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ashintheairlikesnow · 1 year

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I Knew Finn Schneider

For @whumptober 2022, day 31: “You can rest now.”

CW: Referenced noncon, pet whump, beating, blood, brief emeto, murder… the works. But this, my friends, is the light at the end of Finn’s tunnel.

Somewhere near Highland Peak in California, 2005

"Checking in?"

The young woman sitting at the desk was bright and cheerful, her voice more chirping than speech. Her thick black hair was pulled into a no-nonsense bun at the nape of her neck and she wore a plain navy sweater with a layered necklace made of brightly colorful beads and she had a pink glitter barrette at one temple, with some rhinestone stickers.

She must have caught Finn looking, because she gave him a slight smile. "My little sister helped me get dressed today," She offered, and he tried to smile back. What did a normal smile look like? He wasn't sure if his was right.

She didn't change expression, so he must have managed it.

"Kids are great," Noah said, matching her cheer as he leaned forward on his elbows, carefully taking back her full attention. "I called and made a reservation this morning? Under Ransom?"

"Ransom, Ransom… that's some last name." She had an accent, Finn thought, her consonants soft, faintly rolling her r’s.

"Yeah, we like to joke my grandpa made it up." Noah grinned, sunny and shining. Charming. Finn watched them, distantly wondering if he would smile like that ever again. “He was maybe a little bit of a criminal.”

"Nice. You're Noah?"

"That's me."

"All right, room for two, got it." She stood up, humming to herself as she fiddled with the hotel keys. "Hope you don't mind, we still do things the old way. The owner just wants to keep it all historic, you know?"

"Yeah, sure." Noah glanced sideways at Finn, who looked away. Afraid if he made eye contact, all of this would start to melt and he would wake up naked on Robert's bedroom floor. Or in his basement.

The movement made a paper on the check-in desk flutter and it caught his eye, freezing him in his tracks.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

It was a blurry printed out still from a security video, a man walking with hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

It was Robert Weber.

Even with his head ducked and a ball cap pulled low over his face - even with the photo so blurry Finn could see individual pixels - Finn knew the clothes he'd been wearing at the motel before he tied Finn up and went for breakfast, that first morning he’d been in hell. This looked like they had caught him leaving the restaurant, heading back for his truck.

Heading back to murder the hotel worker while Finn watched, leave him bleeding on the floor while Robert dragged a weeping, dripping Finn to his truck. Robert was smiling in the photo - the edge of his turned-up lips just peeked out from beneath the brim of his cap.

Excited, Finn thought with a flip of his stomach, knowing what he had waiting for him in the hotel.

Highland Peak Police, California State Police, and the FBI are looking for more information on a person of interest in the attempted murder of Kent Reyes on October 15th, 2003. A reward of $100,000 for information leading to an arrest is being offered by the Mountain Motel's owner, Charles Reston, with another $100,000 from Reston's company WRU.

The individual stayed at Mountain Motel from October 14th, 2003, through October 15th. He is described as a white male, with a slim build, approximately 5'10", with dark hair and dark brown eyes, between the ages of 45 - 55.

He drove a blue and white Ford F150 with the license plate V5G667R.

Donations are being accepted for Kent Reyes's family. Ask at the desk about donating or mail checks to-

The words blurred as tears suddenly burned Finn's eyes. He blinked rapidly, wiping at his eyes and clearing his throat.

"Are you okay, man?" The desk worker looked concerned, but Finn's throat had closed, his heart pounding. He tried to open his mouth. No sound came out.

I’m sorry, it’s my fault, it’s my fault-

"Oh, man. Hey." Noah's sympathy was perfect, smoothly focused, and he turned to put a hand on Finn's shoulder, leaning in. Finn knew not to flinch, meeting Noah’s gaze through a blur of sudden tears. "Let’s get into our room, yeah? Sorry," He repeated over his shoulder to the woman. "I'm actually driving my friend home for a funeral. It’s rough.”

"Oh, I'm so sorry. We lost one of our staff recently-“

Finn nearly choked on his guilt.

"My mother… my mother, actually. I mean, she had been sick for a long-… never mind, you don’t need to hear about my family problems.” She waved her hand, and Finn wondered with a jolt that felt like a blade in his ribs if his own mother was still healthy, if she had gotten sick and he hadn’t been there for her.

The desk worker was still talking.

“-plus, we had another just barely survive being attacked before that. I feel you.” She looked up at Finn – she was so short – and gave him a slight smile. “You be upset if you need to. It's just us, right? No problem. I’m right there with you some days. It doesn’t get easier, but it gets… it gets less heavy.”

What if the person who died is me? Does it get less heavy to mourn my own death?

"We appreciate that." Noah spoke before Finn could and squeezed Finn's shoulder once, hard, before he mercifully released his grip. He leaned over to look at the paper, briefly stilling at the image of Robert. Almost immediately, his friendly smile was back - never left, even - and he leaned over at her. "What's this about? Person of interest?”

She craned her neck, then sat back with a sigh. "Oh. That… our hotel manager, Kent. One of our staff… well. It's a hell of a story, but Kent was attacked and shot. He survived, barely, but he's still recovering."

Finn looked up sharply. "He survived?"

Noah shifted, and his fingers closed around Finn's wrist, not quite tight enough to hurt. Just a reminder that he wasn't supposed to talk unless he had to, to keep people from hearing his accent. He had to remind himself that Noah had promised that it would not be like it was with Robert, that he would live a different life now.

But the grip on his wrist made it hard to believe.

The desk worker's smile widened, a little. "He did. He's a hell of a fighter. He's doing physical therapy learning to walk again, he had to relearn… just everything. He has this goal of getting back to hiking by next winter, rock climbing the year after. He's amazing. The medical bills, though… well. I don't suppose you'd like to donate to help his family with the costs?"

Noah looked over at Finn. “What do you think? Should we donate?”

Finn thought of the hotel manager who had looked so worried for him, who had been about to go get him some help. Who, with a few more minutes, might have been able to save him. He gave the slightest, smallest nod, trying to plead with his eyes alone.

Noah sighed, then turned back with his charming smile back in place. "Sure. Add fifty dollars? Will that do any good?"

"Every dollar helps, every single one. Thank you so much." She ran Noah's credit card and then handed over the little key dangling off a piece of plastic with a room number. The sound of metal made Finn a little sick, remembering it in Robert's hand. "Here you go. Room 14, ground floor. You'll get your printed final receipt under your door in the morning. Check-out is at 11, breakfast options are available beginning at 7 am but we clear them out around 10. If you need anything, just pick up your room phone and hit 0, it'll go straight to me." She pointed at her name tag. "I'm Martina Ramirez, you can call me Marty. The night manager will be in around six, her name is Melinda."

"Got it. Thanks!" Noah jerked his head at the door, and Finn started to move, automatically following orders, taking slow, careful steps to minimize his limp.

"By the way-" Marty called out. Finn looked back, heart briefly in his throat. He felt Noah tense slightly beside him.

Marty gave him a soft, sympathizing smile. "I really am sorry for your loss. I’ve been missing my mom a lot these days, she loved this time of year up here.”

His mouth opened, closed again. He managed a half-whispered, "Thank you, I’m sure she’s proud of you," before following Noah the rest of the way out the door.

He appreciated the sympathy, but she didn't know she was sympathizing with the death of Finn.

They stepped back out into the warmth, and Noah took a breath, running a hand back through his hair. "Don't tell me I stopped at the same goddamn hotel. How the absolute hell did I manage that?”

It was the same one. Finn had known from the moment they came up the drive, the long and winding road. But it was… so hard to remember he had a voice. He kept feeling the straps of the muzzle, the pressure over his nose, as if it had never been removed. He hadn’t remembered how to speak in time to say anything about it. "Yeah," He tried, then winced as it came out like yah, unintentionally heavy with his accent. "You did."

"Fuck. Okay. Uh, well." Noah looked over at him, fiddling with the hotel key in his hands. The clinking metal and plastic would drive Finn crazy if it didn’t stop soon. "Can you handle it? We can keep going for a while?"

Finn's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"I want you to feel safe. Can you feel safe here?"

The words were all words he knew, but the combination baffled him. "You are… asking me?"

