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elderberries-and-honey · 2 months

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After the shock wore off, Winifred invited both men inside for tea. Harold, who insisted she call him Harry instead, was incredibly thankful for the hospitality after their travels, and he and Winifred got on straight away.

They shared stories of their mother & sister happily and seemed genuinely curious about each other’s lives. As they talked, they began to notice little quirks in each other's mannerisms that made both of them realise Alice's spirit was still alive and well within them.

Lawrence listened curiously, watching his wife warm up to her Uncle the more they got to know each other.

Before they knew it, the sun was beginning to set over the hillside, a beautiful orange glow cascading into the dining room, and as they chatted and drank their way through an entire pot of tea, they almost forgot any mention of money or business.

However, not everyone at the table was keen on taking a stroll down memory lane.

Gerald didn’t bother to remove his hat or drink a single drop of tea; he seemed to have no intention to make himself cozy in their home. Instead, he lowered his head and glowered the whole time, arms crossed as some sort of defense mechanism, not uttering a word until he’d finally had enough of their small talk.

He leaned in towards Harry, bushy eyebrows somehow furrowing even tighter before speaking. “Shall I remind you of the reason we’re here, brother?” He enquired, impatiently.

Harry sighed, bringing his hands together before he explained everything, starting with the night Alice first fled the Bloomsburg home.

Of course, Winifred had heard this story as a girl, and later on, began asking questions once she was old enough to be curious about her mother's family and where she came from. Hearing it through an unfiltered lens as an adult was very different though, and somehow worse than she’d ever thought. As Harry recounted the tale, she realised just how cruel her maternal grandmother had truly been to her mother.

As he continued, he informed them that unbeknownst to anyone, Herbert, Winifred’s grandfather, never wrote Alice out of the will as he was instructed by his wife and she was the heir to both his vast fortune and successful business, however neither could be turned over to her until Ada passed away, and she outlived her husband for many years. It seemed he had less than traditional beliefs and wanted his daughter to be able to support herself without needing a husband to do it for her.

But, after a series of faulty investments, it seemed the company had become less than profitable over the years and was due to go under at any moment.

"So you mean to tell us that my wife has inherited the Bloomsburg fortune?" Lawrene asked, more enthusiasm in his tone than Winifred would have liked.

"Well technically speaking, Mr. Baudelaire, since Miss Winifred is married, you have." Harry answered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

For the first time since they'd sat at the table, Gerald chuckled darkly to himself. "Rightfully so, if you ask me. Leaving this company to a woman in the first place was a load of codswallop."

"But neither Mrs. Baudelaire or I know the first thing about running a business, much less one doomed to fail." Lawrence replied, paying no mind to Gerald's terribly sexist comment.

Both Bloomsburg brothers went on to explain a deal of sorts. If the Baudelaire's signed the company over to them, they would take over the legalities of closing a business, and handle all other affairs concerning the estate, if they split the inheritance with them.

While the men discussed the finer details, Winifred sat in her chair silently. She didn't care about the business itself, truthfully she wanted nothing to do with any of it, even the money. But Lawrence hadn't even stopped to ask what she thought, or consider her feelings on the matter.

Quietly, she excused herself outside for a breath of fresh air and time to process everything she’d learn that afternoon.

It felt queer to doubt what seemed to be a once in a lifetime chance to escape poverty, for her husband never to work long hours or do back breaking work. To send her children to school and give them a life of opportunities that she could have never imagined even in her wildest dreams. It was surreal to envision such a different life, and as she tried to picture it, she could only think of her mother who had been robbed of it.

After a while, Harry came out to find her. “May I sit?” He asked, gesturing to the seat next to her on the wooden bench. She nudged Thistle out of the way and scooted over to give him some room to join her.

“I know we don’t know each other all that well, Winifred, but I did know your mother’s face; how you resemble her…it’s as if I'm looking at a photograph." He smiled to himself at how true it was before observing her expression again. "And I can recall the look on her face when something puzzled her. Will you tell me your troubles?”

As she looked back at Harry, she wasn't sure what to expect. It wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination for him to be disinterested in her concerns and only inquiring over her dismay out of politeness.

Except, instead of a troubled expression like her own, she only saw a face wanting to comfort. She had not seen that face for such a long time, and she was surprised to recognize it so easily, for she too recognized Alice's face in his own.

“I…I don’t know what to make of this.” She admitted once she decided she could trust his intentions. “But my husband has already made up his mind and since I am just a woman, it seems I have no say in the matter.”

