ever since he’d pulled that “prank” on Amy, seats next to him were kept empty. It might be be his imagination, but he could swear that people stared at him in the hallways. And if the rumor he heard was true, he might know why. He kept his gaze on the grey morning through the window as his friend prattled on.
“Oof, I nearly missed the bus this morning. I swear, that driver has it out for me. Hey, did you do the assignment for math?”
Jackson shrugged. Finally, Chris took notice.
“You feeling alright?”
Jackson still didn’t turn around, but he made eye contact with Chris’s reflection in the window.
“Last week. Did you go out with Amy?”
His friend was silent for a moment.
“Why do you ask.”
Jackson tried to keep his voice level.
“Just answer the question: did you go out with her?”
“Yeah, what do you care?” Chris smirked, his braces shining like knives.
“Are you jealous of her?”
Jackson turned around in a flash, his face red, and punched him on the arm.
“Shut up!” he hissed, trying to turn his fear into anger. “I swear, if you say that stuff one more time-”
“You punched me.”
Something in Chris’s voice made Jackson freeze. His friend stared at him, his eyes wide and with a cold fire inside.
“Friends don't hit each other, even you should know that.” he said, fury making each word clear and piercing. Then, he stood up and went to sit with some other guys from his class. Hushed words were exchanged while Chris rubbed his arm and winced, and soon there were at least a dozen eyes aimed at him.
Shit.
----------
It was lunchbreak. He didn’t think Chris wanted to see him, and honestly, the feeling was mutual. He’d been holding an ice pack to his arm and whispering to people all day. Jackson  didn’t hit him that hard, did he? He'd just wanted him to shut up, but now he was starting to regret it.
He stood in the cafeteria, lost. He only really hung out with Chris, so who was he supposed to talk to now? Well, maybe it didn’t hurt to make new friends.
He walked up to two guys from biology and pulled out a chair.
“Hey, do you guys mind if I-”
“That seat’s taken.” said the one with curly hair.
“Oh, sorry,” said Jackson, and he went to grab another one.
“That one’s taken too, actually.” The guy with glasses said. He could barely keep a straight face, and his friend let out a chuckle.
Jackson looked at the five empty chairs.
“So.... they’re all-?”
“Yeah,” Curly said, shoulders shaking with the effort to keep a straight face. “I’m so sorry.”
Jackson put the chair back. “Y-yeah man, no worries.”
“No worries,” Glasses said back, in barely disguised mocking tone.
Jackson ate his lunch on the staircase. Like a goddamn first year, without a claim to one of the tables. There had even been a couple of younger kids on the stairs, but they moved away when he sat down. He hadn’t fallen below them in the pecking order, at least.
Still, he felt like absolute garbage. Had everyone hated him all along? Or was it because he punched Chris that his popularity went down? Chris was pretty well-liked, and Amy was too... He buried his face in his hands.
“Hey.”
He looked up to see Chris, his arm in a sling. His face was still cold and furious, like a marble statue.
“What are you doing on the stairs.”
Jackson shrugged and kept his eyes down.
“I didn’t know where else to sit, I guess. It’s quiet here.”
Chris huffed and went to sit down too. He moved a couple steps higher than Jackson, so he had to turn around and look up to see his face.
There was an awkward silence between the two boys.
“Did you, like... talk to Evan and Gus?” Jackson asked at last. They had been the two boys that refused to let him sit with them. Chris raised his good shoulder.
“Not really. They knew about what happened with Amy, so they might be pissed at you for that. I don’t blame ‘em, it was a dick move.”
Jackson frowned. “Oh yeah? Did they also know you sat me up for that?”
“Sat you up?” Chris asked, as though it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “What, like I framed you for it? Like a mafia boss? Sorry, I’m not that clever.”
Jackson turned around more, looking up at his friend.
“No, I meant how you made me do it.”
“Made you do it?” asked Chris, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Did I force you to? Me, force a big guy like you? At gunpoint, or what?”
“Stop that, you know what I mean! It was your idea in the first place!”
“I was joking!” Chris explained, speaking slowly like Jackson was stupid. “I was seriously, genuinely just joking, I didn’t think you’d actually do it until you were already gone!”
Jackson didn’t know what to say for a moment.
“...Really? Why didn’t you stop me, then?”
