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crinkled-emotions · 1 year

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I love your fics so much!! They are the perfect combo of whump and angst. And honestly, in my opinion each one is 100 times better when paired with the other😂

So I was thinking..we all know Rooster would want Mav to stay with him if he got sick or hurt, but what about Mav wanting to stay with Roo. Like he actually HAS to be there all through the night or waves of guilt come back for all the times he wasn't there over the years. He's afraid to sleep and wants to be as close to Roo as possible, literally camping out next to him as he recovers. And when Rooster gets really bad, Mav moves onto the bed next to him just so he can make sure he can hear each breath and see that Rooster is in fact still there and alive. The Daggers find them like this one morning and just swoon at the cuteness, not realising the gravity of the situation. And then a resounding Oh Shit hits them when they find out what's going on and get SO upset seeing how vulnerable the two are🥺

Hey anon!! Thanks for your kind words! I've been having a bit of a shit week so I held on to this for a little longer. Hope that's okay!

After losing Rooster to his own actions (which were completely understandable when you know the whole story, by the way) it makes sense that when he gets really sick or hurt, Maverick probably wants to hang around, make sure Bradley's okay, but also to make sure he isn't going anywhere. As much as Rooster has lost those he's loved, so has Maverick and I think it would definitely show at times like this when they're both vulnerable.

Presenting... a fic with these feels. *glares at wip spreadsheet* yes I'm aware I have other shit to do. I would rather do this right now.

"Mav, I'm okay," Rooster whispered, voice hoarse and it was obvious it hurt to move. He winced, grimacing as he rolled on to his stomach.

"I know you're okay kid, but I really think I should keep an eye out. We don't want a repeat of ‘98, do we?" Maverick replied as he moved around the room, shutting blinds and starting the fan in the corner of the room. Bradley always slept hot as a kid and it was no different now, only made worse by the fever he was sporting.

"Mav, c'mon, I was sixteen."

He winced again, apparently stuck in a cramp.

"God, I wish I was sixteen again," he muttered. His head shot up, and he cleared his throat.

"Mav, I didn't mean-"

"-I know kiddo. C'mon, if you're so okay you can't lie like that. You know what sleeping on your stomach does to you."

Bradley made a noise of complaint but shifted on to his side after a minute.

"Mav?"

"Hm?"

"You're not going anywhere... right?"

"That's right, I already called us out. If you want to be alone, though-"

"-no! No, I don't- please don't leave."

Maverick's eyes softened, sighing as he closed Rooster's bedroom door.

"Okay, I'm right here. What do you feel right now?"

"Everything hurts," Rooster complained. It was a very rapid turnaround from his earlier insisting that he was okay.

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when you eject. It's lucky you didn't break something."

"I did," Rooster mumbled, "my pride. And my ass, remember?"

"Sorry Roo, I didn't want to assume it would be okay to talk about it. Butt, I'm glad you feel comfortable to share the pain."

"Mav," Rooster huffed, but his shoulders were shaking. He was laughing.

Maverick knelt by the bed, brushing a hand through Rooster's curls.

"Try to get some sleep."

Maverick stirred when he heard a whimper, frowning as he scrubbed at his eyes. Glancing at his phone he saw it was 11pm- Bradley would have only just gone to sleep any other day but the ejection had wiped him out. The whimper echoed in the silent room and Maverick got up, making his way to the side of Rooster’s bed. His face was pinched tight, in pain or fear, and he shifted uneasily in his dreams.

“Bradley,” Maverick started softly, frowning when he put his hand on his shoulder. Rooster’s hand shot out to whack Maverick away but he caught it just in time, pressing it to his chest.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. It’s just a dream, kid.”

Rooster cried out, eyes finally finding Maverick’s in the dark.

“Are you with me?” Maverick asked him. Bradley sniffed, shaking his head. His eyes were completely unfocused, but he seemed to recognise who was standing by his bed.

“Mav? What are you doing here? Where’s mom?”

There it was.

“Uh... she- she had to step out for a minute, okay? I promised her I’d watch you. She was real worried about you.”

That much was true.

“Oh.”

Bradley winced, scrubbing at his eyes again.

“Mav?”

“Yeah, kid?”

He wasn’t a kid anymore, but the way his brown eyes looked up at Mav- he was fifteen again, watching his mom lose every sense of herself to her disease and there was nothing Maverick could have done. Sighing, Maverick took a seat on the edge of the bed.

“How about you close your eyes, huh? Go back to sleep, it’ll be okay when you wake up.”

“You’re still gonna be here, right?”

“I’m not going anywhere, Bradley.”

To everyone’s surprise, it was Fanboy who cracked the shits at breakfast the next morning.

“Okay, guys, we gotta go see if they’re okay. No one has heard anything, not even Rooster’s favourite over there.”

“Do you want to still have your dick attached?” Phoenix threatened in retaliation. Bob winced, sitting next to her. Fanboy raised his hands in surrender.

“Steady! Geez. Uh, so... where would he be if he’s not at the infirmary?”

“Mav’s,” Hangman said through a mouthful of bacon. When everyone stared at him he finished his bite and put his fork down.

