#tw minor whump

[3-2-whump]

Escape Attempt Last

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As in, there were plenty in between this attempt and First Escape Attempt, but I won't enumerate them (unless you ask nicely, I guess)

Set one year after The Auction Floor

TW/CW: minor whump, slavery, pet whump, noncon body mod (tattoos, piercings), threats of permanent injury (not followed through), burning, inappropriate use of a clothes iron

The first thing he heard that morning was “Happy anniversary,” whispered softly over him as he stirred awake.

Khaled blinked. The blond man leaned over his bed, not a trace of a frown on his stern face. Khaled groggily rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He had no idea what his master just said, though that might’ve just been because he was never much of a morning person. “What was that?” Khaled yawned.

“It’s our anniversary,” the man explained patiently as he helped him sit up. Those broad arms and bruising hands that once (and occasionally still) struck fear into Khaled’s heart now supported him as he climbed out of bed. “I brought you home a year ago, and so I wanted to give you something special today, if you’d let me…” he trailed off with a smile.

Khaled shuffled toward his wardrobe and began picking out a pair of boxers, denim pants, and a shirt. “A year, huh?” Though he was still in the process of waking up, having never been an early riser in his life, his muddy brain was slowly piecing it together.

It was well into midday when Khaled finally let its implications sink in.

One year of his life in slavery. One whole year of his life spent in servitude. His head swam in an unsettling mix of shock, anger, and grief, emotions that traveled down to his gut and twisted it into knots. A lot had happened in a year; the sixteen-year-old shot up a few inches in height, his voice had deepened, and his body hair (everywhere) had grown in enough to prompt his owner to teach him about shaving and ‘hygienic practices.’ That was an embarrassing talk, and one that he deeply wished his father could’ve given him instead.

It had been more than a year since he had seen his family; were they thinking of him? Did they notice he was gone? He brought home one of their main sources of income; how was his mother coping, providing for his siblings all on her own? They didn’t hate him for abandoning them, did they? Khaled blinked back the mist in his eyes at the thought.

The car lulled to a stop. “We’re here,” the Boss announced, taking Khaled out of his head. He looked down at the small box resting in his hands. Twin diamonds set in white gold rested inside the velvety interior. At first, Khaled thought it was a mistake, since his ears weren’t pierced. The man only grinned as he simply replied “not yet.”

They got out at the now-familiar tattoo parlor, entering soon after they opened. This was where the boy got his second and third tattoos, the initials and the skull and snake, respectively. The bearded, bespectacled man known only as Leo spotted them immediately and approached them with a welcoming grin. He made small talk with Khaled’s master as he led them to the back.

“So, we’re doing a set of piercings today?” he asked, pulling out a pair of single-use gloves.

Master nodded. “Ears, just one pair for now, unless we want more.”

Khaled let out an unbidden scoff. His master threw him a reproachful glare. There is no we, there never was, he wanted to scream. He didn’t consent to any of his tattoos, what made the man think he’d be okay with piercings? Yet his owner initialed him like an object and drew the symbol of his crime family on his skin, and he could just do that –he bought him, after all.

“Well, let’s get to it, then!” Leo said.

“Wait. I’ve gotta use the bathroom,” Khaled murmured. Master glanced at Leo, who merely shrugged. He silently pushed past the two men and made his way to the front of the store to the bathroom, where he locked the door and slumped against it as he settled onto the floor. He allowed himself a deep, shuddering breath behind the closed door, resting his head back against it with a dull thunk.

One year… he thought morosely. A streaky bathroom mirror bordered with stickers glared back at him under artificial light. Curious, Khaled got up from the floor and leaned over the sink to look at himself, to physically see how much he had changed in only a year. How much of these changes were within his control?

None of them, he realized sadly. He turned his newly shaved head side to side to look at his ears, taking in the sight of the unpierced lobes as much as he could. These would change too, and that was also out of his control.

Or was it? Out of the corner of his eye, Khaled spotted a slit of natural light seeping in from above. He turned; there, above the toilet, was a small window, vented open to let in fresh air. He assessed the window immediately, judging that he was still skinny and flexible enough that he could climb through, and without much else besides a desire to just be in control of something, he did exactly that.

-

With exception to the mall incident (which shouldn’t even count, he genuinely got lost), this had to be the worst escape yet. He was recaptured within two hours, tied up and thrown into the back of a car yet again, and now lay on his back on a large table, hands and feet bound to each corner as two unfamiliar goons stood on each side. Beside him, Master stood solemnly ironing a dress shirt on an ironing board. His resting bitch face was back, and he was re-ironing the same sleeve for the third time. Khaled gulped, only sensing a fraction of how fucked he was.

“I really thought we had made some progress this past year,” the man growled. A puff of steam escaped the iron as he set it aside and hung up the crisp white shirt. He then moved on to ironing a pair of slacks. “I trusted you, I provided for you, I gave you everything you could ever need, and what do you do? You run away the second I loosen your leash,” he continued, straightening out a seam with a bit more force than necessary.

Khaled cleared his throat and tried to look up from his awkward position on the table. “I’m sorry, Master, I just freaked out- “

“Quiet! Let me finish.”

Khaled shut his mouth immediately. He sunk back down, fixed his eyes on the dim ceiling lamp above him, and awaited his punishment with dread.

Master continued talking. “You know, the last time this happened, a friend of mine advised me to cut your tendons.” Beneath the quickening pounding of his anxious heart, Khaled heard the faint hiss of the iron. “I don’t want to permanently cripple you though, mostly because it would be even more of a hassle to care for you, but I will cripple you temporarily, at the very least...”

Khaled tore his eyes from the ceiling and looked over his outstretched toes. His master settled in front of his feet, the steaming hot iron in hand. Moist tendrils of heat lapped at his exposed bare soles. Dense as he may be, it didn’t take a genius to realize what was about to happen. Khaled trembled, then began struggling in earnest. The mob members held him firmly by the legs and shoulders as he thrashed frantically in his restraints, fearfully begging. “No, no, no, please, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – “

“You’re only sorry you got caught,” Boss snapped. “Now hold still.”

Searing hot pain erupted in the soles of his feet as Khaled screamed himself hoarse.

After what felt like too much time and yet not much time at all, the goons above him let him go and started working on the knots tying him to the table. That must mean he’s done, Khaled thought, but why does it feel like my feet are still burning?

“Get up.”

The now untied boy paused rubbing his chafed wrists to look up at him in shock.  His master glared down at him coldly. “I said get up!” he shouted.

He can’t be serious. With horror, he realized the man was completely serious. “I-I can’t,” Khaled whimpered, “I -you wouldn’t -I can’t!” He caught his trembling lip between his teeth before a small sob could escape.

“I’m not going to repeat myself again, brat,” the Boss gritted out. “Get. Up.”

Khaled hung his head and nodded. He stiffly swung his legs over the table and gingerly lowered his burnt feet to the floor. The freshly blistered flesh barely touched the ground before an effusion of pain shot up his legs. He gasped in agony. His owner, meanwhile, stood in front of him in silence, waiting. Khaled sniffled, grit his teeth, and, with legs quivering and tears streaming down his cheeks, he stood up straight and tall.