Chris rolled his eyes. “So first I’m forcing you to do things, now I’m responsible for not stopping you. You gotta own your mistakes, dude! It’s not my fault you can’t read social cues and took it too far. I already cleaned up your mess, by making sure Amy didn’t go home totally traumatized. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Jackson racked his mind. Had he really been joking? He did have an odd sense of humor sometimes... And he didn’t remember the exact words he’d used, so maybe he had misread the situation.
“Oh,” he said, feeling very dumb. “Was.. was Amy very sad?”
“Heartbroken,” Chris answered bluntly. “But luckily I swooped in to save her. She seemed happy at the end.”
Jackson was relieved.  “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“As I said, you’re welcome.” Chris rubbed his arm again. “I could have explained this much sooner if you hadn’t assaulted me.”
Jackson winced. All this had been a misunderstanding, and now his reputation was bust. He needed Chris back in his corner like never before.
“I’m so sorry I did that, I promise I won’t hit you again.” he said. Chris looked down at him and hummed.
“Hmmm, I dunno if I wanna be friends with someone who jumps to conclusions like that. You didn’t even hear me out.”
Jackson felt his heartbeat rise. “I swear," he pleaded, "I’ll always trust your word before doing anything stupid, just give me one more chance! Please, can we be friends again?”
Chris thought for a moment.
“No.”
Jackson’s heart sank to his feet as his friend continued with a smirk.
“We can be best friends again.”
And just like that, thinks had gone back to normal. Jackson laughed with relief.
“You asshole.”
“Coming from you, that’s probably a compliment,” Chris joked. Jackson tried to ignore the way his guts twisted at that jab, though his smile faltered.
“Dude, please stop making jokes like that in public.”
“Relax, there’s no one here! But fine, I’ll stop.” Chris grinned. “If you let me copy your math homework.”
Jackson sighed and took out his notebook. Chris really did have an odd sense of humor, but he was his best friend. And he guessed that accepting quirks like that is just what best friends did.
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deluxewhump · 2 years
Text
Two: Matteo- I’ll Do Whatever You Want
Summary: the new King Blackmuir was once a child ward of the Osier noble family. He finds the youngest Osier son, Matteo, badly kept in his dungeons and pulls him out. Matteo does not expect mercy, or favor.
CW: fantasy/royalty whump, mistreated prisoner, recalling past whump of a minor (corporal punishment), distrust/fear of caretaker, execution mentions, sort of hinting at prefering death over other fates, touch starved
Matteo woke from dreams of terrible thirst. He had the sense he’d woken before, but that it had not truly been waking. He must have drifted close to the surface, his physical pain throbbing like a separate heartbeat.
Someone gave him water. He drank it greedily, and opened his eyes.
Sometimes lately, there was a young boy guarding the cells who gave him more water than the others did. When he had tried to talk to him, the boy stayed tight-lipped and somber, and eventually Matteo subsided into grateful noises of thanks, or moans when he could not manage to drag himself to the bars and pick up the cup to drink. It would sit there for hours as he would work up the strength to make it across the rushes and drink the sour, copper tasting nectar.
But it was not the boy with him now. It was a face he’d known since he was a child, and not someone he had ever expected to see again.
Therrin Blackmuir sat on the edge of the bed, turned toward him with his golden hair backlit by the setting sun so it appeared aflame. He looked older than Matteo remembered, his features fuller and sharper. The lines of his jaw and his cheeks were more defined than when he’d been a boy, and on his jaw was stick stubble the color of August hay.
Matteo remembered a cool, wet cloth wiping sweat from his brow, hushed words of reassurance… it could not have been his father’s ward treating him with such gentleness. It had to have been a servant. Therrin was here now to tell him when he was going to the gallows. Or the stake.
“Matteo.” Therrin said.
“Where… where am I?”
“You’re safe,” Therrin answered. “You’re among friends.”
“How is—” he felt out of breath just from speaking. Fear was making his heart pound against his will. “Where is King Henry? He… I— I’m not supposed to be out.”
Therrin’s mouth twitched, and his chin rose an inch. “The usurper is dead. I killed him. You’re in my chambers, in my keep. In my kingdom.”
Matteo stared, his head beginning to throb with his heartbeat. He felt like he might throw up the sweet, cool water he’d just been given. His eyes slid to the crown sitting atop a wooden chest at the end of the high four poster bed.