“C’mon, guys, y’all saw Mav’s face when Roo’s plane went down and you know how Goose died. It all makes sense.”

“Has anyone asked Cyclone where Mav is?” Bob suggested. He’d scooted away from Phoenix slightly just in case.

“If we don’t know, there’s no way Cyclone will.”

“Yeah? Okay Hangman, who would Maverick call if he was taking today off?”

“Guys none of us are on today; let’s go check on them. The least we can do is bring by some milk.”

“Let’s go,” Coyote agreed with Payback, everyone abandoning their breakfast.

“Hey, Rooster? Are you here?”

Bob knocked on the front door, listening for any signs of life. Frowning when there was nothing he put his ear to the door.

“Scoot.”

Phoenix elbowed Bob, digging in the pot plant by the door for half a second before she produced a key.

“Really? Who else knew that was there?” Hangman huffed.

“Me,” everyone replied. Hangman scowled ever so slightly.

“C’mon, me and Bob will go upstairs. You guys do a sweep of the living area and the kitchen. Check the back porch too; I found Rooster asleep out there once and I think I scared the shit out of him.”

Phoenix took charge, taking Bob’s wrist and he dutifully followed his pilot. Hangman opened his mouth to make a comment but Coyote quickly whacked his arm.

“Forget it. C’mon, we can check the back deck.”

“Rooster? Hey, Br-”

Phoenix stopped dead in the doorway, Bob accidentally walking into her but righting himself at the last second.

“Look,” she whispered. Bob glanced up, eyes widening.

“Uh-?”

"Oh my god.”

They finally saw the extent of the ejection injuries on Rooster’s chest and shoulders, considering he was passed out against Maverick’s side. Maverick was sitting up in bed, eyes closed. It didn’t look comfortable.

“Should we move them?” Bob whispered. Phoenix frantically shook her head.

“No way, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bradley that peaceful.”

“I thought he broke his ass.”

“He did, and I’m sure he’ll regret the way he’s sleeping later, but for now...”

Phoenix sighed, glancing at the way her best friend instinctively searched for his father in his sleep.

“For now I think we should get everyone else out. Hangman would never let Rooster live this down.”

“I thought they were close in flight school?”

“Oh, that’s a story for another time.”

#top gun: Maverick #top gun maverick #tgm #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw #Bradley Bradshaw #Rooster #Callsign: Rooster #Pete Maverick Mitchell #Pete Mitchell #Maverick #hurt/comfort #a hint of whump #here's to Rooster's broken ass

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urlocalwhumper · 6 months

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spy whumpee is discovered, and the enraged and betrayed people they were spying on take all their anger out on them, beating them bloody until they're practically holding onto life by a thread, then tossing them in a cell and leaving them for interrogation, if they don't die from their injuries first.

whumpee's squad back home begins to get concerned after whumpee doesn't give them their daily update. they send whumpee a message of their own... and get nothing back.

concern turning to genuine worry and fear for their friend, leader sends caretaker and two other teammates to go find whumpee, and bring them back if needed.

when whumpee wakes up again, they're laying in a military hospital. they feel like they've been run over by a semi-truck, but they turn their head to see their hand intertwined with caretaker's, who had fallen asleep in a chair at their side, and the deepest relief they've ever felt washes over them as they realize they're safe.

#whump #whump prompts #military whump #soldier whump #mine #this one feels a little lacking but eh #i feel like w/ spy whumpees it's always like #the people they're spying FOR treat them like shit and they end up defecting to the other side for real #OR neither side treats them like a person and it's just misery all around #and i don't mind either of those #but i wanted to do a spy whumpee who's team really cares about them and will rush in to bring them home at the slightest hint of danger

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honeycollectswhump · 3 months

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EVERYONE PLEASE LOOK AT THIS!! IM GOING TO FUCKING CRY IM GOING INSANE

this commission was done by the lovely @whump-blog PLEASE consider reaching out to them too!! (here's their commission sheet)

[Holding Up The Sky] <- my whump story where this character is from

adding the taglist because you need to see: @octopus-reactivated, @sodacreampuff, @topsheepstudent, @clickerflight

#AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA #THIS IS SO SO PRETTY #HER EXPRESSION!!! THE ANGUISH AND RAGE AND TEARS AND BARED TEETH #THE BLURRED ROD AND THE BLOOD SPLATTERS #THE SMEARED LIPSTICK HINTING AT WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE #I WILL LOOK AT THIS FOREVER #Holding Up The Sky #aveline king (oc)#blood #murder #vengeful caretaker #revenge whump #whump art #whump commission

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daniwib · 13 days

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Sneak peek of upcoming collab

So @wingwyrm and I are both whump writers. Based on this no context cover art, what do you think our collab is about?

(psst no spoilers if you're from the 118 server and have seen the thread!)

#Hint: it's not fluff #We are having so much fun #Whether our readers will or not remains to be seen #911 spoilers #kinley #buddie #911 #911 abc #whump #angst #evan buckley #eddie diaz #tommy kinard #bi buck #my art

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unorganisedalienrubbish · 2 years

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Whump writing fact!