“Walk,” Thomas said.

No. Khaled shook his head, completely unable to get a word out through the pain.

“Walk.”

Please, no, he wanted to say. He hung his head and shakily took a step forward, not making it even two steps before he collapsed. The strong arms of the Boss’ cronies caught him just before his knees could hit the floor. They scooped him back onto the table before one ran off to find the first aid kit, and the other ran off to get a basin of cool water. Khaled thankfully slipped into unconsciousness and took refuge in the nothingness.

-

A hesitant knock at the door brought Khaled’s attention back to the present, three hours after the Iron Incident. “Khaled, it’s me.” His master entered his bedroom soon after.

Facing away from the door in a fetal position on top of the bed, Khaled curled up even tighter. His heart picked up pace as he heard the man settle to his knees in front of his bed. “Your bandages need changing.” He flinched away when he felt the man’s fingers graze his injured feet, but ultimately he relented, letting his master unwind the soiled bandages as he winced and whimpered. Not all of the gauze was peeling off neatly. He heard a faint click of a tube opening, then felt cooling salve on his burned soles. Then, with a level of tenderness he did not think the Boss capable of, the man wrapped his feet up in clean gauze and taped the bandages in place. “One more thing,” he murmured softly, reaching into the first aid bag he brought with him.

Khaled had raised his head from his pillow, his red-rimmed eyes trailing down to his feet as curiosity overcame his pain and apprehension. His owner procured a pair of socks, gingerly slipping them over each gauze-wrapped foot. “There are plenty more of these, so if this pair gets dirty, you can just ask me for more,” he told him. “Comfortable, right?”

Khaled reached over and brushed his fingers against the soft fabric. His eyes misted with tears again at the act of kindness. “…They’re nice,” he sniffled. “Thank you, sir.”

The man replied with a pleased grunt before he lifted himself from the floor and stood, ready to leave. “Now then, is there anything else you need before I go to bed, Khaled?”

A hesitant silence. “No, but I-I’m sorry. Really.”

“I know,” he answered, his tone sincere. “Goodnight, Khaled.” Khaled flopped back onto the bed, face to the wall as he heard the door close gently behind him. What was that? He wondered. In the whole year that I’ve been here, he’s never been that gentle with me. Was that even the same man?He didn’t hear the faint click of the lock this time. In any other circumstance, this would give him hope, but at this point, the hope had been burnt out of him through the soles of his feet.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter

#throwing in a bit of carewhumper in the end #whump #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #tw minor whump #slavery whump #tw noncon bodymod #tw burning #carewhumper #failed escape attempt #no beta we die like my protestant upbringing

[comfort-questing]

18. too weak to move

I'm playing fe3h again and the Holy Mausoleum fight kicked our collective tails. so. (academy phase = TW whump of minors [teens])

-

Ashe was a little surprised, somehow, to wake up again.

there were only so many arrows you could reasonably have sticking out of you, and live to see a better outcome. but then Mercie and Manuela were very good healers, so surely that helped...

but - the flaring torchlight and the dark wet underground air of the Mausoleum, and the blood on the floor, and the way Felix's scream had choked off as the dark miasma surrounded him, and the bite of an arrow between his ribs and stopping his breath -

"Ashe."

someone's hand on his forehead, someone's voice. he blinked his eyes open, and there was the soft cloudy dusk outside the window, and worn linen sheets beneath his cheek, and Professor sitting on the edge of his bed with her small, still face even more small and still than usual.

he tried to turn his head, and managed that much with an effort. he tried getting an elbow under him to sit up, but all he could do was twitch his hand a little underneath the coverlet, and wake the sharp pain that came with breathing in too deeply.

"Professor. what - happened?"

"we made it to the Tomb," Professor said, her flat voice quieter than usual, "and - the seal was broken, but I defeated the mage. and then Catherine and the others came."

"we won? Lady Rhea's safe? and - " and the others he wanted to ask, but taking in the breath for speaking was starting to be too much. his mouth was sticky with thirst, and he licked at his dry lips.

"we won," said Professor. "and - we're all here."

"we're a mess," said Sylvain, red hair catching a hint of candlelight somewhere beyond Professor's shoulder, "but we're here."

"yes. I'm sorry. I should have done better." Professor pulled one of her lips in between her teeth, a gesture that suddenly reminded Ashe of his little sister in confusion. "if I had lost any of you - I don't know what I would have done."

Ashe wanted to see them. the others. his friends. he tried again to brace his hands against the bed, holding his breath to keep from jarring the pain again. he made it maybe a hands-width off the mattress before falling back, his body limp and heavy as lead.

"here. do you want me to help?" a pause, and then Professor's arm was under his shoulders, and another across his chest. he shut his eyes against a sudden wave of dizziness as she lifted him, slow as she went, but got them open again a moment later, to green hair and dusky light and candles.

they were all there. Dimitri in a cot by the door, Dedue sitting next to him with a bandaged head and shoulder; Ingrid curled up with her yellow hair loose all over the pillow, Annette leaning back on the pillows next to her, and Mercedes shadowy-eyed and weary at the foot of the bed; Felix pallid-faced in a chair by the window with one leg propped up on a footstool; Sylvain wrapped in a blanket with a fading pink half-healed scar crossing one cheek. even Yuri, the odd quick quiet boy whose eyes looked so much older than his face, frowning over his bloodstained cloak.

over Professor's shoulder there was a new swordhilt, pale as bone, strange as Catherine's relic.

"did you - get a new sword, Professor?"

Professor sighed. "I guess I did."

#whump #hurt comfort #febuwhumpday18 #febuwhump2024 #tw minor whump

[blackberry-bloody]

Did some fanart for a fic I've been reading which has Superman as a living weapon whumpee! This is a little scene of Clark holding Kon.

TWs: implied minor whump (nothing is happening to the minor, but due to the context it's implied)

#whump art #nightingale sings #nighingale draws #tw minor whump #superhero whump #fandom stuff #fandom whump #superman whump

[whumpy-daydreams]

A Brief History of Killing

Land of Liars Masterlist

This is a bit heavier, set when Rowena was a teenager. Very strong references to child abuse so read with caution.

TW: Minor whumpee, forced to kill, mild emeto, blood, murder

When Rowena was eleven, Marcus had shown her a video of a man getting shot. She'd pretended it wasn't real - it was like a clip from a film, or a recreation on the news - but the slightly shaky footage and lack of dramatics said what it really was. That night she cried herself to sleep.

The next video was of a man tied up in a dark basement. He looked like a tough guy, the type you'd cross the road to avoid, except that his face was covered in blood and bruises, and he was sobbing. It was Marcus's hands that slit the man's throat, and Rowena had closed her eyes.

Marcus forced her to watch it again and she kept her eyes open, and threw up half an hour later. After watching the video five times she felt numb. She didn't cry that night.

When Rowena was twelve Marcus had taken her on her first mission. Evangeline pulled the trigger, Marcus holding Rowena's face so she couldn't look away. When they got home he locked her in the cellar cupboard for flinching. She was too focused on the cold and damp to sleep.

When he'd let her out Evangeline had told her it gets easier with time, and it made Rowena sick to realise she was right. By her seventh mission she could watch someone die and feel nothing.