"Yeah. I am. Hey." Noah turned to look at him, and Finn went still, waiting for the screaming, the spit in his face, the terror. Instead, Noah paused, and then said in a low voice, "I promise you, this is not to hurt you. I am not going to hurt you."

"Yes… yes, sir." Finn didn't believe him, but Noah only sighed, glancing at the window to see if the hotel worker was watching them. Marty was on the phone, and it made Finn’s heart go cold. What if she knew, somehow? What if she was calling someone?

What if-

"You know what?” Noah sighed. “Let's just go to our room. We can talk more there." Noah walked to his truck, pulling two duffel bags out of the back, tossing one to Finn, who just barely caught it. He limped more with it in his arms throwing off his balance, but Noah didn't seem to notice. Finn trailed him to the fourteenth door, painted green with gold numbers. With a turn of the key, they stepped inside.

Finn felt his stomach twist at the familiar scent of lemon cleaning products – the same ones Robert used – closing his eyes and swallowing back the pile that threatened to rise even as a cold shiver went down his back. Still… there was no smell of decay and death beneath, and it helped him take one deep breath and then another, through his mouth, stepping into the dim space.

Two queen beds, side by side with a small cheap table between them. A phone, a lamp, a TV on a low dresser and the door to a bathroom at the end. Basic, comfortable, and clean. Finn's hands shook and he dug them into the sides of the black leather duffel bag to hide it.

"You can have the first shower, I'll go later." Noah set his bag on the bedspread and unzipped it, pulling out a thin t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, red and black against the cool pine green comforter. He glanced up at Finn still standing in the open doorway, staring inside "Listen… if this is too hard for you, we can still go somewhere else-"

"It is fine." Finn stepped forward and shut the door with one foot, pretending he didn’t almost lose his balance doing it. He shuddered as the room went dim, goosebumps rising on his arms, the outside light blocked by heavy curtains. Noah flicked on the little table lamp, adding an eerie yellow definition to everything, like a horror movie from decades ago, when everything felt like it had a film of grime over the lens. Finn dropped his bag on the other bed, hoping against hope that he was making the right decision to do so. "Do I… sleep on my own?"

"Yeah, you do. From here on out, man." Noah paused in the midst of pulling out his toothbrush and toothpaste, giving Finn a long, searching look. "Okay, listen. Now that we're alone, I have to admit-"

Finn tensed.

"-you aren't what I expected."

"I-... what?"

"Well, you were supposed to be-... I didn’t expect you to be… you."

Finn felt like he had forgotten every word of English he'd ever learned. He swam in confusion. "To be me?" He looked down at the blue-tinged veins under the thin skin just near his palms. Scarred from cheap scratchy rope but otherwise unmarked. “What did you expect?”

"Well, look. This is kind of a thing I do for work. But it’s all under the table, we don’t make a big deal out of it. Usually I pick up people who… you know what, I'll just tell you. I work with some people who buy or trade trafficking victims we find online and then free them. Usually, we get people who, you know, they got caught up in some bad shit and ended up stuck, they know the people who are hurting them. We can get them into rehab, or whatever, if they still have their passports we can just slip people out of the whole… all of it. Stranger abductions are literally less common than a one in a million chance. Plus... the news.”

“The... news?”

“You’re pretty famous, Finn. There was a nationwide manhunt when you first disappeared. It would compromise our security. You know? If I just go to the cops. Too much attention, too much scrutiny. The only way what we do works is if no one knows what we’re doing.”

Finn swallowed. His heart felt cold. Everything did. "I don't understand."

"No. Probably not, it's… a lot to explain and I’m used to not being able to, I don’t exactly have a speech ready. Just… let's get through the night. Then you and I can talk about what comes next. I'll find you someplace where you can go to the cops yourself, for home, or… whatever you want. Just don’t tell anyone about me, okay?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Okay… okay, good, that simplifies a lot-“

“No, I mean… I don’t want to go home.”

Noah blinked. “You don’t?”

“No. My mother… my mother would have to know he-... She would… that… Ich wurde vergewaltigt. I don't want anyone to know what he did t-to me. I don't want to g-go home." His voice shook so hard he was nearly indecipherable, but Noah didn't interrupt or tell him to shut up, quit whining, to go back in his cage and be silent. "I don't want-... I cannot."

"I understand. I get it, I do… Just… nobody has to make any choices now. It's not going to happen anymore, okay?”

Finn didn’t believe him. But he nodded anyway.

Noah exhaled, roughly. “Okay. Take a shower, I'll head down the road for some pizza or something, and then… you can get some sleep after we eat. You can rest, now, Finn. But… I think you probably want to be clean, first.”

He would never be clean again, but he nodded, throat tight and nearly closed with something between dread and relief. He leaned over and picked out a shirt and pants from inside the bag, travel-sized toothpaste and toothbrush, and went into the bathroom. The light was bright compared to the dim yellow in the room itself, painting everything with unflattering overdone contrast. The lemon smell was stronger in here.

When he saw the tub with its familiar shower head, for a second he felt the water, cold as ice, as it had hit his skin like a thousand knives while Robert laughed. Then he realized that it was a cold sweat breaking out over his skin, trickling down his cheek and the side of his neck. He felt stretched too thin underneath his skin, heart pounding with a dull violence. Terror washed cold down his back, and Finn knew all over again that he was about to die.

The heavy scent of blood and gunpowder surrounded him, his own muffled cries around the terrible gag as the hotel manager had jolted to the side and then collapsed, like a ragdoll thrown by an angry child. He hadn’t moved, after that.

Finn had been sure he was dead.

Robert had been sure he was dead.

Finn had been certain he’d die, too, when Robert had turned to look at him. Somehow, he hadn’t. Somehow, he had survived to be here almost two years later, looking down into the same kind of bathtub, the same shower head, and the same little bottles of travel-sized shampoo and conditioner, the same bar of soap.

He wanted to scream. It tired to tear its way up his throat to escape him, and he couldn’t quite force it back down. Finn swallowed, once and then again, but his heart felt like it would beat itself bloodily out of his chest. His stomach flipped and he turned, throwing himself towards the toilet and slamming the lid up so hard it bounced off the tank and almost hit him in the head as he dropped to his knees.

He leaned his head over and lost everything he had eaten during the drive. He threw up over and over again, until all that happened was his stomach clenching, sour spit and bile and nothing at all left beyond that.

It… helped, a little.

He was shivering by the time he could stop, but his heart had stopped pounding.

“Hey, you okay?” Noah called, voice faint and muffled.

“I am fine!” Finn yelled back, voice ragged and hoarse. “I get carsick!”

It was a patently ridiculous excuse, but Noah didn’t try to ask him to open the door, and Finn had never been so grateful to have someone be silent. He took deep breaths of the little soap in the package on the sink until the fake lavender smell overrode his memories. At least they had changed the scent of soap they used. Eventually, the lavender smell started to make him feel sick, too.

He turned on the shower and locked the bathroom door, shivering under the cold spray until it began to warm. When it was scalding, he scrubbed himself raw, washed his hair with cheap hotel shampoo.

When he came out, hair still dripping and dressed in the new, loose clean clothing with that thrift store smell, the room was empty.

Noah had left a note that said gone for pizza, watch whatever you want while I’m gone.

Finn looked through the curtains to see the truck was indeed no longer in its parking spot.

He could walk right to the desk if he wanted.

My name is Finn Schneider. I was abducted in 2003. My abductor is the one who tried to kill Kent Reyes. Call my mother or the German embassy. Call someone. Call anyone.

I'm not dead.

But in his heart, he knew better.

I knew Finn Schneider. Tell her her son died in October 2003.

His mother’s son never made it out of the house. Whoever he was now, whatever Robert had left after he had scraped Finn clean… he didn't want anyone to see what Robert had made of him.

So instead, he pulled back the covers and climbed into one of the beds. He was already crying by the time his head touched the too-soft pillow, nearly flattening to the mattress at the slightest weight.

He wept, hands over his face, in the silent way he had taught himself to cry inside the cage, until he had no more tears left. Then he took the remote and turned on the television just to have some noise, shivering as he changed channels until he found something other than the news or the sitcoms that Robert loved.