(From experience) once a whumpee has been let down from a stress position, it will feel like their joints don’t bend any other way. It can be painful (and sometimes almost impossible) for them to straighten their arms and legs. Like elbows and knees ‘crunching’ or making other audible sound, kinda stuff.

I’m not sure about all stress positions, but definitely ones where the arms and legs are bound tightly bent/closed. Hope this helps!

#whump #whump prompt #stress positions #bound limbs #I am okay this was for a cosplay/Halloween costume #guess who!#hint: they have one arm #hence the bound limbs

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secretwhumplair · 1 year

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Whump prompt XVI

Power withdrawal.

It starts as a tingling in their fingers, or a mild headache, until their blood is burning with unused power, their head is splitting open. Shapeshifters who feel like their head is being held underwater when they can't shift for too long, like they could crawl out of their skin from the way it itches. Powers that, if they cannot find an outlet, discharge into the body they're contained in.

And then, of course, it becomes too much to bear - or they lose control. Their punishment, no doubt, will be severe. Or is that their friend cowering in the corner, terrified or even hurt or-?

#whump #whump prompt #superpower #fun fact! ainsel has this to a lesser degree they've just gotten so used to it it's barely worth a mention #though I did sprinkle a hint in here and there #also I'm trying to get on a regular posting schedule happy whump wednesday

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throwawaywhumper · 2 years

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"Aw wait, let me see those!"

"Wait no, hey!"

Whumpee tried to protest, but pulling against their restraints proved fruitless as Whumper effortlessly pulled their glasses off of their face.

"Aw, you're kinda cute without your glasses on. Have you ever considered contacts?" Whumper chuckled.

"Give them back please, I-I need them..."

"Yeah no kidding.." Whumper wiped away some of the blood that had caked on the glasses and slid them on. "Good lord, you really can't see anything without these, can you? You're blind as a bat, this is dreadful."

Whumpee flushed angrily and shut their eyes tight, pretending the world around them hadn't become a blurred, indecipherable mess. "They're not that bad..."

"Oh yeah?" Whumper gingerly removed the glasses and twirled them around on their finger. "So you don't really need these then?"

"Wait, I didn't mean-"

Whumpee's eyes snapped open, in just enough time to watch as whumper bent the frames, bent them hard, until they caved to the pressure and snapped in half at the bridge.

"No! What the fuck are you doing??" He watched in disbelief as they fell to the floor, followed by whumper's foot crushing them to smithereens and grinding away any salvageable remains under their heel.

"There we go, much better. And already..." They cupped whumpee's chin in their hand and wiped a tear away from his cheek. "Those pretty blue eyes are so much nicer like this." They tilted their chin side to side, eyeing him carefully. "Shiny, unobstructed. So full of emotion, you can't hide anything from me, not even your fear..."

Whumpee hadn't even noticed he'd started tearing up, it hardly mattered. Everything was blurry enough as it was, the only thing close enough that he could make out was the face of his tormentor. Much too close. "Fuck you! Fuck, I can't- I can't see...why..."

"That's alright, you're not going to need to see much of anything anymore." Whumper playfully tussled their hair before standing back. "I'm the only thing you're going to need to worry about for a long time. And don't worry, I'm sure you'll see me coming. Glasses or not."

#inky void #whump #glasses whump #it feels silly to tag glasses whump but idk what else to tell you my friend #also let me know if you need me to add any content warnings! wasnt sure whether or not to add anything ability related #for context I was not wearing my glasses while writing this #im going to stay on my eye related bullshit for a while hint hint wink wink #tw ableism

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a-wumper-on-the-internet · 5 months

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Building on a concept that I mentioned in my nuanced!whumper appreciation post: Role Reversal.

The whumpee, very tragically, dies from their suffering, their wounds. Their caretaker holds them in their arms as they die, and something in them snaps. They drop the body, go rigid, emotionless, and then tracks down the whumper and fucking breaks them, because if they can't bring the whumpee back, they can bring hell upon the one who killed them.

Or the whumpee doesn't die, but comes back decidedly wrong, something fractured in ways that cannot be repaired, not even by their caretaker - the caretaker is doing their best, but sometimes the cracks in a person's foundations can't be sealed through love and care. Sometimes they have to be sealed through bloodshed - and their whumper has blood to spare. Might as well utilize what their whumper... taught them.

The whumper becomes the whumpee, and maybe this makes them see the error of their ways, maybe they become even more bloodthirsty as a result, maybe they get a victim complex, maybe it just breaks their mind further, or maybe they love it! Maybe this is fun for them! Maybe they appreciate their new whumper doing this for them, who knows!

I like role reversal because it allows for exploration of a character beyond their original dynamic - whump is all about the dynamic, of course, but I love character above all, and really think it shines when you mix it up.

#whump #whump prompt #whump community #whump scenario #whump prompts #whumpee #whumper #hey this is a hint on what my new oc might be btw #my whump oc #you'll meet them shortly #they're so fucked up

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silver-ink-iron-words · 1 year

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Thank you all so much for these kind requests. And for being patient as I worked on this next part

-----

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

A Bird in the Hand, Part 7

The first time the villain heard the voice, it was laughing.