When Rowena was fourteen Marcus told her to shoot a man on the pavement. Her hands shook so much he'd clenched his own hands over them, and when she couldn't pull the trigger herself, it was his finger that pushed down on hers and made the man collapse - blood spilling from his chest. She waited until everyone was asleep before throwing up and crying.

The next person she killed without Marcus making her. Her hands still shook, and her vision blurred with tears, but then there was blood coating her knife and a woman on the alley ground, and Rowena vowed to remember her face.

When Rowena was sixteen she killed someone alone. His name was Mark, and her hands didn't shake when he died. That night she prayed to gods she didn't believe in that hell didn't exist.

Six months later she refused to kill her next target. An entire family - two kids included. Marcus didn't lock her in the cellar, instead carving a line down her spine and threatening to kill her best friend. Evangeline killed the family instead, the pictures of what she'd done left on Rowena's bed.

By eighteen Rowena knew she was going to hell regardless of whether it existed or not. Her nightmares were full of the faces of the dead and wished for the strength to murder Marcus in his sleep.

#mortiawrites #tw minor whump #minor whump #tw emeto ment #tw manipulation #forced to watch #forced to kill #whump #whumpee #whumper #whump writing

[montammil]

if lawrence did kidnap an actual child to be his own, what would his limitations be on how much he'd hurt or infantilize them (if they're too old for certain things)? would he still use drugs like he does with the grown ups?

The violence and drugging would be even bigger last resorts to Lawrence, and even then, he tries to be extra mindful on their limits. I feel like the infantilization would stay about the same, Lawrence might delude himself even more that he's in the right about infantilizing them, honestly, since they're closer to the age he'd be treating them.

Since restraining them would be much easier, he'd usually not react with violence unless he got uncontrollably angry out of nowhere, which he'd be more apologetic about.

#answered ask #lawrence oc #tw minor whump #tw minor whumpee #tw parental whumper

[whump-in-the-closet]

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!)

#cws above the cut #raising chaos #my guy chiar #syl westerling #whump writing #tw minor whump #inhuman whumpee #syl is such a jerk sometimes #good intentions but cannot act on them #also crytpids age slower than humans #so in 5 human years #a cryptid would age roughly one year #so by the time chiar runs from fain he'd been working for him for about six years #i think #my timeline isnt the most clean cut #anyway here you go #chiar in his natural state #aka suffering

[whumpinthepot]

Oooh also gape and grim for Abby

Thank you <3 from this ask game!!

TW: Child endangerment/child harm (I try to tag it under “tw child endangerment” or “tw child harm” for blacklists btw), kidnapping, stalking and obsessive behaviour,

Gape: sum up their morals by saying something they would do, and then something they wouldn't.

Abby kidnaps a child because the kid is a witness that Abby didn’t want to do away with, and she realizes she can use the kid as leverage to control the other people that she actually wanted to kidnap. So that’s pretty bad imo, unforgivable behaviour that crosses so many lines. She’s on thin ice here, and its clearly cracking🤨

She would NOT actively hurt the kid, or have a desire to. Kid has plot armour for my own comfort, and for readers comfort too. She gets very angry if the other character’s imply anything.

Grim: what do they want out of life? Do they think they'll get it?

Abby wants to be loved and adored. She wants someone who will love her unconditionally and be hers forever and ever. She gets dangerously attached to people 😳 also she wants to be a hero which im sure we all know already !! She’s obsessed, she loves superheroes im positive.

She *knows* she’ll get it. Meaning by force… Because… Nothing else seems to be working for her and she’s tired of playing the long game. (Spoilers, it doesn’t work how she wants it to)

#tw child endangerment #tw minor whump #rats race #abby #breezy answers #ask game #tw child harm #mouse #i too want to be loved unconditionally shes so right for that #everything else… not so much

[avocado-frog]

Forget-me-not. 26 (lmao I didn't outline this one)

Chapter rating: M Chapter warnings: Past kidnapping, isolation, child abuse, neglect, gore, eye trauma, death threats, past death. (all of this to a kid who is like nine years old by the way I DEEPLY apologize) This is what happens when I don't have a plan Chapter title: 7/30/2017--3/14/2019 Word count: 2000 Summary: Ryan has a knife, what will he do. The chapter in which Ryan takes out Elliot's eye and adds a new tick to the trauma bingo

(July 30, 2017, two years before)

The clock above the door ticked steadily. Ryan glanced up, fingers dug deep into the white quilt on his bed, knuckles turning yellow. An hour. Sam had been gone for an hour.

He tried not to worry. Sam was always okay in the end. Ryan didn't know what to do if he wasn't. He stood up, it'd been too long since Sam left, and left for the bathroom attached to the main room.

Ryan refused to look in the mirror. He wasn't identical to his brothers, but he was too close to Elliot in face shape, eye color, and stature to look at himself without seeing Elliot and wanting to cry. Sam looked like him too, sometimes. Ryan couldn't look at him either. Ryan looked more like his mother, too. He didn't want to think about her, or his brother.

There was a hand towel by the sink, spotted with little red dots, that Ryan used for Sam whenever he came back, and that Sam would use for Ryan. Sam would be back any second now- had to be- and so it was best to be prepared. He took the towel off the rack, folded it, and left.

Setting it down on Sam's bed, he couldn't do anything but wait, knee bouncing, as he watched the clock above the door. His dread grew with each tick, every second Sam was gone.

The door buzzed, and Ryan flinched, hands twitching to cover his ears. Panic spiked, heart dropping, when it wasn't Sam, but a taller woman in a white coat and latex gloves, a blue surgical mask hiding her face. She was waiting for him. Emma- maybe Emily- he thought her name was. He never bothered to keep track of their names, neither did Sam.

He stood up, hands shaking, trying to stay calm, as he followed her. The latex glove covered his, she led him down a white hallway, through tiled floors, florescent lights buzzed above them. It was all too sterile, too clean, he remembered what it was like outside, unlike Sam. Sam couldn't remember. Ryan wanted to go outside again. He always promised his brother that they could go together someday. Maybe they'd be able to.

He liked to imagine his mother taking him down the hallways whenever he was taken out of his room, instead of the stranger with him. Maybe Elliot, too. He missed them.

He let Emily lead him up the stairs, a place he'd never been before. Ryan looked up instead of down until they got to the top. 

If he looked down, Sam would be clinging to his sleeve as they ran down the staircase, away from the man with the chainsaw, and Ryan would trip over his brother's lifeless body, as the man grew closer, and the door would open, and helicopters and vans and lights would be swarming around them. He didn't look down.

They walked down the hall, the second floor this time, and Ryan was getting tired, unused to walking for so long. Emily stopped in front of a door, removing the keycard from her neck, one hand planted firmly on his shoulder. He paid careful attention to her hands, as she opened the lab coat, removing something small- a blade?- from the pocket inside.

Emily was talking to him, but the mask, and the sounds of muffled screams made it hard to hear her. She handed him the scalpel. It was cold.

The door unlocked, and Ryan kept his eyes on Emily's hands, flinching when they moved. Her hand remained on his shoulder as she pushed him inside. She stayed behind him when the door locked again.