He settled on a cooking show, the voices a dull and comforting nonsense. The bed warmed around him, and he felt his muscles beginning to relax, one by one, against his will. By the time Noah came back with the pizza, Finn Schneider was fast asleep.

He was curled up in a ball, his hands pressed to the lower half of his face, pressing just a little, covering his nose, mouth, and chin.

He hadn't been able to fall asleep until it felt like he was wearing his muzzle.

For whumptober: @whumpworld

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promptsforyourwhumpfic · 1 year

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Whumptober #31: A Light At The End Of The Tunnel

Option: “You can rest now.”

“It’s okay, A. You can rest now. Just close your eyes and relax... we’ll take it from here.”

#we made it lads #whumptober completionist #whumptober #whumptober2022 #no.31 #a light at the end of the tunnel #you can rest now #comfort #allowed to rest #whump #writing #prompts #ideas

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whumpdoyoumean · 1 year

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Whumptober #31

xxx a light at the end of the tunnel

Hope is a funny thing.

Having lived for well over half a millennium, Hob Gadling has lost hope more times than he cares to admit. But he’s also seen that hope rewarded, often in the most unexpected of ways, sometimes decades or even centuries after it had been seemingly lost.

It’s hope that keeps him from turning tail and running when he arrives at Fawney Rig, home of Alex Burgess. It’s a grand old estate, the type that requires a good deal of staff to keep up. Staff who are currently lying dead in the foyer, on the steps, in the upstairs hallway. Four of them that he can count, and he’s barely got one foot in the door.

Six hundred years, and the brutality of which man is capable still manages to surprise him. He does his best to avoid such barbarism, when he can. It does nothing for his mental well-being and, having not gotten used to it despite his overabundance of experience (maybe because of it). It eats away at him.

And yet here, in the middle of such darkness…still there exists that bright sliver of hope. That maybe something he thought he’d lost for good isn’t lost after all.

This is what he clings to as he enters the mansion. His footsteps echo on the tile, and it occurs to him just how quiet it is. No sounds of weeping or begging, no quiet pleas for help. His heart sinks, and he knows in his gut that there are no survivors. Whoever is responsible for this carnage will have seen to that.

Hob’s step quickens. He’d managed to find the public records on the house--architectural drawings, blueprints and floor plans, surveys. A long night’s study had led him to the conclusion that the paperwork was carefully curated, and that the strange American was right: Something is afoot at the Burgess estate.

A shudder runs through Hob as he thinks back on the man who’d come into the inn a few nights before, asking odd questions of the people there. It had seemed at first that he was just another tourist, curious about the old homes that are older, almost, than his country. But as the questions had grown more pointed, the man more insistent, it became clear that he was looking for something. There was a lot of talk of dreams. It was his mention of the Devil and the Wandering Jew that finally prompted Hob to speak.

“A fascinating little story isn’t it?”

He’ll never forget the flash of malice that had crossed the man’s face. It had only been there for a second before it was replaced by a forced smile that was no less discomfiting. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and laced with venom.

“Who says it’s just a story?”

There are more bodies as Hob continues through the halls. The American had seemed quietly unbalanced, like there was something desperate and dangerous and wild just below the surface, but this…

Could one man really have done all of this?

It’s with that thought that he begins to run.

He’s surprised at how quickly he finds the hidden basement door--due, largely, to the fact that it sits wide open. The air coming from the doorway is cold and musty-smelling and sends a shiver down his spine. His fingers land on the handle of the small knife at his hip, and then he’s moving down the stone steps, as quietly as he can. He can hear snippets of sound as he gets closer. The only thing he really makes out is Morpheus.

He doesn’t know why but the name, though he doesn’t recognize it, sends a warm jolt of familiarity through his heart. He’s so busy trying to piece together what the feeling might mean that he forgets his attempt at stealth as he steps through the open iron gates and down the two small steps into a dark, candlelit chamber. He certainly doesn’t notice the man lying in wait for him, until he feels a gun pressed to the back of his head.

“Turn around,” the American says, and Hob does so, though not before he catches a glimpse of a naked figure on a bed of broken glass, pale and bloodied and striking the same golden chord that the name Morpheus had. “Professor? I have to admit, this is unexpected.”

He launches into some long-winded monologue, but Hob doesn’t hear a word of it. Because he was right. He knows who it is lying there, unmoving, on the ground beneath the round metal frame. And he knows who it is that made him bleed.

He doesn’t enjoy killing people. He’s done it, of course. Not just out of necessity, either. He’s killed for reasons far more selfish and debauched than that. Never has he taken pleasure in the act.

This, though. This is maybe as close as he gets.

He moves with lightning speed, with reflexes refined by centuries of honing. It’s not a fight. The American doesn’t even have time for his finger to twitch before the blade is buried in his carotid. He stares at Hob with wide-eyed shock. Hob stares back for one hate-filled moment before he pulls the knife out, turning on his heel as red arcs out and the American falls to the ground.

The hatred is forgotten immediately as Hob runs to the naked man’s side, replaced by something gentler and more precarious.

“It’s you.”

Even beaten and bloodied, he knows this face. Of course he knows this face, how could he not? He quickly takes off his coat, draping it over the huddled and trembling and bleeding figure whose eyes remain shut.

“Alright, old friend,” Hob says softly. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m going to move you now.”

He moves as quickly as he dares, mindful of the larger pieces of glass in the slight man’s body as he carefully lifts the man into his arms. He’s surprised at how easy it is, barely taking more effort than lifting a child, and the man stirs slightly, a groan slipping from lips that are pale white beneath the blood.

“Easy, now,” Hob murmurs. His eyes land on a sigil on the ground, and disgust rises in him as he scuffs the markings with one foot before continuing.

The man groans again and he starts to squirm in Hob’s arms. He’s skin and bones, and has just had the shit beat out of him, and it would be easy to subdue him if Hob weren’t so worried about doing further harm.

“Okay--alright! Let me at least get you away from all the glass and the damned binding circle.”

He walks hurriedly, moving to a subchamber that’s free of glass and blood, and eases the man onto the floor, covering him carefully with his coat. The man’s not fully conscious, eyes moving beneath slightly parted lids. Hob doesn’t want to leave him here alone for even a second, but the stone floors of the basement are frigid, and he can practically see the heat being leached from the man’s body.

“I’ll be back,” he says, brushing his fingers against the man’s icy knuckles. “I won’t be a minute. Don’t move.”

He runs up the stairs and then up another flight, barely noticing the bodies now as he ducks into the first room he sees. He’s got more pressing things on his mind. He loads his arms with blankets, a pillow, and a flannel nightshirt, and makes the journey back to that awful basement, twice nearly tripping in his haste. He grabs a bottle of water as he passes the desk where the guards lay dead, then hurries into the subchamber. The relief he feels when he sees that the man hasn’t vanished is quickly undercut by the fact he’s gone completely still.

“No.” He dumps everything from the bedroom onto the floor and kneels next to the man, his immortal heart beating so frantically it feels as if it might give out. His fingers shake lightly as he takes the man’s wrist in his hand. He’s spent a hundred and twenty-seven years waiting for this reunion. This can’t be the way it ends.

He almost cries when he finds the pulse, surprisingly strong given the state of the man.

“You scared me,” he says. He wipes the blood from his knife and cuts one of the blankets, ripping it the rest of the way with his hands and repeating the process until he’s got a small pile of cloth strips. He talks quietly the whole time. He’s not sure if the man can hear him, but he’d much rather speak and have his words fall on empty ears, than not speak and have the man be offered no comfort.

There are things Hob wants to tell him, of course. Things he’d planned on telling him when they were last supposed to meet, things he’s thought about telling him since. He doesn’t say them, though. He’ll save those for when the two of them can have a proper conversation.

For now, he talks about the weather, describing the color of the sky and the leaves, the feel of the breeze and the lovely scent that it carries, the birdsong. He talks as he winds a long strip of cloth around the large piece of glass in the man’s thigh, careful not to jostle it but also making the make-shift bandage tight enough to slow the bleeding, and to keep the glass in place until he’s in a better position to deal with it. By the time he finishes and moves to the man’s arm to repeat the process, he’s run out of ways to talk about the weather, so he talks about his recent holiday to the Isle of Wight. He doesn’t notice the silent tears that slip down the stranger’s face.