They were on a university campus, having just met with a professor for the purposes of their latest project. Even amongst the bustling sea of students, the laugh rang clear as a bell. It was light, and genuine, and on its own made for a lovely sound.

But that’s not why the villain stopped dead in their tracks.

The laugh flowed through the villain – a warm buoyant energy under their skin. Their shadows rushed to their fingertips, and they had to halt in the middle of the walkway just to reign in their power. They were suddenly filled with a burst of confidence, like they could do anything.

Euphoric. Yes, that was the best word for it.

They spun around, tried to find the owner of the voice. But a large class had just let out, and the quad was teaming with students. By the time the crowd dissipated, the villain was still empty-handed.

Research revealed that the class had been a second-year botany course. But the class list contained hundreds of names, and very little information beyond that.

In the end, that breathtaking voice slipped through the villain’s fingertips.

The second time, the voice was crying.

“You could’ve at least had the good graces to dump me in person.” Just like before, it chimed as though it were the only sound in the world.

The villain didn’t hesitate this time. They forced their way through the metro station crowds, back towards the train car they’d just exited. They ignored the cries of protest as they ruthlessly shoved people aside.

And for their efforts, they were rewarded with the glimpse of a face.

Splotchy, and bright pink, spreading tears on the cellphone pressed up against its side, it was the most endearing face the villain had ever seen.

This person who was rejected. Openly in pain in the middle of the evening rush. Who had no idea the levels of pleasure they could bring.

The villain could ensure that they were never so neglected again.

They sprinted forward. Reached their arm out.

And the train doors closed right in front of them.

The villain watched as the train slowly pulled the person away, still too engrossed in their heartbreak to even notice what had just happened.

But the villain was overjoyed.

Each aspect of the person – face and voice both – were now etched into the villain’s memory.

In the end, when they heard the voice a third time, it was completely on accident.

The gala was held in honour of their nemesis, a celebration of the fact that the hero had trampled their most recent venture. The villain came in disguise, watching in disdain as people toasted to their defeat.

When they learned that the hero wouldn’t even be in attendance, that their partner would be accepting the award in their place, the villain was livid. The hero ruined their plans again and again without fail, and now couldn’t even spare the time to acknowledge it? The villain stood up to leave.

Then, they heard it.

“Thank you all for coming,” the person said from the podium. “It’s an incredible honour to be here, on behalf of the bravest hero I know.”

Triumphs and setbacks always had to come in pairs, didn’t they?

When the villain sat back down, it was, yes, to bask in the wonders of that voice. But it was also to observe. The villain had never gotten such a long, clear look at their person, and they were excited to finally get the chance.

The acceptance speech was good, and their person delivered it fairly well. But the villain’s practiced eye caught their stiff shoulders, the slight tremble of their hands. Clear signs of stage fright. The villain tilted their head, studying it closely.

Fear was an incredibly attractive look on their person.

Of course, it singed the villain, to know that the hero had stolen them. They tried not to think about the hero kissing their person, enjoying their voice, holding them tightly in the long sleepy nights.

Shadows began to form around the edges of the villain’s hands.

They forced their eyes closed, and opened them again. Made themself count to ten.

This was a win, they reminded themself. They now knew their person’s identity, and could thus find any information about them they wanted.

The speech ended, and everyone, including the villain, clapped.

It was only a matter of time before their person was put precisely where they belonged.

---

The civilian awoke to arguing.

“You’re being deliberately difficult with me, doctor.”

The civilian tensed at the villain’s voice, which brimmed with a barely contained fury.

“I’m not being difficult. I’m giving you answers you don’t like. There’s a difference.”

“I refuse to believe that a medical professional of your standing can’t handle a simple poisoning.”

“Simple? What’s simple about it? It’s a minor miracle that the poor bastard isn’t dead already.”

“If they die, you’ll follow soon after.”

“You think I haven’t heard that one before, scumbag? I work for villains, for chrissakes.”

The civilian closed their eyes, and curled their fingers around the bedsheets. They should get this over with sooner rather than later.

“[Villain]!” they called.

The arguing ceased.

The civilian tried to sit up, but dizziness hit them like a barreling train. The villain was the one to catch them.

“What happened?” the civilian asked. Spots danced in their vision.

“[Hero] tried to kill you, darling.” The villain’s voice was somber. “And I’m the one who saved your life.”

The civilian swallowed. “That can’t be true.”

But they remembered holding that blue dart in their hand. They knew of only one person in the entire world who could make it.

The civilian’s vision cleared a little, and the villain’s face came into focus. Dark, heavy storm clouds rumbled in their expression, and it took conscious effort to not flinch away.

The civilian had learned by now that the villain’s anger was a dangerous thing, even when not directed at them. Fortunately, they’d also learned what to say in the face of that rage. They tried to imagine, for a second, that they weren't afraid.

“Can we please go home?”

The villain took in a breath, and their eyebrows rose.

And then they smiled.

“Why, of course, love. Anything your heart desires.”