The scalpel felt heavy in his hands, he stared at the floor now. Black and white, checkered, tiles met his gaze. Blood was smeared on them, more visible on the white tiles. He swallowed thickly, a muffled cry for help echoed through the small room.

Ryan recognized the voice as Sam's, and willed himself to look up. He met gazes with Sam, held against the wall from behind with a knife to his throat, one gloved hand over his mouth. Sam's gaze flickered over to something else, something Ryan hadn't noticed.

A second person, a small, boy in a white uniform that hung loosely on his thin frame. He paced around the room, hands shaking, as he mumbled something to himself, unaware that Sam was there, and unaware that Ryan was there. His hair was bleached white, flopping over his face. He threw his head back, laughing at something.

He knew who it was without really knowing. He looked back at Sam, who gave a stiff, subtle nod, trying not to move with the knife to his throat.

Sam blamed himself for Elliot's death, and on bad days, so did Ryan. He'd seen everything, he knew everything. He remembered tripping over Elliot's body. He knew Elliot was dead. And yet, here he was, talking and laughing, shaking and pacing.

Emily told him to do something, and Ryan barely heard over his own thoughts. Elliot had been alive the whole time. He wanted to cry again.

Ryan understood Emily's words, despite having hardly heard. Sam had a knife to his throat, Ryan had a scalpel in his hands, and Elliot was there, too.

The scalpel grew heavier, as he tightened his grip on it, walking towards his youngest brother, in the way of the small circle he was pacing in. Gently, he put his hand on his shoulder, breath hitching, as Elliot didn't seem to recognize him.

Kill him.

Kill him, or they'll kill Sam.

He could try to reach out to Elliot again, he thought, hand still on his shoulder, now pushing him against the wall. Elliot didn't struggle. He simply stared at Ryan, gaze empty, like he didn't even see him. He didn't even try to fight back.

So, Ryan let go of his shoulder. Elliot didn't move. He only stared. He was getting desperate now, for any sort of reaction. He couldn't do it.

There was still a knife to Sam's throat.

"Elliot?" Ryan tried, and Elliot's eyes still held the same amount of recognition, nothing. "Elliot, please." Say something. Scream, cry, just do something. What did they do to you?

"Elliot." Ryan shook his shoulder, and Elliot didn't respond. Ryan sighed softly, expression twisting. He couldn't do it. He couldn't do it. "I'm sorry."

Elliot's hand twitched, and moved, grabbing onto Ryan's free hand weakly. Ryan gripped his hand tighter, raising the scalpel.

It plunged into his brother's eye- the gold one- and blood spewed out, splattered across both their faces. Ryan staggered back. And yet, Elliot still didn't scream. He just fell, to his knees, blade still in his eye, and then, fell to his side. The hand that had been holding his fell away.

Blood pooled around his head, and Ryan took another step back, mouth open in a silent scream, startling when Sam barreled into him, almost knocking him over. Sam trembled, and Ryan kept his eyes locked on Elliot.

Now, Elliot did seem to recognize him, as he hugged Sam and left Elliot bleeding on the cold tiles, now Elliot looked betrayed. Ryan didn't blame him. He remained frozen, gaze remaining on the youngest, as adults swarmed around him, and he was guided back out the room.

Back down the stairs, Sam refused to look down, too. Back down the sterile, white halls, back to the safety of his room. The door locked again.

Sam nudged his shoulder. "Ryan? ...You okay?"

Ryan didn't bother responding. Blood trickled down his forehead. It wasn't his.

Sam, now, had the back of his shoulder, and it was more comforting than Emily's, as he sat him down on the thin mattress. The towel Ryan set out for Sam in preparation now laid in Sam's hand. He barely heard the sink running, before Sam returned, and sat next to him.

"That was Elliot, wasn't it?" Sam asked, voice small. Ryan nodded. He wished he could forget like Sam, and clearly like Elliot. Sam pressed the cold towel to the blood on his forehead. "Thought so."

Sam finished quickly, the white towel soon soaked with blood. "There! Is that better?"

Ryan didn't respond. It still felt like there was blood on his hands. His vision blurred.

"Hey, hey, hey, woah, don't cry!" Sam was hugging him now. "It's okay, I'm okay. It's over now."

It didn't feel over. It replayed. Again, and again, the lack of recognition in his brother's gaze, the way the handle of the blade felt when it dug into his eye, the warm blood on his face. He grasped at the back of Sam's shirt, Sam hugged him tighter.

"You're safe. Promise. Elliot's going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay."

---

(March 14, 2019)

Ryan wondered if Leo was right. She said that since he regretted it, of course he regretted it, then he was justified in stabbing Elliot's eye out. He regretted it, he'd tried to make it up to him, he hadn't been given a choice. Sam gave him the same reaction, the validation in taking Elliot's eye. Nothing he did could make it up to him.

He thought Leo was wrong, because even though, when he told the others, half-hiding behind his sister, no one hated him. No one wanted to kick him out, no one thought he was insane. And yet, Leo was wrong, because when he told Elliot, he screamed, and ran, and attacked him and Sam and Leo.

So Leo was wrong.

He sat next to his brother's bed, sitting on Elliot's desk chair. Elliot was asleep for once, after four separate tries, each ending with him jerking upright, screaming, breaking down into hysterical mutterings of apologies. Ryan stayed with him, because Sam was mad at him, and he needed to make sure Elliot would be okay.

It was midnight now. Ryan didn't like not getting sleep, but he'd done it plenty of times before. Tomorrow, he would talk to Sam, because he hated being mad at him. Ryan wasn't even mad at him. It was the other way around. He could only hope that Sam would forgive him. Otherwise, he was left with only one brother.

Elliot wore an eye patch still, while he slept, even if he technically didn't think he was supposed to. Elliot had a collection of them, a plastic one that had come with a pirate sword, to a real fabric one. Ryan had read about prosthetic ones, but they didn't have a hospital that could give him one. Elliot said he didn't want one, anyways.

His heart always plummeted whenever he saw it. He wondered what the purpose of that had even been. Just to hurt all three of them?

Elliot's hand twitched like he was going to wake up again, and Ryan slid his hand into his brother's.

"You'll be okay. Promise."

#its because of this chapter the trilogy dubbed baby triplet backstory has occurred and I will not apologize for the emotional pain of 28 #writing #original work #whump #? #warnings for gross eye stuff #tw minor whump

[aceofwhump]

Avatar the Last Airbender (2024) 1x06 "Masks"

#avatar the last airbender #atla #netflix atla #atla netflix #atla live action #zuko #dallas liu #ozai #daniel dae kim #minor whump #child abuse tw #abuse tw #whump #whumpedit #my gifs #mod post #fight #pain #burned #burns #pinned down

[3-2-whump]

Whumpee Intro: The Auction Floor

next>

Thanks @dresden-syndrome for helping me bounce ideas off you! We talked about how pet stores display the fish in glass tanks, especially how some of the good stores display their betta fish in individual glass tanks. And I was like, "why not for pet whumpees?" Inspiration comes from the unlikeliest of places.

TW/CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, nonconsensual nudity (nonsexual), minor whump (at time of story), noncon body mod (briefly mentioned), light gore (briefly mentioned). I also have little to no idea how auctions like this would work, so I'm skipping over some details. Enjoy, regardless.