King. It could not be.
Matteo Osier had been a born supporter of the Truly line all his life, right up until he found himself on his hands and knees in front of Henry Truly’s feet.
If Therrin was King— and Henry was dead… was his own family dead, too? His home burned and ransacked, his riches stolen? He did not understand how this could be. If he had woken from his fever to talking dogs and a purple sky it would have been easier to accept.
“King?”
Therrin smirked. “That’s ‘Your Grace’, Osier.”
Matteo pulled his eyes from the crown, from the ruby glinting in the firelight like a wolf’s heart. “Please,” he begged. “Are they dead?”
Therrin’s smirk faded. “Who?”
Matteo felt tears prick his eyes, and the pain in his chest spread to his hand, where his half-missing pinkie throbbed. “Saxon. Father. M-my mother…?”
“No,” Therrin said quickly. He lifted his hand toward him and Matteo flinched hard against the pillows.
He dropped it back by his side. “No,” he said again. “As far as I know, your family is alive and well. I only just took back the crown. It hasn’t been a fortnight. And I… I had no idea you were rotting in that dungeon or pulling you out would have been the first thing I did. The very first thing. I swear you this.”
Matteo gaped dumbly at him, his mind rebelling at every impossible development. Therrin hated him. Since they were children Therrin had been resentful of him, as if he envied the way his mother would comb her fingers in his hair, and the praise he and Saxon got from their father.
He was always Therrin, the sarcastic and smirking ward who would just as soon trip you into pigshit as look at you. Matteo used to love telling the masters or his parents on Therrin, anything to get the older boy a whipping. It was easy, too.
Therrin pushed me down. Therrin loosened my saddle girth and I fell off my horse. Therrin said that Henry Truly is not the True King.
Thinking a Blackmuir could ever wear the crown again… let alone Therrin Blackmuir, would have once seemed so absurdly unlikely to him it would’ve sent him into stitches.
Therrin’s father must be dead, then. So must his elder brother, what was his name? And the Truly-loyal allegiances Matteo’s father had spoke of as if they were the mountains themselves… they must have crumbled into the sea, their lines broken.
Henry is dead, Therrin had told him. I killed him.
“Is he truly dead?” Matteo whispered. “You do not trick me?”
Therin narrowed his eyes. “Did he do this to you?”
“Is he dead? Tell me, for true.”
Therrin regarded him seriously, more grave than Matteo could ever remember him. “He’s dead. I did it myself. Was it he who imprisoned you, Matteo? Your family is ever loyal to the Truly line. I don’t understand.”
Matteo leaned back against a soft pillow. He’d forgotten what it felt like to sleep in a bed, or have any cover other than rushes and his own filthy clothes. He was in a soft white tunic, he noticed, and his skin had been scrubbed clean. He did not even remember what must have been his first bath in months. He must’ve dirtied half the water in the keep.
Your family is ever loyal to the Truly line. Not something he relished hearing while lying in the bed of a Blackmuir King.
“Will you hang me?” he asked. He heard that his voice sounded almost hopeful. It was a cleaner death than many.
“No, Mattie,” Therrin breathed, and lifted his hand again. Matteo held his breath, but Therrin only held his cheek in his palm, like he’d tried to before. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
After a moment, Matteo could not help but lean into the touch. It was warm, and gentle. He hadn’t been touched in what must have been months, perhaps years. And before that, it had only been to hurt him, to inflict pain. He shuddered as tears fell from his eyes, blurring the depictions on the tapestries that covered the stone wall. He’d never imagined Therrin would help him, let alone touch him so tenderly. For most of his life it would’ve been beyond the scope of his imagination.
Therrin would find a way to use him, then, if he didn’t execute him right away. He would put him back in the dungeon and use him as a tool to get his family to cooperate with the Blackmuir reign. He would keep him hostage to dissuade the Osiers participating in rebellion, just as his own father kept Therrin hostage all those years.
But Therrin held Matteo’s cheek so carefully, brushing his thumb at his tears. “You’re safe, Mattie,” he said, using Saxon’s nickname for him. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Matteo bit back a sob. “I’ll do whatever you want me to,” he whispered. He hadn’t made himself this pathetic since Henry was standing over him with a knife, but he knew it might be his only audience with Therrin before being thrown back to the blackness of that cell.