Part 8

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Taglist:

@d-cs

#civilian x villain #villain #villain x civilian #heroes and villains #hero x civilian #writing snippet #writeblr #kidnapping whump #whump #whumpblr #villains and heroes #civilian x hero #possessive whumper #captivity #a couple days ago i hinted that this would be posted yesterday #and then i decided that it needed another day to sit in the editing stew #whoops #this is why you don't promise things by a certain deadline unless you have to #not a prompt

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sparklepoint · 5 months

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fire emblem au. i'm sure it's fine

[au concept by @floodbender] [reference link]

#persona 5 #yusuke kitagawa #reader it wasnt fine #in this house we live and die by yusuke whump #not ship tagging but three guesses who the second person is the first two don't count and your hint is my entire blog

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a-crumb-of-whump · 2 years

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Content: Hospital settings, wounds/injuries, begging, PTSD/trauma.

"Please! It hurts so much!" Whumpee screamed, desperately trying to pull away from the person holding onto their arm.

Caretaker gently rubbed their back, resting their chin on the frightened whumpee's head as the nurse cleaned out their wounds. "Shh," they quietly hushed. "It's okay."

"Hurts... hurts... don't want anymore pain. Don't want anymore. Want it to be over! No more! Please!"

#whumpees that panic at the slightest hint of pain <3 #whump #whump stuff #whump things #whump thoughts #whump scenarios #whump prompts #whumpee #caretaker #whumpee x caretaker #caretaker x whumpee

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revelisms · 8 months

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He's not a religious man.

Superstitious, perhaps; spiritual, hardly—but Fate has her ways: claw-tipped fingers blue and demure, weaving chance like a seamstress bobbins thread.

And maybe Vander, the Hound, Zaun, this child—maybe all of it exists as the needle; he, the tear in need of stitching.

A loose thread; a future yet to be sewn.

A patchwork parable: smoke and schemes.

They spoke of his mother like a sickly omen, and his father like a begone spirit, vanished.

They spoke of him like something intangible: a concept, a slip of a butchered tongue, a wash of light from a galaxy gated in smog. Yet his steps hold sound: heavy-footed heels, heel-to-steel-tipped-toe, a graceless carryover of the mines; his clothes hold scents: of the Lanes' sweet-soured stench, of tobacco and juniper leaf, of cedar oil and citrus and clove.

In the churches, he splits the silence with every stride, and sinks into an empty pew, in an empty hall, incense pluming fragrant off glittering tile and gilded glass and a child's scribble tucked in his pocket, paper pinched half-minded beneath his thumb—and he does not pray.

No, he is not a religious man.

To be anything near it would be to deny the blood-soaked earth on which he stood: the blood his roots have drank from, his branches have beared fruit from, that his people have devoured: stripped the leaves for their bedding, splintered the branches for their kindling, consumed with the careless abandon of a youth's first harvest—one who has forgotten to sew the next.

(Needle, or thread?)

Most days, he wills himself not to care.

Superstition begs differently.

He will wash his hands thrice, on the mornings the sun shines too cleanly, simmers through jade-paneled glass and sits like a pyre on his cave-chilled scales; he will turn the lamps down low, on the days the storms wash the streets clean; he will keep a gun at his back and a knife at his waist, on the days he feels safe enough, and a dozen more, on the ones he doesn't; he will eat alone, standing, hunched at the open draft of a night burned with neon, before he ever thinks to sit at the kitchen table.

Strange habits. Stranger beliefs.

They say the Sun's a devil of disease, don't you know? That the storms of Jan'ahrem's sleeves are the oldest gods of all. That one ought to wear a bullet for every Sump-layer they cross. That those buried within their bowls may just as soon be buried beneath the rubble.

A canary, they called him. An irony.

Sooner to squawk than to sing; a wingless creature slimed from the Pilt.

A manifest.

Needles and thread.

He sung only at an ivory cast of 88 keys, a girl at his knee and a set of knobby fingertips skipping beneath his own, as the words little girl blue slipped too quietly off the tongue.

He prayed only at the altar of Vander's knees.

In the churches, he leaves his tithes, and slithers off in a prowl of loping boots. Heel-to-toe thud-thudding, hands pocketed, wool sweeping.

The streets greet their Unholy, their Deliverance, their Own with blind chaos, devouring. Countless lives lived; countless threads, stitched and unraveling.

From his breast pocket, he snaps open a gilded cigarette case, and walks on.

Tobacco weaves through the fibers of his coat.

silco / on prayers

#arcane #arcane fanfic #ficlet #prose #those posts on silco being hinted at as a sort of cult leader/spiritual figure/dark messiah #yeah #still thinking about that #silco #silco arcane #the like. smallest dash of vanco whump #but c'mon #when is it not here #writing

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tired-of-being-nice · 15 days

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67 for Milo and Coren! :3

67 on the prompt game: Playing The Melody

(this took so much longer then i expected it to, lmao)

cws: emotional whump, fucked up economic systems

"Milo!!! Milomilomilomilo! Look what I got!"

Milo lowers their book and glances up, and their eyes immediately widen in shock. "Woah. Is that–"

"It is!!" Coren says gleefully, hugging it to their chest. "An actual, real-life guitar! It's probably not tuned right and I think some of the strings are kinda busted but– so cool, right?"

"So cool," Milo agrees. "Where on earth did you get it?"