Once he’s satisfied with his work, he drapes a blanket (one that he hasn’t torn up to use as bandages) over the man and turns his attention to his face. He can’t help but grimace as he does. An ugly bruise is already forming over the man’s left eye and there’s a nasty gash over his cheekbone, and a small knot is forming above his right temple. His lip is split, too, and his nose looks like it might be broken. Perhaps most alarming is the man’s lower jaw, which juts sharply to the right. Definitely dislocated.

A fresh dose of hatred courses through his veins.

He won’t be losing much sleep over the American, he decides.

He pours water over one of the strips of fabric and starts the work of cleaning the blood away. Only when he starts to gingerly dab at the cut on his head does the stranger flinch and begin to stir.

“Sorry!” Hob says, pausing as the man turns away from his touch. “Are you with me?”

The man’s eyes fly open and for a fraction of a second, Hob could swear that he sees the stars reflected in them. And then he’s staring into those familiar pools of blue, wide and panicked at first, but quickly softening with recognition. His lips begin to move, and Hob speaks quickly before the man has a chance to.

“Careful. Don’t--don’t try to speak. Your jaw’s been dislocated. I think I can move it back into place--I’ve learned a great many things in my lifetimes--but it’s going to be unpleasant. Painful…” His mind goes back to what he’d heard when he first came down the steps. “I heard the man say Morpheus. Is that your name?”

The man stares at him for a moment before bobbing his head up and down.

Morpheus.

“Alright, Morpheus. Do you trust me?”

Morpheus nods once, without hesitation. There’s not a hint of trepidation in his eyes.

“Good. I’ll be as quick and as gentle as I can.”

It’s an uncomfortable procedure. Hob is impressed by how quiet and still Morpheus is as he puts his thumbs against his lower molars, wrapping his fingers under the man’s chin.

“I need you to relax for me, now, while I move it back into place. Ready? Relax relax relax…” He applies pressure, pushing the man’s jaw down and then back until he feels it click back into place. The man lets out a sharp gasp, and then sighs, his shoulders sagging a little as he leans his head back against the wall.

“Thank you,” he breathes. His whole body is trembling, even under the blanket. “Thank you. Thank you, Hob.”

“You’re welcome, Morpheus.”

The ghost of a smile crosses the man’s lips--lips which, Hob notes gladly, have begun to gain a bit of color back--and he reaches his uninjured arm out from under the blanket, resting his hand on Hob’s shoulder.

“You may call me Dream. That is what my friends call me.”

Hob can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in his chest and escapes out his mouth at the word friends, and the chill of this place seems to fade a bit.

“We should get you out of this place, Dream,” he says after a long moment. He picks up the nightshirt and sets to work ripping off the right sleeve, pausing when he sees Dream’s stare which he interprets as being inquisitive, despite it looking very much like his usual staring. “The glass in your arm,” he explains.

Dream winces a little, as if he hadn’t noticed it until just now. The small surge of energy he’d had is clearly beginning to fade.

“Here, put this on. It isn’t quite to your taste, but it will cover you well enough until we can find something more suited to you.”

Dream scowls slightly at the red and black plaid, but takes it anyway, pushing the blanket down and pulling the nightshirt over his head.

“Can you stand?” Hob asks.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t look as sure as he sounds, though, and doesn’t turn down Hob’s proffered hand. The nightshirt falls down around him as he rises to his feet, and it’s clear that it was intended for a larger man. It makes for quite a sight: Dream, practically drowning in the bright fabric, save for his one care arm. Would’ve been quite funny, if not for the cuts and bruises, and the hiss he lets out as he tries to put weight on his injured leg.

“Easy, there. Are you alright? Can you walk?”

“I can walk.” There’s not so much confidence now, and Hob loops an arm around his bony waist.

“I’ve got you.”

It’s slow-going, and Hob finds himself cursing the spiral staircase more than once as they make their way up. Dream is gasping by the time they get to the ground floor, and shaking, a dazed, exhausted look on his face. He doesn’t react to the bloody scene in the foyer, and Hob’s not entirely convinced that the poor man even sees it. They make it the last few steps out the front door and onto the porch before it occurs to Hob that Dream is barefoot. He looks at the gravel drive and then at Dream’s bloodied feet and shakes his head.

“That’s it, I’m carrying you the rest of the way.”

Dream barely protests as Hob lifts him off of his feet, and it’s clear he’s given in when he loops his good arm around Hob’s neck and leans into him.

He’s unconscious again by the time they reach the car, and Hob has to wrangle him into the passenger side, careful not to jostle the glass. He’s just done the seatbelt when he looks up at that godforsaken house, and the hatred and rage for the people who imprisoned Dream come roaring up, all at once.

“Just one more thing I’ve got to do,” he says.

He’s never been more grateful for the extra petrol he keeps in the car just in case. The place is full of unattended candles and dry old books, anyway.

An accident was bound to happen.

xxx

The first thoughts that enter Dream’s mind upon regaining consciousness are soft and warm--both of which are things that he hasn’t been in a very, very long time. The next word is safe. And the word after that, a name:

Hob.

He opens his eyes to find himself in a bed that’s infinitely softer than any he’s been in in this realm. A quick examination reveals that the glass is gone from his arm, replaced with clean bandages, and when he brushes his fingers against his leg, the same is true there. There’s a bandage on his cheek, as well. Strangely, he can hardly feel his injuries. Instead, his whole body feels tingly, almost warm. And his head feels…sodd. Like it’s been filled with helium and would take flight if not for his neck keeping it attached to his body.

“Hob?” he asks. He’s about to repeat the name when a door opens to his left and Hob appears, his hair and body dripping, gripping a towel that’s wrapped around his waist.

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes wide.

Dream nods, and the world starts to spin. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and stop the movement. “I feel strange.”

“Ah, yes. That would be the medication. I had to give you something before I removed the glass. The piece in your leg was dangerously close to your femoral artery. Even the slightest movement could’ve caused you to bleed out.”

Dream forces his eyes open and stares at Hob, who’s opened his closet and is pulling out a bathrobe.

“You needn’t have worried,” he says, the words feeling strange on his tongue. His lids start to droop and he forces them open. “I can’t die, remember?”

He has just enough awareness to see a flicker of something in Hob’s expression. Something like guilt.

“Aye,” Hob says quietly. “But you can be hurt or captured.” He shakes his head, almost as if, Dream thinks, to shake the sadness from his face. And then he smiles, a warm expression crossing his handsome features. “Please, Dream. Don’t stay awake on my account; we’ll have plenty of time to talk later. You can rest now.”

And for the first time in a century, Dream does.

xxx end

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whumpypepsigal · 1 year

Text

Whumptober 2022 | No. 31: A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

Comfort | Bedside Vigil | “You can rest now.”

Avengers: Endgame (2019): “We’re gonna be okay. You can rest now.”

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one-piece-aus · 1 year

Note

Since I have the invitation to ask again, may I ask for Whumptober No. 31 “Light At the End of the Tunnel” with Law? There’s something beautifully somber, yet sanctuary-like with the concepts and I know you’ll do a great job playing on the heartstrings! Thank you in advance again & take care! 💙💙💙🌹

(Also there should have been certain anon asks for Rosi & Barto previously 😉)

Ahoy again Michelle! I hope you enjoy the final piece of this year's collection!

Whumptober Day 31

Law x Reader

"Your majesty, are you sure about this?" Law asked you again, pulling his horse next to yours.

"Yes, I'm sure Law," you nodded, petting your stead. "It's for the best."

You knew Law's concern, a royal has never travelled outside the palace, and you were abandoning everything you've ever known. Nervousness did follow the further you ventured away from your home, yet you didn't mind since you no longer had pressure and stress hovering over you.

"Also, you may stop calling me that from now on, I no longer bare that title," you reminded Law, looking over at him.

"My apologies your-... then how will you like me to address you?" Law inquired.

"Hmmm..." You haven't thought about it beforehand, though it would be good for you to come up with a name so you wouldn't be recognized in foreign lands. Minutes passed as you tried to think yet your mind remained blank. Glancing at Law, you smile. "How 'bout you give me a name."