“Please, Th-Your Grace… I’ll say whatever you want me to say. I’ll do whatever you want me to… to do. I’ll— I’ll be your slave, if you wish it. I— I served Hen-I served the usurper, though it was not my wish. I- I wish to serve you. I would be h-honored.” His last ‘please’ was lost in a hitching sob.
Therrin frowned, and scooted closer to him, leaning over him and taking his face in both hands now. “Stop, that, Matteo. It’s alright. It’s me. It’s just me.”
“Your Grace—”
“Just Therrin, to you. I should not have teased.”
His hands were warm on Matteo’s cheeks, his voice so familiar. He was a reminder of home, of outdoor feasts at long tables and late summer festivals where it did not grow dark til nearly midnight. The children played tag and war, barefoot in the wet grass. Therrin’s raised voice often climbed above the din of the others— as bold as if he were their brother and not their ward.
He felt a rush of homesickness so powerful it was almost sweet. He could recall the call of gulls, the murmuring of the waves through his bedroom window at night, a long stripe of moonlight on the sea like an arrow.
“It’s alright,” Therrin said, and he leaned on one elbow beside him, stroking Matteo’s newly-cleaned hair. He wondered how long it had taken them to get a comb through it. He could no longer even run his fingers through it, the last he remembered. Therrin’s hand felt so good stroking his head that he started to cry harder, tight convulsions that felt like they would break him apart. Therrin shushed him gently, called his name in a tender, sad sort of way.
Matteo leaned into him, pressing his forehead against his loose linen tunic. Powerful arms wrapped around him, holding him like Saxon would when he was just little and fell off his pony, scraping his elbows.
“Help,” he whimpered, blind with tears. He did not know in what way he meant. “Therrin.”
Therrin held him tighter. “You’re alright, Mattie. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Matteo cried himself to sleep in the King’s arms.
Taglist:
@highwaywhump , @melancholy-in-the-morning
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whump-space · 6 months
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Day 1 - Cannibalism
Goretober! I'm working off of @coyotehusk 's prompt list (and it's a good prompt list)! Go ahead and be using "space's goretober 2023" to organize this, do with that what you like!
Major warning for minor whump on this, everyone involved is a child.
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Anna remembered the first time she tasted blood. Her hands were never where she thought they should be, and for the umpteenth time that day she'd smacked it against something, only this time the table had caught skin and ripped a gash across the back of her hand. It was...cloying. Metallic. Salty. Almost sweet, like chewing on the foil chocolates came wrapped in.
She always had to be told not to pick the scabs that formed over her many cuts and scrapes. She liked to chew on the inside of her cheek when she was bored, until that familiar taste could occupy her. And even fighting on the playground, when the bullies would push her down and call her names, she tasted blood.
She tasted it now. She wasn't...quite sure what had led up to this moment, but the salty-sweet metal filled her mouth and dripped down her chin. Her teeth sunk into something soft and chewy, and more of the delicious fluid filled her mouth. She bit and chewed, the soft fibers yielding under her teeth. Swallow, bite, metal metal metal. It stuck, and she dug her teeth in and *pulled* until it came away with a rip. Chew, smack, rivers of red, staining her shirt, her arms, her hands. She dug her fingers in and ripped away another sweet bite, sinking her teeth in like an animal starved.
Later, authorites would find the remains of the missing child, a ways off the path he was known to take home. The remains were scattered across an area of several yards, as if taken apart by an uncharacteristically brave pack of coyotes. Cause of death could not be determined and, although rumours abounded, police could not find any correlation between the young girl the victim was known to pick on, and the burnt clothes found in the family's backyard.
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whumpinthepot · 8 months
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👑 Who’s your fave? Why?
⛓️Which whumpee has been tortured the longest? Why won’t you let them GO??
Thx Red <333 from this
Im going to pick TSATS to talk about today
Whos my fave, thats a hard one…
My first thought it always Renay shes my main character and my precious baby ive had her for a really long time, but I love all of my TSATS cast pretty much… Ginger is close to my heart as well because lab rat baby, hes MY baby that is my child ive cried over his arc the most out of any character ive ever written so im going to have to say Gin is my fave.