"Oh, the, um, the junk store," Coren says, with a hint of forced casualty. Milo nods in understanding. The junk store–so called because it mostly carries, well, junk–is...maybe not exactly a store. It doesn't take any company's scrip, just deals in bartering, which seems like it should be illegal, but the store is a fixture of their neighborhood and it's never been shut down that Milo's heard of, so...

"Yeah, I had to trade in a bunch of old clothes and some food—don't give me that look, Milo, I'm fine!—but I got it! And I can kinda play it! Here, look."

And without any further warning, Coren sits down on the stoop across from Milo and begins to pluck at the strings.

It's slow, and awkward, and even Milo can tell it's not very good. But as it plays, slowly, Milo begins to recognize what it's playing.

"I think I know this song!" they say.

Coren beams at them, and Milo's heart swells. "Yeah?! Good! It's an old song, a folk song, I think. I'm pretty sure I've heard it somewhere, can't remember where, but– um– yeah." It looks down at the strings and starts playing again, apparently abruptly embarrassed.

It's still not very good. Pretty bad, actually, objectively speaking. But Milo doesn't care. They think it's wonderful.

———

"Oh, Ray, I didn't know you had a piano."

"Oh! Uh, yeah. I- It was given to me by my family, um, I wouldn't actually buy something so- so frivolous, er-" Ray flails for the correct thing to say with increasing panic. By the time he'd woken up Milo and told them Coren was gone, it seemed too late to go after it, and Milo had simply said "Ah. I see."

Ray had expected them to leave after that, but instead they'd started wandering around Ray's house like a ghost. Ray wants to ask them to leave, or remind them that they do both have to get to work soon, or tell them that she does want either her spatula back or compensation, but some instinct of politeness has been holding her back. And now-

"Do you play?" Milo says, looking at him directly for the first time this morning. Ray is startled by the focus in their gaze, which usually seems to be looking somewhere else entirely. If he didn't know better he'd say they look eager, but- no, that can't be it. He's never seen Milo look eager for anything in the whole time he's known them.

"...A little," she says. "Used to, anyway, I haven't had time to in...oh, geez, several years?" She forces an awkward laugh that, judging by Milo's stare, is not remotely convincing.

"Can you play something now?" Milo says.

Ray hesitates. "I- I'm out of practice. And you'd owe me, you know-"

"I know," Milo says easily. "We'll rebalance the book later. One song? Please."

Ray, pretending his best that he doesn't really want to (it's been so long, when will he get another chance?), says "Fine. One. Any requests?"

Milo answers so quickly Ray's a little suspicious. "I don't know the name, but it's this old folk tune. It's like- da da dada, da da dada, da da daaa dada dada..."

"...Yes. I know it." Ray shuffles through her music and sits. "Nice and short. Okay."

She plays– hesitantly at first, she is out of practice, but slowly picking up speed, though she flinches every time she hits a sour note. By the end, though, she's closer to smiling than she has been in a long time.

"That was nice," Milo says, and Ray turns to look at them. He'd nearly forgotten they were there. "Thank you, Ray. I'll see you at work."

With that, they turn and leave, abrupt and purposeful, as if nothing odd had transpired whatsoever. Ray is left standing in the doorway, staring after them and wondering why on earth they would want to hear something that made them look so terribly sad.

#asks?! for me?!#oc: coren #oc: milo #oc: ray #october's whump #emotional whump #if you guess the song you get a cookie! if not thats fair i didnt give many hints. i'll post it tomorrow anyway

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ashintheairlikesnow · 7 months

Text

The Heretic's Chosen, Chapter Four

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three |

CW: Aftermath of noncon/dubcon, nonsexual nudity (or... post-sexual nudity?), mentioned bruises, creepy whumper, intimate whumper

Present day

“You don’t believe in Dromada.” Grigori keeps his gaze firmly off to one side, refusing to grant the bastard the privilege of eye contact. Instead, he stares through the barred window at the beautiful day outside.

Bohli only laughs, straddling Grigori’s hips as he reaches over him to untie his hands from the intricately carved headboard, one by one, before pulling them down to tie them together. Why Bohli bothers, Grigori will never know - it’s not like he can go anywhere, like he could escape this. Put that damn pendant back on and Grigori will look like he’s in love if he’s told to. He’ll feel like he’s in love, and be utterly unable to understand he isn’t.

“No,” Bohli says, voice low and heavy, and Grigori’s mind may shudder at the idea that Bohli will want him again so soon, but his body responds differently. “Or rather… yes, but not the way you think.”

He pulls away, leaving Grigori to shiver in the sudden chill when Bohli’s too-warm body is gone. He sits up, watching Bohli dress in his black leathers while Grigori can only sit there naked, picking at the knots on his wrist without success. “What’s that meant to mean?”

“Well, I believe in Dromada, but I don’t believe in any such thing as your silly human goddess,” Bohli responds easily. His leather slide on like a second skin, and as soon as he has them, Grigori can hardly remember what he looks like without clothing - only a sense of skin absolutely covered with runic tattoos in the elven tongue that he refuses to explain or elaborate on. “Those are two different things, Grigori.”