Law nodded, now going into thought himself. Silence walked with you as your minds were away. Your train of thought went through your hall of memory, seeing all the pain you went through as the seventh child of a royal family. Years of strict rules and lessons with no recognition, you were only mocked by your elder siblings. Your only safe haven had been the doctor your parents assigned to you, and him being the same age as you let you grow closer as you made witty flirtations with each other, he was the only one who let you be at ease. That's why you proposed to run away with him after releasing your life in the palace was meaningless.

"I think I can see the end!" Law announced, pulling you out of your thoughts.

"I'll race you." You laughed as your horse took off.

"Wait-" Law shook his head and gave into your silliness, this is what he signed up for.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

"Law, I feel trapped here..." you confess, placing your hand on the glass pane window. "No matter what I do, I will never mean anything to them. I don't..." Tears fell from your eyes and your knees felt weak, you crumbled but Law caught you in his arms.

"Your majesty, don't worry about what they think," he told you, bringing you closer to his chest as he sat the both of you on the medical bed. "I know you are a brilliant and beautiful lady, it's their loss they can't recognize that."

"You're the only one who's there for me, Law." Your tears stopped as you held on to his fabrics. "I just wish I could only be with you, I want to go far from here with you by my side."

"Then why don't we?" Law suggested, smiling as he saw how your eyes lit up brighter than the Northern Lights. "We'll go somewhere far away, where no one knows your name, and there you can finally rest."

"Yes... yes!" You hug Law, feeling a warmth you've never experienced before.

Is this what happiness is?

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quietlyimplode · 1 year

Text

leave everything but your bones behind

Whumptober 2022: day 31 - you can rest now

Warnings: none I can think of (but if there anything please let me know).

Word Count: 2.6k (gif not mine)

Summary: Natasha becomes unwell and only the Red Room can fix her. The choice is die or go back to the very place that made her.

A/N: my goodness, look how far we’ve come team.

There have been some people that have been instrumental in making my writers heart sing with their thoughts and comments. I want to thank you properly from the bottom of my heart, but that might have to wait til tomorrow.

I am quite glad this is done as it’s just over 55000 words. I don’t think I’ve written anything this long, and in six weeks, (needless to say all mistakes are my own) it’s been a journey.

Thank you all for sticking with it if you have, or reading parts or commented or liked it. We have reached, the end. <3

Main Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

———-

Three months later

Natasha closes her book, the ending somewhat satisfactory. She focuses on the feeling of the sand beneath her, and the sound of the waves of the sea below.

She digs her toes in further, glancing idly at her phone.

4pm.

They have two hours before they arrive.

She should go help Clint.

Taking one last glance of the empty beach, she smiles softly to herself and picks up the book.

Clint had shooed her out around midday telling her to go finish her book and get the last bit of peace before the others arrived.

She’s laughed as he pushed her out the door, the sun bright, and the day perfect to relax.

Natasha wipes her feet at the door, dusting them off and smelling the cookies through the door, before she even opens it.

“You made cookies?” she calls, entering the house.

It’s not only that, he’s cleaned the house.

Clint rounds the corner, a smile on his face as he sees her.

“I made cookies,” he smiles, “the ones you like with the icing.”

She follows him into the kitchen seeing the brightly coloured cookies cooling on the bench.

Natasha hugs him, feeling more comfortable with touch now than she had when they first arrived. She’s able to offer it, receive it and sometimes even seeks it out.

The progress is praised, but it makes her feel more human, to have made it to this point.

No longer flinching as he kisses the side of her head, she beelines for the cookies, pulling out of his touch.

“How long til they get here?” he asks, looking at his phone.

Natasha shrugs, lost in a memory of the deliciousness of the cookie, the first time she had them.

“You okay?”

She hums, mouth full.

“You remember when you first baked these?” she mumbles.

Clint picks up another cookie that’s shaped like captain’s shield, and bites down on it.

“The first week we got here?” he asks.

She nods, “yeah, it was like the first food I enjoyed in so long.”

He looks at her strangely.

“I didn't know that,” he confesses.

Chewing thoughtfully, she wonders just how much to tell him.

“I don’t think I’d slept in like almost three days, and hardly eaten anything and you made them. The smell broke me out of some panic attacks so much so that I wanted to taste them.”

She pauses.

“So I did. And then I ate another. And I forgot that some food in your stomach could make some of the ugliness go away.”

He looks contemplative, “you went outside the next day?”

Natasha nods, remembering the first step out the door being hard, but the sea had drawn her in.

“It gave me energy to face the day, in a way that I hadn’t been able to.”

He looks at the cookie in his hand.

“Well shit, maybe I should be cooking these more often.”

Laughing lightly, she grabs another and nods.

“Magical cookies you have here.”

They putt about the house, music on in the background, readying the bedrooms for the soon to arrive guests.

Tony arrives early. Entering the house he bursts in without knocking, talking loudly.

“You’d better come help me, the car is full, and I come with food and a whole bunch of toys.”

Clint is first to see him, clasping hands and hugging in delight at the sight of his friend he’s only been talking to on the phone.

“Hey man,” he smiles.

“It’s good to see you.”

Tony hands him a basket of strawberries and then gestures to the car.

“Come help me.”

Clint frowns, “we said not not bring anything.”

Tony laughs.

“Yeah sure, and you think I’d listen?”

The answer is flippant but Clint feels like Tony does everything in abundance, why should this be any different?

Natasha appears, and laughs at them both, carrying a variety of fruit up to their chins.

“We said not to bring anything.”

Tony carries his keys in his mouth as he answers.

“Go help,” comes the muffled reply, and Natasha dutifully heads to his convertible.

Her breath catches when she sees the box of Russian candy.

He’d remembered.

She picks it up, the box fairly light, and hugs it close to her body.

Natasha looks into the car, not seeing anything else to bring in, but hears the roar of Steve’s bike coming up the drive.

Deciding to wait to greet him, Tony and Clint come back out to see what’s held her up, and all three wait.

Steve’s hair is longer than she remembers and for some reason it makes a breath catch in her throat about just how long she’s been away. How long this has taken her, still taking her to heal; to get over this.

But she swallows it down and greets him with a hug as well.

“Hey,” he says, hanging onto her a little longer and a little harder than she’s used to.

“Hey,” she replies.

“Don’t leave me in the tower with Tony again, okay?”

He says it with a tone of seriousness and mirth but she understands the underlying sentiment.

Steve has lost so many people in his life, but in ways they’ve just disappeared or he has.

She nods, grinning, “you guys are bunking together in the same room, you know?”

Tony groans, overhearing the conversation.

“Why didn’t you take me up on the offer for the bigger house on the hill?”

Clint hugs Steve too, taking his bag from his bike and leading the way in.

“Because that’s not what we needed,” he replies with a flick of his hand.

Steve takes in the cottage and all the considerations in it, built perfectly for two spies. Up high enough for Clint, smaller windows for Natasha, multiple exits and he’s sure he’s not seeing everything.

She nudges him.

“What are you thinking about?”

Steve covers his thoughts.

“When does Bruce get here?”

Tony answers readily, and Steve knows he’s been keeping a close eye on everyone from afar.

“He’s coming from an island I bought him. He’ll probably be here tonight.”

Clint nods and opens the back door up, the smell of the sea air permeating through. He shows the two men around whilst Natasha sits in the kitchen, waiting for their return.

He catches her alone in the kitchen, bringing in the glasses that have held wine, spirits and vodka. Taking them from him, she rinses them out, and he grabs a tea towel to dry them.

“Thanks,” she nods.

Tony hands them back to her to put away.

“How are you?” he asks, softly, quietly like the secret can stay between them.

“And don’t give me the bullshit response that you gave the others that things were hard but now they’re better.”

He pauses.

“I know you.”

His piercing stare makes her drop her gaze.

“I know you.”

She nods. He does.

Sometimes she thinks they’re cut from the same cloth and although lives two separate lives, there’s similarities that she loves they share; a darkness that not everyone understands.

“How’s Liho?”

He stares, frustrated at her non answer.

“She’s fine, she’s with Pepper, they’ve got a bond. Did you know she likes being on a lead outside?”

Natasha laughs at that, something she would have never have thought of doing with a stray cat, would be to train it to go on a lead.

He waits her out.

“I don’t know,” she says finally.

“I think I’m okay, but then little things will happen and I won’t be. It was bad that first month. I can’t even tell you what happened, Clint probably can.”