Which whumpee has been tortured the longest
Coincidently enough its Ginger o-o my first thought is always zyan but only because what he went through was sadistically bad but in a short period of time. Gin was a more calculated drawn out slow burn kind of torture with Stockholm and brainwashing to the point that he didn’t see it that way. He’s a BORN lab rat, so he was put through it his whole life without even knowing the extent of how bad its been. He doesn’t know anything else, and comes off as eerily chipper… 😅
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somber-sapphic · 7 months
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Compromised System
〘Day 3- "What happened to that phenomenal immune system, huh?"〙
〘Notes- This is drastically unedited and thrown together at the last second. The colors are also different because I forgot to save them. Oops.〙
〘Summary- When Lena gets sick, she really gets sick.〙
〘Word Count- 550〙
〘Pairing- Sick Lena x Reader〙
〚Main Masterlist〛⌶〚Sicktember Masterlist〛
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You sighed and tucked a stray lock of Lena’s raven hair behind her ear, out of her sweaty face. Her chapped lips were parted slightly, each breath a bit raspy. Every so often you would grab a tissue to wipe her runny nose, accepting the fact that the woman was in no shape to do so herself.
Lena wasn’t even protesting, in fact, she wasn’t moving. She would open her eyes every so often to prove that she was awake but didn’t seem to care in the slightest that you were coddling her.
You dipped the cloth that had been resting on her forehead back into the cool basin of water on the bedside and brushed it across her skin, wiping away the sweat. She smiled slightly at the cool touch and licked her lips, working hard on preparing to speak.
“Thank you, Y/n.,” Lena croaked, words a mere whisper over the sound of Titanic playing in the background. The brunette wasn’t watching, neither of you were, but she had insisted that you put it on before she collapsed into bed.
Not being one to argue with your girlfriend, especially when she was sick, you’d done as she’d asked. It was roughly three fourths of the way into the movie, and you were incredibly bored. When you had looked it up on IMDB and seen it was 3 hours you had hoped she’d fall asleep soon so that you could turn it off. That wasn’t the case.
“Of course, my love. What happened to that phenomenal immune system of yours, huh?” You teased half-heartedly, your heart heavy with worry and guilt. You had given her this flu; it had been your fault. Of course, you hadn’t been nearly as sick. Probably due to the wonderful care of the beautiful woman laying in front of you.
“Mmm.” She hummed, shrugging under the pile of blankets. You were being incredibly careful in monitoring the CEO’s temperature, removing, and adding blankets as her shivering changed in intensity and frequency. Thankfully, although she was basically a vegetable, Lena’s temperature hadn’t gone above 102 degrees.
“Yeah, I think so too.” You replied, repositioning the cloth across her forehead. She had fought you on it in the beginning, insisting that she was absolutely fine. That had changed after only about ten minutes of her being horizontal.
You could tell that she was beginning to drift off, finally giving into her bodies pleas to sleep. As you sat on the edge of the bed, watching her breathing slow and her chest rise with the deeper breaths, you relaxed. It was easier to calm down knowing that she was asleep.
With one more large sigh, you shifted to sit beside her with your legs on top of the covers. You settled back against the pillows and eased Lena’s head into your lap, smiling to yourself when she instinctively grabbed your pant leg.
Even though she was bedridden now, your joke about her immune system hadn’t been wrong. Typically, it was amazing, she could work for days without sleeping and crash for a day only to end up perfectly fine. You were sure she’d been back to full health in a couple of days and go right back to work.
Only Lena Luthor could go from miserably sick to bouncing around again in a weekend.
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Bad Memories
CW: Post-traumatic stress (like, a lot of it), bad caretaker (not like abusive or anything, more like B+ caretaking), implied minor character death, female whumpee, male whumper, male caretaker, whumpee is fidgeting with a gun for most of the drabble because she has issues, mentions of beating, strangulation, and solitary confinement
Whumpee sat at the dinner table, idly tapping her fork against the edge of her half-empty plate. The conversation swirled around her, individual words mashing together and turning into a chaotic blend of noise. She caught “shut up” somewhere in the mix, immediately followed by laughter. Were they laughing with them, or laughing at them? Her hand began to tremble as she looked down into her wine glass, pondering the face she saw in the reflection. Pale and thin, her clumsily cropped hair bleached an ugly blond in an attempt to hide herself from her former captors. 