The boy backed up as far as his glass prison would allow, but the hungry eyes of the bidders outside never left him. He hoped and prayed nobody would buy him, but his hope diminished with every scrutinizing stare and comment muffled through the glass. He slumped into the corner of his cell and curled into a ball, ignoring the handlers’ threats they drilled into each prospective asset before the auction began. He shut his eyes and buried his head into his folded-up knees. If he was just boring enough to look at, maybe the people outside would move on and buy somebody else.

The floor was cold. The glass walls of his cell were cold. He was bare, completely naked in the empty glass container. The back of his left ear was itchy, but he made no move to scratch at it. If he interfered with the tattoo as it was healing, they promised to pull out his fingernails. It had already happened to one girl; he had seen it. He dug his nails into his shins until the unbearable itching subsided enough to ignore it once again.

The murmurs outside died down, accompanied by the sound of retreating footsteps. The boy dared to peek out from his hiding place. He locked eyes with a man standing right in front of his cell, staring at him with a glass of whiskey in hand. He was a big man, broad shouldered and solidly built underneath that crisply pressed suit. He was easily two heads taller than his father, and up until that point, the boy thought his father was pretty tall. The man had short, dirty-blonde hair and sharp, steel-gray eyes. His mouth was downturned into a frown, the only indication of what he may truly feel behind the blank expression he bore.

Two more men –presumably his friends- materialized alongside him, jovially poking at him and gesturing inside the boy’s cell. It was next to impossible to make out the words they were saying from within the cell, but the boy got a sinking feeling in his stomach. The whole time, the man’s eyes never left his.

---

The auction part of the night had ended, their area of the black market had been closed off, and he (among many others) was retrieved from the glass box. The handler who fetched him threw him a pair of pants and a shirt. “Put those on, and follow me.”

So, I did get sold, the boy realized. He dressed quickly and followed the handler silently, dread weighing down each footstep. He mentally ran through the faces he dared to look at while he wondered who among the crowd had bought him. His mind circled back to the tall man with the scowl. Please, God, please, not him, he begged.

He stopped in his tracks when they came to the exit. The very same tall man turned around to meet him. The handler quietly disappeared from his side. Those steel eyes looked far colder and sharper up close. The boy averted his eyes, staring at his bare feet while keeping his hands folded in front of him.

“What’s your name, kid?”

The boy looked up briefly. Faint freckles danced across the man’s pale cheeks, and an old scar grazing across his left temple disappeared into his hairline. Those sharp steely eyes continued to flay him. He was so scared he nearly forgot his new owner had asked him a question. My name? He dropped his gaze back to his feet. “Khaled,” he all but whispered. “But you may call me whatever you want, sir,” he added, remembering the ‘correct’ answer.

The man above him murmured his name a couple times to himself as the boy stood ready to accept a new name, if his new master so wished it. “Luckily for you, I like your name,” he said decisively.

Before Khaled could breathe a sigh of relief, the man placed a broad hand on his shoulder. The boy tensed; his palm covered his whole shoulder blade. “Come with me, Khaled.” Not like he had a choice, when his master’s hand pushed him out the door into a future of unknowns and uncertainties.

#whump writing #oc intro #viridian oc #whumpee #pet whumpee #tw minor whump #tw slight gore #tw noncon nudity #tw noncon bodymod #slavery tw #slavery whump

[comfort-questing]

escape

FE3H academy phase -> TW whump of minors (teens)

-

"How much further did you say the Imperial camp was?" Bernadetta's voice had gone small and breathless, in the vastness of the night.

The cold ate at my bones as we trudged along, the murmur of water somewhere in the dimness at my one hand, Edelgard's dragging footsteps ominous at the other. I had watched her carefully the whole way, just as I had been watching all of us; her face was all ghostly in the dimness, the flaring light of our torches not enough to place color on it.

I had seen her before like this, in the darkness before dawn, her clothes blood-clotted and her eyes full of a strange distance. A year ago, a whole world I'd found and lost ago.

"We should be there by midnight," said Hubert, irritatingly awake, striding tirelessly along the path with his torch in one hand. "If we keep making good time."

"Bold words from a man who didn't join the battle till it was over," grumbled Ferdinand from behind us. Then, "Professor, Yuri's awake again. Can you..."

I knew what he was asking already, and I let my steps slow, to reach out my hand. Yuri's head lolled forward on Ferdinand's shoulder, his body limp weight on his back, singed clothes dark and stiff under my touch. He was whimpering again, a faint pain-sound riding every exhale, the blotchy burns on his skin from the strange mages' fire now starting to heal with my assistance. I felt him wince as my hand brushed his back.

"Yuri." I pushed the words out of my rough throat. "It's me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

I didn't know if he was the one I should be apologizing for. The wind changed direction, bringing the stir of barren boughs along with it, and I shivered. Yuri shivered, too, as the flicker of my last healing spell settled over him.

Ferdinand sighed too, all the haughty look gone from his face now, the tendrils of ginger hair dark and sweat-matted to his dirty forehead. There were blood specks on his white collar, whether his or someone else's blood I didn't know.

"Professor - oh, I am sorry." That was Petra, bumping into me, as she stumbled along in weariness.

I reached out to steady her, carefully grabbing the hand that wasn't holding the torch, dodging out of the way of its smoky flame.

Ahead of me, Edelgard had lagged again, lips bitten white in her taut face.

"You rest," I signed to her, fiercely, in the torchlight. "I carry."

She shook her head. "I can walk."

I didn't think she could, and I didn't know how much longer I could bear watching her. I still had her blood on the sword I wore on my back, and the memory of her staggering to her feet across from me, one arm pressed to her stomach as the red of her torn jacket turned darker and wetter crimson every moment.

Kill Edelgard, Rhea had said.

I could not imagine any future or past in which I would have turned on her then. And so it had come to now, in the blackness of the forest paths, with the hope of shelter somewhere ahead of us and the wind murmuring our loneliness above our heads. For the first time in my life I couldn't give myself a picture of tomorrow, a guess at what might come before the next nightfall. All I knew was this moment, the cold sour bloodstained culmination of everything that had gone before.

I slipped an arm under Edelgard's shoulders, felt her stiffen, then sigh and droop ever so slightly into my grasp.

"Okay," said Bernadetta. "Midnight. Sure. But does anyone know what time it is now?"

And the short chuckle from Edelgard at that, half-hidden in my hair, gave me the first glimmer of hope I'd had for hours.

#minor crests of hurt comfort #whump #hurt comfort #tw minor whump #fe3h whump #crow writes a thing #crossposting to ao3

[miammey]

Jouno trying to make it back to the other Hunting Dogs after getting de-vampirized in the middle of nowhere completely by himself and also still injured

#idk I wanted to draw some whump #whump #whump art #tw blood #very minor but still #bsd spoilers #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs manga #bsd hunting dogs #the hunting dogs #my art #art #bsd jouno #jouno saigiku

[befuddled-calico-whump]

guys they are so unbothered

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast , @whumpsday , @regrets-realization-acceptance , @kixngiggles , @randomlifeunit , @darkthingshappen

#yes that's the interrogator #whump art #whumpy art #partial nudity #the interrogator #bruised #aftermath of whump #breakdown #tw eyestrain #(very minor but the text layers are kinda) #whumper turned whumpee

[whump-in-the-closet]

2 and 33 for the snippets ask game?