Natasha looks at him as a slight realisation dawns.

“Thank you, for taking care of him, whilst I couldn’t. I know it was you calling and making sure he was okay here.”

Tony waves her off.

“It been getting better, I’m not there yet. I don’t think I’m ready… for a lot of things. There are things that… still hold strong memories, but I’m working on it. I’m working through it.”

She laughs.

“It’s a daily job.”

Tony smiles with her.

“You’re so bored aren’t you?”

Natasha laughs again.

“So much.”

“And the therapist?”

“She’s been so patient. I think I’m her full time job.”

Offering Tony a drink, she sits down at the table next to him.

“Clint’s going now too,” she mentions, “sometimes together, which I think helps.”

“I’ve been seeing mine,” he confesses.

“Seeing you, like that…I think it brought up some things for me.”

They’re quite, hearing Steve, Clint and Bruce talk loudly in the other room.

“Steve’s been going too.”

Tony shrugs.

“I guess we all have a lot of baggage to work through.”

“I think so.”

She clinks her glass with his, and notices Clint at the door.

He still hasn’t been able to leave her for long periods, calling it separation anxiety, but she knows that the fear that she’s going to leave still holds strong.

“You like the therapist?” she calls.

Clint nods, “you guys coming back.”

Tony is first to stand, grabbing his drink and nudging Natasha as they walk back together.

“I’ll help you with the boredom thing.”

She eyes him, pursing her lips and smirking.

“Get it past Clint first and we’ll talk.”

There’s a slight heaviness that settles on her.

She watches the others talk and laugh and can’t help but feel a bit removed, her mind wandering and creating scenarios that she reframed consciously.

They’re here out of pity and curiosity, a part of her says, but she knows it’s not true. They wouldn’t have come out, not here, if they rudely didn’t want to.

Tony wouldn’t have brought her candy, Steve wouldn’t be making plans with her, and the thing that makes her smile, Bruce wouldn’t have come and brought them flowers from his island.

Claiming he didn’t know what to bring, when they told him not to bring anything, he’d turned up with an array of beautiful flowers she couldn’t stop looking at.

“What do you think, Nat?” Clint asks, touching her hand gently, but she hasn’t been listening.

He covers quickly, seeing the confusion pass her face.

“Sweet or sour candy? Steve thinks that sweet candy is the best but Tony contends that sour is, you know my opinion.”

“And I prefer savory, over either,” Bruce comments.

Natasha gives a shrug and comments that she doesn’t mind either option.

“But,” she clarifies, “I’ll always take the sweeter option.”

Clint and Steve look smug as Tony pouts and Bruce cracks up.

Glancing at the time, she realizes it’s just past 1am.

No good thoughts happen past midnight, and it’s likely she needs to go to bed.

Yawning, she stands.

“Sorry boys, I think I need to sleep.”

They nod, standing as well.

“No no, stay, you know where your rooms are?”

Clint throws a pillow at Steve.

“If your old brain can remember where I said,” he goads.

“Hey! Technically he’s older,” Steve exclaims, throwing it to Tony.

“Lies! He’s a year older than me,” Tony growls, throwing it to Bruce.

She can’t help but smile by their antics, but still, she knows if she has any chance at sleep, she needs to go now.

“Goodnight boys, play nice,” she departs, giving them a nod as she heads for her bedroom.

She’d forgotten how exhausting being around people was. Even when it’s people that she loves and likes spending time with.

Quickly brushing her teeth, swallowing the medication and washing her face, she climbs into the cold bed, curls in on herself.

Everything is okay, she rehearses.

Everyone is safe.

Tomorrow will be a good day.

And she hopes like hell she’s not wrong.

“How is she really?” Steve asks, Natasha’s lithe form now not in view.

Clint sighs, knowing the question was coming. They’d all been in various stages of communication after they’d left, Tony checking in the most, Steve a close second and Bruce doing what he can.

He’d kept them updated as much as he could, but how do you tell someone over the phone that someone they love is drowning, and the only lifeline they had was time and space?

“Better,” is the word he decides on, feeling comfortable with it as soon as he says it.

“Lots of things are helping. She wouldn’t have agreed for you to come if she wasn’t in a space to see people.”

He looks to Tony.

“You know she wouldn’t.”

“So… so she just…” Steve sighs and rubs his face, the same way Tony usually does.

“We send her back to Russia, she gets tortured, we rescue her and then she goes looking for them to finish them off… then you two just disappear here for over three months, and she’s just ‘better’?”

Clint feels anger at the oversimplified version of events and the work they’ve done to get here. For Natasha to be better.

“No,” he frowns.

“That’s not it, that’s not…”

He forces himself to take a breath.

“She’s worked hard on getting better, talked to the therapist daily, worked on sleep and talking through things.”

It’s only then he realises Steve has manipulated him.

“We are doing better. We are. It’s just that it takes time and it’s hard.”

His voice peters off.

“It’s hard,” he whispers.

Bruce hands him a cookie and he takes it in thanks.

“She seems better,” he says, “than when I last saw her.”

“And she’s talking more,” Tony adds.

“And she’s better at concentrating and not getting… stuck? I think?” Steve comments.

It’s nice, having them realize that there have been changes, sometimes he’s too close to see any change is happening; sometimes he knows intimately what those changes are.

“Thanks for coming.”

The words are slightly forlorn.

“She’s been looking forward to seeing you all… I have too. I hope you have some fun here, even if it is under.. these circumstances.”

Bruce is first to talk.

“We’re already having fun, Clint, being together, being a team, having parts of us that are more heavy than others, that doesn’t change things. There can still be laughter even if it feels dark.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees. “I mean look at us.”

“Fossil.”

“Green man.”

“Metal man.”

Clint can’t help but smile.

“Yeah,” he replies.

“I guess we’re all a little fucked, right?”

Tony laughs.

“I’ll drink to that.”

She’s still awake as he slithers into bed, breath toothpaste fresh as she curls into him.

“Did they find their way to their beds?” she whispers.

He doesn’t even ask her why she’s still up. He doesn’t have to.

“Yeah,” he laughs, “Tony and Steve aren’t so happy they’re bunking together.”

She smiles in the dark.

“It’s late Nat,” Clint states, the clock reading 3am.

“You’re one to talk.”

“Did they ask about her?”

“Jace?”

“No, but I think Tony has an update for you.”

“Okay, I have one for him too.”

She closes her eyes, breath slow.

“He said he put Liho on a lead.”

Clint laughs.

“How did that go?”

She smiles, eyes still closed imagining Liho hating every moment.

“Apparently not bad.”

The silence doesn’t last long.

“Not tired?”

Natasha takes a deep breath.

“I think it just feels peaceful, and I don’t know what to do with that. I want to live in it whilst it’s here.”

She hears him huff out a breath.

“You can rest now?”

Natasha hugs him close, kissing the bottom of his chin and rests her head on his chest.

“Yeah,” she breathes.

“I can rest.”

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callaeidae3 · 1 year

Text

Whumptober2022 Day 31: Light at the end of the tunnel

Comfort | Bedside Vigil | “You can rest now.”

Decided to work on some old art of mine for this one (the art below!). I didn't have too much time to work on it, though. I forget how much work this art style takes @.@

Scene is from the end of KK3/ The Deliverance of Kyle Kindall, Ch. 67.

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whump3000 · 1 year

Text

Whumptober No. 31- A Light at the End of the Tunnel

Tw: Death

“You’ll never escape me.”

Whumper’s words echoed in Whumpee’s head, reverberating with each footstep.

“You’ll never make it out. You’ll never be free.”

Well, looked like Whumpee had made it out, set themselves free. The question was, could they keep themselves free?

They could already hear the rumble of Whumper’s truck. It was only a matter of time until they pulled into the gravel driveway and saw the broken window, bedecked with a smattering of Whumpee’s blood.

They hadn’t been as careful as they should have been while escaping. But then again how could they? This was their first escape attempt in weeks. They had to take it.

Whumpee heard someone scream out in rage.

They gritted their teeth and ran harder. They ran as fast as they could, but it wasn’t nearly fast enough. Weeks of torment, days without food, not to mention that nasty cut on their arm, it was all too much for Whumpee, and try as they might, Whumper’s words rang true.