Harry listened while she expressed her concerns until he was sure she'd gotten out all that she needed to say. It felt nice to be vulnerable with someone, her relief over having someone to express these things to was almost tangible.

In return, he shared with her how nearly inseparable he and Alice had once been, how much he missed her, and that he regretted not doing more to keep in contact with her before she passed.

Afterwards, he turned to her with a bittersweet expression, pain and regret glowing in his eyes, yet a subtle softness painted on his lips. "I might not have spoken to your mother for a long time, Winifred, but I do know this... everything she did, she did for you. She would want you to have a good life, no matter what."

"Even if that means taking money from my very estranged family?" She asked with a slight laugh, noticing how ridiculous it sounded to say out loud.

He chuckled, also realising the ludicrousness of the situation. "Even then." He assured her.

“And, Miss Winifred, if I may say one more thing, don't pay any mind to my brother. He's nothing but a chuckle head, you understand?” He added, waving his hand as if to dismiss his older brother. Winifred giggled in response, feeling much less guilty than she had only moments ago. "You are more than just 'some woman'. You are Alice Monet's daughter."

Before Winifred could ask what he meant by that or how he came to know the last name her mother had chosen for herself, he reached inside the pocket of his coat to retrieve what at first glance appeared to be a crumpled piece of paper. "I thought you might want this." He said, handing it to her quickly.

There in her hands was a photograph of herslef as a girl, dated February 13th, 1876 - her 7th birthday. "I found it while going through my father's things." He mumbled, trying to hide a playful smile before heading back inside.

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#my internet has been wonky and cutting out all week and i got tired of fighting with it yesterday #but i'm soooo excited to get started on this next era guys!!!!#1893 #ts4 historical #sims 4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #sims 4 decades challenge #decades challenge #ts4 legacy #ts4 storystelling #sims 4 legacy #sims 4 storystelling #the baudelaire legacy #1890 #winifred baudelaire #lawrence baudelaire

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whumble-beeee · 4 months

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The Waiting Game

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 3

Contains: disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, PTSD, past captivity references, needles mention, tied up/retstraints, blood, collar

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[As the warden of your captured hero, you are responsible for their health, for better or for worse. So it is generally advised that you should make a habit of tracking what injuries you cause on or in the hero’s body. Write it all down in a journal!

Another reliable approach is to examine them physically. This approach is best used if you think the hero is lying or trying to hide a physical ailment they so stupidly caused to themself while you were away. There will usually be resistance from the hero to such an approach, so you may have to restrain the hero to use this method. This also comes with the drawback that only external ailments can be detected, so you will likely have to also pick up on cues in the way the hero acts to detect more invisible sicknesses; Are they dizzy, lurching around, or exhibiting other signs of illness? Then they might just be ill! But be wary of faking! How stupid they’ll feel when you don’t fall for it because you’ve read The Unofficial Guide to Hero-keeping! (for more information, turn to ‘Identifying Faked Behaviors’ on pg. XX)]

* * * * * * * *

Stan felt like he was dying.

The way his arms wrenched behind his back had him constantly readjusting just to find even a semi-comfortable way to lie on the hard flooring. Every time he readjusted, the horrible aches and pains marring his body lit up as if it were the first time all over again, continually reawakening him with an infuriatingly small shot of adrenaline that only served to make him just conscious enough to feel the buzzing agony anew. He wove in and out of consciousness like a speedboat hurtled over the waves of choppy storming seas.

Genuinely a waking nightmare.

A bitter feeling at the top of his mouth stung lightly, clouding his mind, pulling him away from the terror, the torture, pulling him closer to an uneasy unconsciousness before the ever-present danger of the situation stormed back to the front of his mind and jolted him back awake. Because yeah, the mercenary was still here in the room, sitting in his stupid chair and scrolling on his stupid phone. At least when he wasn’t standing up every so often to bounce around the room like a bouncy ball, or restlessly spin around in circles like a toddler or quietly seethe in a sort of Spanglish about “¿por qué tardan tonto?” and “God, are they fucking with me?” and “Ughhhhh, I’m bored.”

The intermittent movement only served to constantly remind Stan of his place on the floor, tied up, beat up, ankle chained, dizzy, collared, and without his cane.

Oh, and the collar. It sat heavily on his throat, restricting any and all use of his powers. Making the possibility of fighting back stretch ever farther away.