2. Captured/ Caged/ Locked

33. Protector/ Sacrifice

I used my OCs from Raising Chaos, hope you don't mind-- this is part of Chiar's backstory, because I couldn't resist. I had to do it. Apologies except I'm not actually sorry >:)

masterlist.

cw: death of a younger character, self-sacrifice, jammed shoulder, minor whump (Chiar is seventeen, Syl is nineteen)

The door was locked.

Chiar watched, hands twitching, as Syl kicked at the frame.

And then again. And again. The steel door stubbornly refused to give in to the desperate pounding.

The blows became frantic as the sounds of boots and voices carried up the stairwell.

Chiar and Syl shared a look of pure, unfiltered panic.

They didn’t stand a chance.

They were in a grave, hundreds of feet in the air. A trap. Their escape had been pointless. They were going to be killed and none would be the wiser.

Energy surged under Chiar’s skin, the buzzing filling his head. “Let me try.”

Syl nodded once and stepped back, his blue eyes dark.

The voices became louder.

Chiar rammed his shoulder into the steel door. And heard a soft snap for his troubles. His vision went black.

"You idiot!" cried Syl, hauling Chiar to his feet. The younger cryptid clutched at his shoulder, breath coming in sharp hisses. He ignored Syl.

"Idiot," said Syl again, less harshly.

The voices became clear. They couldn't have been more than a level below them.

Syl cursed. He pulled Chiar into a corner of the room, lowering him to the floor. It was partly veiled by a pile of discarded boxes. A pathetic hiding place, really, but it would have to do.

Syl tugged off his jacket, handing it to Chiar. He crouched besides Chiar, whispering that if he dared to move, he, Syl Westerling, cryptid and terror of Fain, would kill him himself.

"Don't lose that jacket. It's my favorite."

"Syl?" Chiar didn't understand what was going on. He struggled to stand, but Syl roughly shoved him back to the floor.

"Do. Not. Move. Promise me. Now!"

Chiar didn't get a chance to tell Syl that he would do no such thing. Because Syl darted into the open center of the room before he could answer, just as Fain's men entered, flooding the stairwell.

They did not look happy.

It's funny, Chiar thought later, how quickly things happen. One moment, Syl had been insultingly alive, telling Fain that Chiar was dead and asking Fain if he'd do the world a favor and jump off a cliff, and the next...

And the next...

Chiar didn't like to think about happened next.

There had been blinding energy as Syl attacked. And far, far too many guards.

It had not been much of a fight.

Chiar clutched Syl's jacket.

Coward.

He had been scared to die.

#thanks for the ask! #my guy chiar #tw character death #tw minor whump #whump #i wrote this in a rush so its not my best #but i needed to post it otherwise id forget #so voila #chiar backstory and trauma for y'all

[whumpinthepot]

30 days 30 lines challenge - day 17

Tw: Child endangerment

—

Clarence did, “M-Miss Abby should give you something to eat soon… Um… She- She feeds Mx Ratty a- a lot. I think they would let you have some… Mx Ratty will take care of you.”

Mx Ratty will take care of you.

Those were words of an angel. August felt his anxiety flutter off of him after hearing that. Ratty would do anything for her… Or at least that's how it was before the mind wipe. Mouse would be okay being taken up there. Probably better off, honestly. That’s what August wanted to believe anyway.

#whump #whump snippet #30 days 30 lines challenge #breezy’s post #whumpee #rats race #august #ratty #mouse #clarence #abby #stabby abby #food mention #tw minor whump

[shion-yu]

A Safe Place (part 4/4) [day 24]

Cliff’s past experiences in hospitals have all been bad. For @monthofsick day 24: Panic and @badthingshappenbingo Paralyzed by Fear. 3,698 words, original work, TWs emeto (mild x1), hospital/surgical content, child abuse/trauma. If you'd like to skip the first half which is a childhood flashback, control-find the word “eighteen”.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 - This is the final part! Thanks for sticking with me guys.

Cliff’s fear of hospitals first began when he was three years old. He’d been inside the hospital several times because his dad worked there, but he hadn’t really processed it as anything significant until one day when he went there with his mother, who’d been tasked with watching him because the nanny was off. Cliff had been doing everything “wrong” that day, and Hana Barrows had reached her limit after a spilled glass of orange juice. She dragged him by the wrist to the car and drove to the hospital, swearing loudly all the way there. Cliff was silent because even back then he knew that saying anything would just make things worse.

Hana brought Cliff up to Dr. Claude Barrows’ office without warning, ignoring the secretary shouting after her as she passed without signing in. She yanked Claude’s door open without knocking and found him hunched over a pile of paperwork.

“What in the - Hana! What on earth are you doing here?! Why is Cliff here?”

“I’m not a babysitter!” She shouted as she shoved Cliff towards his father, who would have fallen on his face had Claude not caught him. “You promised me I’d never have to babysit!”

“Keep your voice down,” Claude hissed. He sat Cliff on the chair he’d been sitting on and turned to his irate wife. “It’s one day in his entire life Hana, one goddamn day.”

Hana let out an angry groan of frustration and slapped her hands on Claude’s chest, grabbing the lapels of his lab coat and pulling him forward. “I never wanted this! I’m not doing it!”

They squabbled for another few minutes, young Cliff staring at his velcro-up shoes and distracting himself trying to remember how the last nanny had taught him how to tie laces. He’d forgotten how after his mom fired her, because Cliff had been too attached to her.

“You can’t leave him here Hana, I’m working,” Claude said finally, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Well figure it out, because I’m not taking him home with me,” Hana snapped back. With that she stalked out of the office, not stopping despite Claude shouting after her. He followed her out, and Cliff was left alone in his dad’s office, on his big spinny office chair, with no idea what he was supposed to do now. He was old enough to know that his parents didn’t like him, although he didn’t understand why. He didn’t talk much but they still said he was too noisy. His big sister Moira was nice to him, but that was when she was around. Usually she was too busy with her high school friends and sports to be home much.

Cliff tried to climb down from the chair, but it was really tall and he was afraid of falling. Still, he eased his lower half down, stretching his short legs to try and feel for the floor. He felt it all at once when he fell, smacking his forehead on the hard floor. He bit his lip, trying not to cry. His parents hated when he cried. Still, he couldn’t help it as a few little tears rolled down his chubby cheeks.

“Did you fall, honey?”

Cliff looked up to find a young woman kneeling in front of him. He nodded, wiping his face with tiny fists. “Aw, poor thing,” she said.

“He’s my son. Do you like kids?” Dr. Barrows was back, standing in the doorway - without Cliff’s mom.

“Yeah, totally,” the girl said. “Sorry Dr. Barrows, it’s just I heard a kid crying and the door was open so-”

“It’s fine,” Cliff’s father responded. “Actually, I need you to watch him for the rest of the day.”

“M-me? But, um, I’m a medical student, I don’t think...”