They could not escape. They could not make it out. They could not be free.

Whumper tackled Whumpee, sending them sprawling face-first into the dirt.

“What’s wrong with you?” Whumper flipped Whumpee over, punching them in the face. “I leave for two hours and you try and make an escape? This was a test, Whumpee. A test, and you failed miserably.”

Whumpee let out a quiet whimper, blood dripping out of their mouth. They thought they heard a motor in the distance, but maybe it was just the taunting echo of Whumper’s return.

“Come on.” Whumper yanked Whumpee to their feet, dragging them through the field. “You’re going back on the chain when we get inside. You’re never going to leave this house again.”

“No! I’ll never rest until I’m a million miles away from you!”

“That’s awfully far, considering you couldn’t make it across the field.”

Whumpee spat the blood from their mouth. “You’ll see!”

“Enough!” Whumper hit Whumpee with enough force to send them sprawling. “You have no right to speak to me like that!”

“You have no right to treat me like this!”

Whumper laughed, pulling a knife out of their pocket. “Oh, I have every right. You’re mine, Whumpee. You’re mine, and I can do whatever the fuck I want to.”

Whumpee tried to run, but Whumper grabbed them by the collar, raising the knife above their head—

It was as if the world was slowing down. Whumpee heard the shot. They saw the bloody pool in Whumper’s chest, and heard the thud of Whumper’s body hit the ground. They saw and heard every bit of it, but it wasn’t real, right? This wasn’t true. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean—

“Whumpee!” Caretaker dropped the gun they were holding and ran to Whumpee’s side, cupping their bloody face in their hands, crying.

“Caretaker? What?” Whumpee’s voice felt strange. Everything felt strange. This wasn’t real. None of this was real.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now,” Caretaker whispered, holding Whumpee in their arms. “You can rest now.”

#whumptober 2022 #no. 31 #a light at the end of the tunnel #you can rest now #whump #whumpee #whumper #defiant whumpee #caretaker #aggressive caretaker #whump thoughts #whump scenario #whump writing

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whumpcereal · 1 year

Text

whumptober, day thirty-one: comfort | bedside vigil | "you can rest now"

part of behavior modification (masterlist here); the final piece of hallie's whumptober miniseries. follows this piece.

content warnings for: implied past noncon, post-traumatic stress, adult language

future snippet, daddy and chief

“Daddy?”

Jack’s heart jumps in his chest. She’s awake. The doctor wasn’t sure when the drugs would wear off.

“I’m here, chief,” he says softly, the childhood nickname soft on his lips.

He hasn’t called Hallie that in years, but she hasn’t called him Daddy in a long time either. It doesn’t make Jack happy to hear it now. She sounds too young, too frightened. Jack wants to wrap her in his arms, to pull her into his lap and never let her go. But he doesn’t reach for her. He knows better. No one knows better than he does what Hallie might be feeling, and even if he doesn’t know how to make it better, he will not make it worse.

Keep reading

It’s the first time he understands what Joe might have felt when he came home, and he hates it. He’s never felt so helpless in his entire life, and that’s fucking saying something.

“Daddy,” Hallie says again, and Jack can hear the clot of tears in her voice. His throat aches in sympathy, but he tries to blink his own feelings away. This isn’t about him. It isn’t.

Except that it is. If it weren’t for Jack, if it weren’t for what he is, no matter how hard he’s tried to escape it, his little girl wouldn’t have suffered at all.

“You’re safe,” Jack murmurs. “You’re home safe.”

She is, too. In theory. The doctor told them that it didn’t appear that Hallie was “hurt.” That’s the word she used. Hurt. A minor burn on the back of her neck and irritation from the tape. A few bruises that are not really bruises. But she wasn’t hurt. Not the way they thought. And even if he’s relieved, Jack knows it doesn’t mean anything. His baby was hurt. She is hurting. She will, for a while. Jack knows.

“I’m sorry,” Hallie whispers. She shrinks back against her pillows, and she turns her face from Jack. Still, he can see a tear slip over the pink apple of her cheek.

Jack closes his eyes, and he slips his hands beneath his thighs. He can’t touch her. He won’t.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, baby.”

It isn’t strictly true–Hallie lied, after all, and put herself in a situation she knew she shouldn’t have–but that isn’t important right now.

“I–I didn’t mean to–”

Jack hadn’t meant to either. It had just happened. And he didn’t know why. He still doesn’t. We get better. That’s what Dr. Breyer says. And Jack is better. Hallie will get there too. But that doesn’t make it any easier to understand.

He sighs. “I know, sweetheart. Papa too. We’re not mad. We’re just glad you’re home.”

“How did I–I don’t remember–”

“Someone dropped you on the porch, baby.”

“Someone,” Hallie echoes.

“They left before we saw.”

“Oh.”

There’s something in her voice that makes the hair on Jack’s arms rise.

“Baby, do you know–”

“Kaitlyn,” Hallie whispers.

“What?”

“Kaitlyn Halstrom.”

“Fuck,” Jack says without thinking. Of course it was Kaitlyn Halstrom. Joe is going to be livid.

But at least they know. There is someone to punish. Something to do.

Not just now, though. Just now, it’s Hallie who matters. It’s Hallie who needs him. And he needs her. Just like he needed Joe. Like he still does.

“Yeah,” Hallie says, her voice watery.

“And the boy?”Jack presses gently.

“How did you know–”

Jack can’t tell her about the video. Not yet. She’ll know soon enough. “Don’t worry about that. Did you know him?”

“I don’t know.” Hallie’s eyes squeeze shut. “I don’t think so? I’m sorry.”

Jack can’t stand it anymore. “Hallie, baby, can I touch you?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes blink open again, and even from the bedside, Jack can see them darting back and forth, like a frightened animal’s. It guts him. He remembers too well how badly he wanted to be touched afterward, just to erase what had happened–and how absolutely fucking terrified he was that someone would.

Hallie nods, just once.

Jack sandwiches Hallie’s little hand loosely between both of his own. He doesn’t know what to say. He wants to promise her that it will never happen again, that it wasn’t her fault, that she’s beautiful and perfect and just the same as she always was. But Jack knows better than that. Hallie will never feel quite like the person she was again. Even when this fades, when it’s a memory that she buries deep inside, it will still be a part of her. Jack knows.

“Daddy?”

“What, baby?”

“Were you afraid?”

Jack’s breath shifts. “For you? Of course–”

“No,” Hallie interrupts. Her hand wraps around his. “For you. When it happened to you.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t want to tell her; he would give anything for this not to be something they share. It isn’t like putting together Legos or dancing in the kitchen. This is something that Jack would have gladly kept to himself forever. He would take it from Hallie if he could.

But he can’t.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I was.”

“I’m scared, Daddy,” Hallie whispers. Jack bends and kisses her hand. “I didn’t know–it was–I felt out of control. Like I wasn’t even in my body, but trapped at the same time? Like I was watching it from above, even though I couldn’t see. But that doesn’t make sense, does it?”

It does make sense. More than she knows. More than Jack could ever want her to know.

“I know what you mean.”

“You do?” Hallie asks.

“Yeah.”

“I read the files,” Hallie says. “In junior high. I know I shouldn’t have, but I wanted to know–and I was afraid to ask.”

He couldn’t tell her, of course. He didn’t even tell Joe everything. Joe read the files too. Jack didn’t mind. Well, he understood. It was easier than having to explain.

“Are you mad?” she asks.

“No, baby, I’m not.”

“I was mad.”

“When?”

“When I read what happened to you.”

“Who were you mad at, honey?”

“I don’t know. WRU, I guess.”

“Were you–” Jack hesitates. “Were you mad at me? Or Papa?”

“Maybe a little,” Hallie says, her voice small.

“That’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”

“I didn’t understand how you could let them do it. How Papa could let them.”

“He didn’t. I–well, I did what I had to.”

Hallie nods. “I know.”

It’s the way she says it, like she actually fucking understands, that stops Jack’s breath.

“You couldn’t help it,” Hallie says. “I couldn’t–I–”

She dissolves into sobs, and Jack shifts from his chair into the bed, cradling her against his chest. His hand moves softly through her curls.