Whumper had been the worst of them. Even as blurry as her memories were, she could remember that. She remembered him beating her, tearing her back to ribbons for no particular reason other than boredom and sadism. She remembered him telling her to be quiet, and then making her be quiet when she wouldn’t do what he told her to, choking the life out of her. She remembered being left for hours in a cold, dark cell, alone, all alone, for what felt like a thousand years, until she was practically begging for some company, any company, even Whumper’s company. The memories drifted through her brain in fragments, cutting into her will, making her hands shake, turning her breath ragged. She bit back a scream as she dropped her fork and it clattered to the floor.
“I need to go.”
She bundled her cloak around her and ran out into the garden. She could feel the eyes of the partygoers following her as she left. She could only pray that they wouldn’t worry, that Caretaker would be able to get them all settled and back to their silly gossip. She’d caused a situation. She hated to cause situations. Back when she’d been Whumper’s prisoner, causing situations meant getting into trouble, and getting into trouble meant suffering. But she wasn’t with him now. Caretaker wouldn’t do that to her, he didn’t have the capacity for that, she reminded herself. Except that he did. She’d seen what he’d done to the people who’d imprisoned her when he broke her out. So much blood. So much screaming. He’d told her not to look, but she’d looked anyway, and look where that had gotten her, drowning in her own memories.
 She sat down on the edge of the fountain and took out her small, rust-covered six-shooter. A gift, she remembered, this had been a gift, but from who? It didn’t matter. She began to fidget with it, twirling it around her finger as she loaded and unloaded it over and over, disassembling and reassembling it again and again. As she slid the cartridge back into place, she turned around to see Caretaker sitting right beside her.
“Jesus, Caretaker, warn me next time you’re going to pop up out of thin air,” she squeaked.
“You usually spot me a lot sooner than that. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just…bad memories.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
She wanted to scream and snap that no, no he did not ‘get that’. He hadn’t been trapped for days and days with nothing to eat, no room to even breathe in that horrible, cramped dungeon. He hadn’t been tormented day and night by madmen whose motivations he couldn’t understand, would never be able to understand. He wasn’t living in fear of being dragged back to that place again, too scared to sleep, too scared to even think properly. He had no idea what her world looked like right now. But she didn’t say that. He was trying to help, he really was. He just didn’t understand this the way she understood it. He probably never would. And maybe that was alright. 
She ran a hand through her hair, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm her wandering mind. “I…it’s not the way you think it is. It’s like…you know how I usually can’t remember my time with Whumper very well?”
“Yeah. I know that.”
“Well, it’s like all the blurry memories just went into hi-def. And I have no idea what caused it, but it’s messing me up.” She spun the pistol around her finger again, briefly checking to make sure it was unloaded first. “I’m trying to focus on the garden and the gun and nothing else, but it’s not…it’s not easy.”
Caretaker sighed as he hoisted his ukelele onto his knee. “I don’t know if it’s ever gonna be easy. I mean, I hope it is one day, but the shit you went through…it makes me sick to think about. And I’ve seen some shit in my day, but that…” He shook his head, tipping his feather-filled hat back into place when it began to slip off of his head. “I am not very good at this.”
“No you’re not.”
He laughed, and she laughed with him. 
“I’m sorry. I promise, I’m doing my best.”
“You know what you could do to help right now?” she stated.
“Yeah?”
“Play me something on that thing,” she said, gesturing to the ukelele. “I don’t know how much good it’ll do, but maybe it’ll drown out some of the noise in my head. Help keep me grounded, you know?”
“Alright.”
He beamed and began to play, his music drifting through the garden, up over the peach trees and through the rose bushes, filling everything with light and life. She leaned back and breathed it in, holding out her arms as if to embrace the song, drinking it in like water. She breathed a gentle sigh of relief as she wrapped her arms around herself, smiling as she stood up and began to sway to the rhythm. The fabric of her pinstripe pants drifted along the ground as she danced, trying to be happy to spite everyone who wanted her to suffer. She leaned back against an oak as the song came to an end, feeling strangely safe despite everything. 
“You feeling any better?” Caretaker asked.
“Not great, but not terrible,” she replied, popping her aching back. “Let’s go back inside.”
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