“Part of being a doctor is doing what your attending orders, and I’m telling you to babysit my kid until my shift ends at seven,” Dr. Barrows said sharply. “Is that a problem?”

“No - I mean, sort of, my clinical ends at four, and-”

“Great. I don’t care what you do with him, just keep him out of the way. I’ll pay you for your time.” Dr. Barrows ignored any further protest from the student and shoved two hundred-dollar bills in her hand before leaving.

The student shook her head in disbelief. “Alright, Cliff is it?” She asked. Cliff nodded, clutching the hem of his shirt nervously. “Right. Well, Cliff, I guess it’s you and me until seven...”

The student was nice, all things considered, but she clearly had no interest in babysitting. She had long legs and walked so quickly that Cliff had to run to keep up. A lot of times she’d turn a corner before he did and he thought he’d lost her, but she always found him again. They ate lunch in the cafeteria and she let him draw with a pen and a piece of printer paper while she did work. Cliff honestly didn’t understand what was going on, but he went with it because he was taught not to complain and didn't want to be left behind.

It was around 5pm when the student said, “You’d rather be with your dad, right? He has a pretty cool facial reconstruction starting now. Let’s go watch.” She led Cliff to the gallery, a large room with chairs above the surgical theater with a glass window for an audience. Cliff’s dad was scrubbed in, hyper focused and didn’t notice the spectators. “The surgery will last a few hours,” the student told Cliff. “I’m going home, so just stay here and don’t move until your dad comes and gets you.”

Cliff looked at her, confused. She was going to leave him here by himself? “It’s fine,” she said. “Your dad’s right down there. Just stay where you are and whatever you do, don’t move from this room, got it?” Cliff had no other choice but to nod obediently. Then he was alone.

At first, Cliff was excited to see what his dad did for work. A large woman was lying on the table - sleeping, Cliff thought - and everybody was dressed in funny clothes. His dad was wearing a long mint gown, goggles and a puffy scrub cap, which made him laugh. That laughter died in his throat when he saw his father take a long, silver knife and cut into the sleeping woman’s face.

Cliff screamed, but nobody was there to hear him. He started to panic and it felt like there was no air in the room. There was blood and the sound of a drill. Cliff began to cry, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the horrible scene. His father seemed to be tearing this lady’s face apart, and he did so for two hours before pulling the skin back up and sewing it all back together.

“Wonderful,” his father said in a confident tone. “Good work gentlemen.” Someone was helping him take off his bloody robes. At this moment, he finally looked up at what should have been an empty gallery, but instead he saw his traumatized three year old son. “What the hell? Is that my son?” Cliff heard him say loudly. Cliff was terrified. What if his father got mad and did the same thing to him? He hid under a chair in the corner of the gallery until his father flew into the room and dragged him out.

“I’m sorry, I stayed like she told me to, I’m sorry,” Cliff sobbed. He was so scared, pushing his father’s face away. He kept thinking of how bloody his dad’s hands had been. “Don’t hit me!”

“Cliff, shut up, you’re embarrassing me,” Claude said angrily. “It’s not your fault though, that stupid medical student - her career is over,” he growled. “Come on. Let’s go home.” He picked Cliff up and carried his crying child out of the hospital, and together they went home. They never talked about what Cliff had seen, but for years he had nightmares about it. He was scared of what his father was capable of, and every time Claude yelled at him or hit him, Cliff wondered if it would go further - if he’d end up on that table being cut up next if he didn’t behave.

By the time Cliff reached middle school, he understood that his father’s job was to be a surgeon and that he actually helped people, even if it was scary - and horrible - to see in person. But when he had his stomach ulcer and had to be hospitalized for a few days, his fear of hospitals was renewed and solidified. His parents were furious at him. Even with a fever and in so much pain, his father yelled at him every step of the way. Every time Cliff cried, or threw up, or panicked because he was afraid of needles, it was made ten times worse by his parents’ obsession with Cliff not spoiling their image of what a perfect son should be like. The pressure they put on him while he was in the hospital just made him sicker. It was a terrible experience, and Cliff vowed never to let himself get sick enough to end up in a hospital again.

Unfortunately, these sorts of decisions are not truly one’s own. Now Cliff was in the hospital with pneumonia, and although he was eighteen and told himself he was an adult who knew better, he was still scared. It was a different hospital, but everything smelled the same. The nurses acted the same - nice, but brisk. He felt the same helpless feeling of being surrounded by people who didn’t understand him, and most of all he was terrified of his father finding out he was here. He was sure he’d be furious if he discovered Cliff had ended up here after disrespecting his mother by leaving home. He thought about ripping the IV tubing out of his arm and making a run for it, but he didn’t think his legs would hold him.

When Elliot was next to him, Cliff felt like he could keep it together. After all, he’d never had someone like Elliot to hold on to during these scary moments before. But now Elliot had gone home for the night and Cliff was alone in a tiny room without windows in the hospital, and he was losing it.

Cliff didn’t realize he was having a panic attack until the nurse came in because his heart monitor was going off. She tried to settle him down, speaking to him in hushed tones and reassuring him that he was safe, but he didn’t believe her. All he could think about was his prior bad experiences in hospitals. His entire chest felt tight and he was crying, which made it difficult to breathe in conjunction with his already junky lungs.

“Cliff, you need to slow down your breathing for me,” the nurse said, but Cliff couldn’t. He couldn’t control it. He was just as scared as the day he’d hid under the chair above the operating room from his father, abandoned and afraid to trust anybody.

The thing that did stop him panicking was the uncontrollable coughing fit that came on. All the tears and snot that came with crying choked him, and then he couldn’t stop. He coughed until he vomited onto his lap, tears and mucus mixing into a horrible puddle that he could feel seeping through the sheets onto his legs. He was so disgusting, he couldn’t stand himself. Elliot was right to leave him here alone.

The nurse called the other nurse for backup, and soon they were changing Cliff’s sheets together, changing his nasal cannula to a simple face mask while he was so snotty from crying, and one of them administered something through his IV that made him feel sleepy. Cliff’s nurse asked him if it would make him feel better to call his boyfriend.

“What time is it?” Cliff asked, his voice hoarse from crying and throwing up.

“Eleven,” she told him.

Cliff shook his head no. He had already woken Elliot up enough times this week. “It’s okay. He’s probably asleep.” They hadn't agreed on a time that Elliot was going to come back, Cliff realized. Elliot had said he’d be back in the morning. The morning could be eight, or it could be as late as noon. That was, if Elliot came back at all. No, he'd come back. Elliot kept his word - usually. Then again, Cliff had never expected Elliot to trick him into coming to the hospital. He understood he was really sick and needed help, he did, but the betrayal still stung.

After his nurse did another albuterol treatment through the mask, she changed Cliff back to a new (not snot-clogged) nasal cannula and left him to get some sleep. Cliff couldn’t rest though. Even with the lights off, all the machines cast a glow that kept the room too bright. The faint beeping of his heart monitor and the drip of his IV fluids reminded him too much of the last time he was in the hospital, and he felt vaguely nauseous despite being sure there was nothing left in his stomach. He curled in a tight ball and held his knees to his chest, trembling. He missed Elliot and wished he was here to make him feel safer right now. Instead, all he had was himself and a very long night ahead of him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Cliff woke up drenched in sweat. He didn’t know where he was and immediately began to panic, but then he felt someone pushing him back down and shushing him.