Bohli is a little flushed from his exertions, his hair a wild mess atop his head, but he doesn’t even bother to try and comb it down. He has a feral look to him, with his narrow chin and hard jaw and sharp teeth, that isn’t attractive, not in the slightest, no matter what Grigori’s immensely traitorous body thinks.

“No, they’re not,” Grigori says. Before he can finally work one knot open and free himself, Bohli is back in front of him, pulling him to his feet on shaky legs. His hips hurt, his lower back aching in a soft way that might have been sweet, if any of this was what he wanted.

Isn’t it, though, by now? He could be fighting harder than this.

But he doesn’t.

As days pass, he fails to see the point in trying. At least his mind is wiped clean, for a few perfect minutes, each time Bohli overcomes his resistance. At least he has peace, briefly, before all his self-loathing rises again.

“Hm?” Bohli blinks, pulling Grigori’s knuckles to his lips, giving each one a gentle kiss that has Grigori’s fingers twitching in an urge to throw a punch that he knows damn well won’t land, just to say he did it. Just to keep fighting. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Dromada is the human goddess of forgiveness,” Grigori says, slowly, frowning and jerking his hands back from Bohli’s grip. The half-elf… man… whatever he is, laughs and ties a new rope to the short bit of slack between Grigori’s wrists, backing up while jerking on the makeshift leash to force Grigori to stumble forward, naked and sweaty and marked from Bohli’s attentions, with lips still red and thighs still shaking. “Wait, what-... what are you doing-”

“Taking you for a walk,” Bohli says cheerfully, continuing backwards to the door, yanking Grigori into the hallway even as he starts trying to drag his feet.

As lean as he looks, though, Bohli has inhuman strength, and no amount of struggle keeps Grigori within the relative safety of his room.

No, his feet stumble onto the thick, heavy rug that runs the length of the hallway, and his face flushes a deep dark red as he sees two of the bandit gang turn to look before they burst into laughter and murmur to each other.

Bohli keeps him moving, away and not towards the two who still direct their laughter at Grigori’s back.

Grigori’s heart pounds in his chest, he’s dizzy from rage and humiliation as they pass bandits in ones and twos, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door of this ramshackle home for evil out into the sunshine. Every single bandit laughs at him - he knows all their darkest sins, they come to confession regularly whenever Bohli commands it, and they don’t lie. They want him to know the depravations they pursue, they want him to see the wicked natures of their hearts.

He knows the worst things they have ever done, and yet here, they laugh at him - and he can do nothing. As far as they're all concerned, he is just Bohli's bedtoy and prisoner, here to amuse, here to be ground under their feet, here to give Bohli his basest desires to play with, a holy man to turn into profane perversion.

Not that he feels holy any longer.

Please, he prays, but Dromada doesn’t listen. Maybe She can’t hear him in the Kaila, maybe the woods are beyond Her ability to reach. Maybe that’s why mankind stays away from the darkness here, the trees older than time, the first forest to have ever existed. The place where the elves once came from, before they were chased back into it, before they were destroyed.

Or were they?

Please save me. I will be your priest again, and I will not waver this time. Please, please, goddess, please.

She gives him nothing.

The sun, at least, is warm on his hair and skin, and the grass is soothing and soft under his bare feet. Bohli tips his head back and Grigori watches his eyes close as he seems to preen and flower under the heat and light coming from the bright blue sky. Grigori looks wrecked, like a whore after serving in the war-tents for the soldiers.

You are a whore, now. You know that, right?

He forces his own thoughts away. Grigori knows he looks destroyed, torn apart, scratched to bleeding, bitten to bruising, slapped to redness on his arse and face according to Bohli’s depraved lusts. But Bohli… looks pristine. There’s no red marks on him, no bruise. Nothing to show what he's done.

Only his lovely, sharp face and his bright, shining smile.

As if Grigori had simply fucked himself into this appearance, and Bohli had stood by above it all.

“I hate you,” Grigori says aloud, hardly realizing he’s done so until Bohli opens his eyes and turns to look at him, looking faintly surprised.

“What?” Grigori’s heart quakes, just a little, at the way Bohli’s smile drops off like it was chalk washed away by rain, and something in those dark eyes turns coldly elven, all his humanity simply gone like it’s only a mask he wears and he can take off at will.

“You… you heard me,” Grigori says, and somehow his voice stays steady. There are more bandits out here - the ones patrolling the edges of the clearing, guarding against wildlife that might try to make its way in. A few simply sitting out on the grass enjoying pints of beer they make themselves here from stolen grain. He knows they’re looking while pretending not to look, seeing the marks on his body, knowing their leader put them there. “I hate you. You have-... you have ruined me.”

For a moment, those black eyes on his feel like voids he might fall into and drown.

Then Bohli throws his head back and laughs so loud that a flock of birds is startled out of the trees nearby and takes flight with raucous caws and the beat of wings.

He keeps laughing, the bastard, his knees folding and then giving out until he falls onto the ground, jerking the rope until Grigori is pulled down, too, to land on his hands and knees on the grass. Someone calls out something filthy about what they could do with him out here like this, and his face burns. Tears are hot beyond his eyelids and he works as hard as he can to ignore them.