“Shhhh. You couldn’t help it either, baby. I know. I know you couldn’t.”

Hallie clings to him; she feels so small in his arms.

“I felt out of control too,” Jack says softly. “I was so scared. But it’s good to be scared.”

“Why?”

“Because it means you have something to lose.”

Hallie’s head shakes against his chest. “I don’t understand.”

“A lot of things happened to me when I was a kid. Before I met Papa, I wasn’t scared of anything. I–I figured if something bad happened, I deserved it. There was no point in being afraid.”

“Daddy–”

“But when–when WRU took me, I had Papa. I knew what it was to be loved. And that’s why I was scared. I was scared I would never feel that again.” He kisses Hallie’s curls. “I was scared even after I came home.”

“Because you felt different?”

“Because I didn’t feel anything at all,” Jack answers. He holds Hallie close. “Or, at least, that’s what I thought. It took a long time, but Papa was there, and he fought for me. We’d fight for you. We will. And it’s okay if you’re scared, baby. It means you know you didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t either,” Hallie whispers.

“I didn’t,” Jack agrees, but even now, he has to fight the voice inside that says he did deserve it, that if it weren’t for him, his baby wouldn’t be going through any of this.

“No one deserves it,” Hallie says.

“They don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Hallie says again. “I shouldn’t have lied.”

“No, you shouldn’t. But then again, Papa shouldn’t be such an easy mark either.”

Neither of them laugh.

“But you’re still a kid, baby,” Jack says. “And kids do stupid shit. We just want you to be safe.”

“I know,” Hallie says. “Where is Papa?”

“With the police.”

“Oh,” she says softly.

“They had your phone. They won’t get away with it, baby. Especially not now that you can identify Kaitlyn.”

“Will I have to talk to the police?”

“Eventually,” Jack says. He lies Hallie back against her pillow and moves to tuck her in. “When you’re ready.”

“Okay,” Hallie murmurs.

“You gave us a scare, baby. But you’re okay. We’ve got you. Whatever you need.” Jack leans down to kiss her forehead. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Hallie’s arms shoot up to wrap around his neck. “I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, chief. More than you’ll ever know,” he says. “You can rest now. Papa will be back soon.”

“You won’t go?” Hallie asks, and for a second, Jack could swear she’s five-years-old again.

“I’ll be right here, baby. Always.”

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy-s, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @no-terms-and-conditions-apply, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keep-beach-city-werid, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @hold-him-down, @peachy-panic, @whumpyblogthing, @sowhumpful, @considerablecolors, @ramadiiiisme, @sunnywhump

#whumptober 2022 #no.31 #comfort #bedside vigil #you can rest now #oc #fic #implied past noncon #post-traumatic stress #adult language #behavior modification #hallie prescott kenyon oc #jack kenyon oc #hurt/comfort

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lemissingmask · 1 year

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[ID: Sketch of Eliot standing in front of a doorway in which a man is standing aiming a rifle at his back. Eliot is looking slightly to the side with an expression of sadness. End ID]

Whumptober 2022 Day 31 - "You can rest now" (again)

I couldn't decide what to do for this, so here's another one.

Someone Eliot was in the service with, and who was involved in a very traumatic mission with, starts hunting down and killing the other people who were on that mission with him because he can't rest, and thinks that neither can they, due to memories of that mission. Eliot realises what's going on and lures the guy to his apartment so he can stop things before anyone else gets killed, and try to get the former soldier some help.

#you can rest now #leverage #eliot spencer #whumptober 2022 #day 31:#cw gun #cw ptsd #cw murder

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darkthingshappen · 1 year

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No. 31 A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

@whumptober

This is a BROTHER'S KEEPER entry. Takes place at the end of the recapture arc - not the end of the story though.

Content warning aftermath of captivity and torture. Aftermath of noncon, though it's not mentioned. Aftermath of violence and gunshot wounds - mentioned.

Tagging List: @i-can-even-burn-salad @peachy-panic @deluxewhump @arwenadreamer @whumpcereal @melancholy-in-the-morning @dont-touch-my-soup @whumpsday @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @oddsconvert @melennui @susiequaz12 @morning-star-whump @crystalquartzwhump @whump-and-other-things @mylifeisonthebookshelf @reflected-pain @hold-him-down @quietshae @sparrowsage @quietly-by-myself @no-terms-and-conditions-apply (I hope I’m not forgetting anyone - please let me know if I am and I’ll fix it.)

As ALWAYS, thanks to the AMAZING @whumpcereal for the beta. And to my whumperful crew that always cheers me on: @oddsconvert and @sparrowsage as well as @quietly-by-myself. Y'all are the best!

Comfort | Bedside Vigil | “You can rest now.”

Ben noticed the sound first. A steady rhythmic beeping. It was familiar. He’d heard it before. The next thing he noticed was that he was on his side. He was alone in the bed, thank God. But he was warm, not hot. And clean, not sticky. He started to roll over, and a wave of nausea and pain coursed through him and he moaned.

“Benny? Son?”

Daddy?

Ben had to fight to open his eyes. He felt a warm hand take his. The touch was soft and gentle, yet firm. He’d know it anywhere. It was the touch he’d felt on his shoulder the one time he’d tried to play baseball like his big brother and realized that he had no sports talent. It was the touch on his cheek just before a hug when he was told that Jake would have to stay in jail and Ben wouldn’t be allowed to visit him. It was the touch of a bear hug and pat on his back when he graduated from high school at only sixteen and then college at twenty. It was pride and love and tender care.

It wasn’t Volkov.

Ben managed to finally get his eyes open. It was true. It wasn’t a dream. His dad. His father was sitting right next to his bed and holding his hand.

“Daddy. Dad. You’re here.” Ben’s eyes filled with tears. He pulled his dad’s hand to his chest.

His dad reached forward and touched his forehead to Ben’shis own. “I’m here buddy. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Ben was a small child again. If he weren’t in so much pain, he would have crawled into his father’s lap and sobbed. But he was in pain. He pulled himself closer and sobbed into his dad’s shoulder.

“Shh. Shh. It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s over. It’s really over this time. I promise, Benny. It’s over. It’s over,” Jacob Sr. cooed into Ben’s ear. He held his son as close as he could, careful of Ben’s injuries.

Ben let out what felt like a lifetime of pain and degradation and humiliation. He’d suffered so much in these past few months.

“It’s all right. Let it out. It’s okay. It’s over, son. It’s over, my boy. You’ve done so well. You’ve been so strong and so brave. You can cry now. You can rest.”

Ben listened to his dad’s soothing words as he cried and cried. Neither of them knew how much time had passed, and neither of them cared. Ben finally got his courage up to ask what he so desperately needed to know.

“Jake? Is he… Did he… Dad…”

“He’s okay. He’s hurt pretty bad, but the doctors are hopeful. He… he can’t talk right now. He’s resting. Your mother is with him.”

“He… he took that bullet for me,” Ben said quietly.

“I know. He’s always trying to protect you. Even with all of his issues, Jake has always been a good brother to you. He wouldn’t have it any other way, Benny.”

“But he’s gonna be okay?”

“I think so. We’re praying. Through all this, your mother and I could do nothing but put you and your brother in God’s hands. Jake is still in God’s hands. But you’re in mine now.” Jacob leaned down and kissed the top of Ben’s head.

Jake was going to be alright? After seeing how much blood Jake had lost that day on the beach, it was a miracle Ben hadn’t been able to hope for. Jake was still fighting, fighting for him, like he always did. They had promised each other they were going to get off that fucking island and they had.

“And Zoe?”

“Zoe’s safe. She’s here too. She’s resting. Your family is safe, Ben. I swear. When we couldn’t protect you. We made sure we watched over her. I swear to you she’s safe. You’ll see her in a bit. She was here earlier but had to go lay down. She’ll be back. You just rest. I’m not going anywhere. She’d want you to rest.”

Ben breathed a sigh of relief and let the exhaustion take him. He laid his head down, keeping his dad’s hand locked in his.

“I missed you, dad. Thanks for watching over Zoe.”

“Always. I’ll always try my hardest to protect my family. She’s your family, so she’s my family too. Now get some sleep. She’ll be here when you wake up.”

Ben closed his eyes. For the first time in months, sleep came easy, and it was peaceful and deep.

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