“Elliot?” Cliff blinked in confusion. He’d finally cried himself to sleep in the wee hours of the morning but he hadn’t expected to sleep long enough that it was already within business hours. “What time is it?” His voice crackled, laden with wetness, and he let out a congested, barking cough. It made his sides ache and he gripped them automatically.

Elliot smiled at him and ran a delicate hand through Cliff’s damp hair. “Hi baby,” he said fondly. “It’s about nine AM.”

“Really?” Cliff glanced around, slowly remembering the details of yesterday. “I’m so hot,” he muttered.

“I think your fever broke,” Elliot said gently. “How do you feel?”

Cliff considered things. He felt significantly less achy than last night and it was easier to breathe. He didn’t feel like his brain was entirely full of sand - maybe just halfway. “Better,” he said. “Can I go home?”

“That’s up to the doctor,” Elliot said. “I ordered you some breakfast though. Do you feel up to eating? I got you oatmeal and toast.”

Cliff grimaced, remembering all the vomiting he’d done yesterday. “I’m not sure.”

“You can see how you feel when it gets here,” Elliot said. “The nurse said your breathing got a lot better after your second steroid injection.”

Only now did Cliff notice the lack of oxygen tubing on his face. He’d fallen asleep with it on and Cliff was shocked he’d really been so passed out that the nurse had been able to give him IV meds, do vitals, and remove his oxygen without waking him up. He must have been truly exhausted.

“Thanks for coming back,” Cliff said suddenly, looking at his hands instead of Elliot’s face.

“Of course I came back,” Elliot responded. “I promised you, didn’t I?”

Promises didn’t always work out, Cliff thought to himself, but he just nodded yes. “Well, I missed you,” was all he responded. “So thanks.”

He was surprised by the quick kiss that Elliot stole from him, even though he hadn’t brushed his teeth since yesterday morning. “E-Elliot,” he stuttered, red faced as he sat back and covered his mouth with his hands in embarrassment.

“I missed you too,” Elliot said. His smile was so kind and genuine. It made Cliff feel so much better. “You did incredible staying here overnight by yourself.”

Cliff understood that Elliot was babying him a little, but he also realized that he was unable to stop himself from smiling into his hands. Something inside him felt so content when Elliot was proud of him. He wanted to feel like that over and over.

Breakfast arrived and Cliff picked at the food, trying to get down a few bites mostly because Elliot was staring at him so hopefully. He really wasn’t hungry, but he managed half of a piece of toast and two bites of oatmeal before he couldn’t manage any more. It was difficult to eat when his cough was still so harsh, overtaking him at random moments and leaving him doubled over in bed, his arms clutching his sides in pain. At least he managed to keep the food down, though.

The doctor came by shortly after Cliff finished eating and examined him. He listened to Cliff’s lungs and cough, nodding along with his own conclusions. “I believe it’s safe to send you home, but you have to promise to rest and do nothing else for several more days,” he said finally. “How does that sound to you?”

Cliff nodded in agreement. He’d gladly stay in Elliot’s bed for another week if it meant getting rid of this awful cough - preferably, far away from any hospitals. Elliot awkwardly raised his hand a little before speaking. “Excuse me Doctor, but we start classes back at school in the city on Monday. Will he be okay by then?”

“Hmm. You’ll have to play that by ear, but as long as he gets proper rest and takes his meds, no fevers, then probably. Do you have to walk far to get to class?”

Cliff shrugged. Sometimes, not always. Elliot answered for him though. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t walk too much,” his boyfriend said confidently.

“In that case, I’m not concerned about discharging him,” the doctor said. “I’ll put in the orders and we’ll have you out of here in a few hours. I do recommend you keep using a nebulizer at home for a few days and as needed, do you have one?”

Cliff shook his head no at the same time Elliot said, “We’ll get one for him, we just need the medicine.”

“You’ve got someone taking good care of you, I see,” the doctor chuckled. “I’ll write scripts for that too then. Make sure you follow up with an asthma doctor as soon as you can.”

Elliot thanked the doctor several times, Cliff echoing the sentiment with a simple thank you, and then all they had to do was wait for paperwork. In the meantime the nurse helped Cliff get back into normal clothes, took out his IV and detached him from all the equipment. He had sticky residue on his finger and chest from the oxygen and heart monitoring leeds that didn’t seem to want to come off, but it didn’t matter. He’d have plenty of time to scrub it off later. Cliff was just relieved to be escaping this place without a longer stay or his father finding out and showing up.

At discharge, Elliot bundled Cliff up in a warm jacket and hat even though it was late August. He pushed Cliff in a wheelchair down to the lobby, then ran to get the car. Cliff insisted he could walk, but he wasn’t entirely convinced of his own strength right now so didn’t push the matter much. He waited patiently for Elliot and waited to feel relieved for when they had officially left the premises of the hospital. It had only been one night, but it felt like a long time. The fresh air felt good on his skin and he took a deep breath, appreciating it even as it made him cough.

Elliot pulled up at patient pickup and helped Cliff into the car, settling him in the passenger’s seat. “My mom’s gonna pick up all your meds and find a nebulizer for you at home,” he explained as he drove. “We’re going to follow all the directions to a tee, get you straightened up before we head back to school this weekend.” He sounded confident about this plan, as if it were foolproof. “Do you want to shower when we get home, or go straight to bed?”

“Shower,” Cliff said. He didn’t want to smell like a hospital anymore. “Sorry about all this.”

Elliot shook his head. “It’s okay. I mean... I was really scared. But you’re going to be fine, so...”

“That’s what I mean,” Cliff said, looking at Elliot seriously. “I’m sorry for scaring you. And being a burden and crying and... I guess what I’m really trying to say is thank you for being there.”

Suddenly there were tears running down Elliot’s cheeks and Cliff panicked. “Wait, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

Elliot pulled over on the curb and wiped his eyes. He sniffled and gave a tiny laugh at the same time, which sounded funny to Cliff. “I’m just really glad you’re okay,” Elliot said, taking Cliff’s hand in his own and squeezing it. “And you’re welcome. But you’re not a burden and it’s okay. I love all of you, Cliff. When you’re sick or scared and lonely... I want to be there for you. Do you understand that?”

Cliff didn’t answer right away, not trusting his own voice not to waver right now. But finally he said, “I’m trying to.” It was more honest than the automatic ‘Yes’ he had very nearly said.

Elliot smiled a little sadly and leaned over to give Cliff a kiss on the cheek. “Okay, as long as you’re trying to,” he said. He looked both fond and sad. “Now let’s get you home and in bed. We’ve got a big school year waiting for us next week and you’re not getting out of that bed until Friday.”

“The nurse said a little exercise is good,” Cliff pointed out.

“Some very light exercise,” Elliot said. “Bed to couch and back is plenty. Got it?”

Cliff smiled. He found it amusing when Elliot got bossy. “Sure,” he said. “You’re in charge, El.”

Elliot grinned and started driving again. “You’re damn right I am.”

Fin.

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