Bohli is still laughing, airy and breathless, as he drops onto his back, turning his head to look at Grigori with appraising, glimmering eyes. “Gods below, you thought I would care. See, Brother Grigori-”

“How dare you call me that!”

“-this is why I like you so much! You are a fucking treat. I’m so glad we let you live. I’m so, so glad I found you. You’re a beauty, and you’re mine. Now that’s a gift from the gods, don’t you think? My very own dirty little priest.”

“I-I’m no longer-”

“Oh, you still are one. Just because I have taken all your sacred parts and sanded them down to mud doesn’t mean you aren’t still a priest of Dromada, my pretty little man. You are a pure man turned to slut at my command, and that's all I need you to be, really. Come here.”

Grigori sets his jaw, knowing it won’t matter. But he can’t force himself to move, and he has to make Bohli work for this, even if he isn’t sure why he bothers. “No.”

“I said, come here, little priestling.” Bohli's smile shifts again, fades a little.

“And I said no.”

They stare at each other, for one long breath of silence broken only by the wind in the trees and the fading calls of the fleeing birds. Then Bohli’s smile widens so much that he seems like the stories of sea monsters and sharks, a mouth full of rows of endless teeth, black eyes that take in light but don’t reflect it. “Oh, Brother Grigori,” Bohli breathes, lighting up with new desire. “If you want me to take you again so badly, you should just say so.”

“What?” Grigori’s eyes widen in shock and new horror. He still hurts, he still throbs. “No!” He throws himself backwards, and Bohli isn’t expecting it - the rope slips through those long fingers fast enough to make the half-elf wince before Grigori is on his feet and fleeing, still naked, towards the woods.

Others in the bandit group stand, but Bohli holds up a hand. “Let him go,” He says, voice bright, getting softer as Grigori runs. “I’ll give him a ten-minute head start, let's see how he begs for me to take him back once I catch him.”

Grigori hears more laughter, but he ignores it, making the edge of the clearing in only a few seconds. He’s always been a good runner, fast and strong. He used to race some of the others in circles around the temple, see who could do the most laps in the shortest amount of time. His breath burns his lungs as he things, unwillingly, about his brother priests, the family murdered by the same bandits who keep him here as a sort of toy for their amusement, who shred him body and soul, day by day, to… what? Prove some point about their hatred of the goddess?

To prove some mysterious point to the King, a man Grigori has never met, who no one has ever seen in person outside the palace and the battlefield?

He runs, half-blinded by tears that come unbidden, that he can't quite seem to force away. He runs as if fleeing the flames that had burned down the only life he ever knew and left him to dissolution, to being preyed upon by a creature of such absolute devotion to degradation.

The trees at first seem natural and normal, but as Grigori runs straight into the woods, the Kaila begins to crowd around him. The sunlight grows dimmer, blocked by the grand canopies of the trees that loom over his head. After a couple of miles, maybe three, the canopy is so thick that it seems as dark as night around him. Things crash away from him through the woods, wildlife startled by him into fleeing.

His feet hurt, sharp pains as he keeps stepping on things he can’t see through the underbrush. He's panting like a child - or like a man who hasn't been allowed to run in a year.

By now, he knows, Bohli is after him, tracking his trail through the trees. Grigori comes to a stop, looking around himself and realizing he has no idea how far he will need to go to find one of the safe paths through the Kaila.

Or if there even is one in this direction.

He takes a breath through lungs that burn, realizing he can’t even give up and turn around and go back. He has no idea which direction he’s come from, and no idea which direction to go. His rebellion may be simply to die, lost in the dark forest that is damnation to man, doomed to wander as just another trapped spirit caught here between the trees, subjected to the whims of the lingering traces of the elven gods and their terrible cruel amusements.

But at least he will have wiped that smile off Bohli’s face, taking from him his toy and breaking it where he cannot follow, the bastard.

Grigori squares his shoulders, looks around, and walks in a direction at random, heading for the sound of some kind of stream he can hear, picking his way more carefully now that the panic has subsided. Do elves track by scent? Bohli might, if they do… he doesn’t know. But it can’t hurt to stop for a drink of water before he moves on anyway.

Show me the way, he prays. He pleads, he throws every last remaining shred of belief he has in Her mercy into his mental voice. Please, my goddess, I have worshiped you since I was an infant. Save me. Please, please save me.

She doesn’t answer.

She hasn’t answered him since the day his brothers all died and he was spared by a trick of fate.

Still, he keeps moving.

His last act as Dromada’s Chosen, he supposes, will be simply to take from a wicked man something he wanted for his own. It’s not much.

It’ll have to do.

If he’s very, very lucky, he’ll get Bohli so lost he dies in here, too.

Tag list:

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlin-always-writing @sunshiline-writes @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @befuddled-calico-whump

#whump #the heretic's confession #fantasy world #fantasy writing #fantasy whump #captivity #nonsexual nudity #aftermath of noncon #creepy whumper #cheerful whumper #defiant whumpee #runaway whumpee #religious whump #I mean fantasy religion but #priest whump #more foreshadowing hints if anyone cares to guess #humilitation tw #escaped whumpee

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