He swallowed. Pushed the thoughts away. He tried not to think about it too much. The memories returned in the form of twisting waking nightmares if he thought about it too much. He did his best to just focus on the good things instead;

The fact that Chloe, his amazing little sister, didn’t seem to be involved in any of this. And if he ever found out she was, he would burn this entire place to the ground. He’d done it before for her, and he’d do it again. For her.

The fact that when (not if) he got out of this situation, he still had his fiance, Marcus, to go back home to. And in fact, Marcus was probably planning a rescue mission right this second, and when he saved Stan and put this Deeby guy in prison, they could all go back to normal and Stan could forget any of this had ever even–

“Oye! Chico! Stan, you better not be dying on me!”

Stan flinched out of his half-asleep daze and tried to move his hands out from behind him. His shoulders felt so stiff.

Didn’t work.

Right.

Then his eyes focused on the bounty hunter, and a glaring jolt of danger danger danger made him avert his gaze downward. The action made this vision swim, and he swayed. Had he always had a headache this bad?

The bounty hunter snorted at him.

“You givin’ me the silent treatment or something?” He started a slow meander toward Stan. “I was just checking up on you, bud. You stopped twitching and whining and shit, thought you were dead.”

And suddenly Stan found out that, in fact, there was a much more comfortable position for him to take in his bound-up state, that being him scootching back as quickly as possible from the encroaching mercenary until his back hit the wall.

“I wasn’t–!” Stan did not want to be a part of whatever recreational activities he would come up with to stave off the aforementioned boredom. Especially now that he was so defenseless. “Just–... I just– tired… and hurting. Wasn’t ignoring you.”

He stopped in his tracks and raised an eyebrow. “Okay, I can understand the hurting, considering…” he gestured vaguely to all of Stan. “That. But you’re tired? Really? You’ve been sleeping since you first got here.”

Stan took a deep breath and managed to roll his eyes against his better judgment.

“Getting kidnapped, beat to shit, and tied up so you can barely move really has a way of doing that to you, I guess…”

Stan knew his mistake as soon as he voiced the thought. Then it all but was confirmed when he saw the way the mercenary perked up, that lively glint in his eye, the way his smile widened just slightly. Stan found himself tensing and pressing even further into the wall, as if that would help at all when the mercenary came over to do whatever tortures he saw fit.

Instead, the man quirked his head at him. “When was the last time you ate? You hungry?”

Then he didn’t wait for an answer before rushing to leave the room.

Stan had to take a moment to process.

“I– What?!” he tried to call after the mercenary, already feeling his heart pounding in his chest. The bounty hunter reentered the room again with his hands in his jacket pockets, and Stan couldn't cover up the small whimper that escaped from his throat when Deeby trotted up to him and pulled out that same horrible pocket knife from before.

“Turn around.” The bounty hunter ordered with a little twirling motion of his blade.

What was happening?

“A-ah– What?! N-no!”

His mouth pressed into a straight line, an agitated huff leaving his nose at the challenge. Though, the shine never left his eyes even when they narrowed.

“I’m gonna undo the cuffs, turn around.”

What?

Stan balked. “Why would–... What’s the knife–!”

The mercenary surged forward and reached for the back of Stan's neck. Stan ducked down with a screech, more out of instinct than anything else as he braced himself for the pulling of the strap around his throat, his breath being stolen away from him as it tightened, constricting his windpipe, cutting off his air supply and inevitably wrenching him around like a ragdoll.

Only for the pressure to instead pull on the back of his shirt.

And sure, yeah, he was still wrenched forward so that he splayed out onto his stomach, barely avoiding smacking his face into the ground after a blinding white light filled his vision when he fell hard onto his injured, overworked knee, and a hoarse cry forced from his throat when the bounty hunter's own perfectly working knee dug into his upper back right between the shoulder blades. But Stan could barely even find it in himself to be mad about that over the overwhelming and very confusing relief he felt at not being choked out.

He still squirmed and struggled to get out of the pin, though the struggle was very short-lived as he fell into a forced freeze when the point of the knife rested threateningly on the small of his back. Right above the cuffs.

“Cálmate! Jesuchristo,” the hunter’s voice sounded from above him. “Sit tight and shut up, I’m doing you a favor.”

His wrists lifted up and the sliding shing and clicks of metal against metal sounded out, the cuffs shifting and clacking against his wrists as Deeby worked. Then one of the cuffs momentarily tightened before clicking open and wrenching off, and before he could even think of struggling again, the knee on his back swiveled around, grinding painful bone into bone as his arms swung above his head and were recuffed there.

Stan grit his teeth against the various pitiful noises threatening his vocal cords. If he wasn't going to fight back, he at least wasn't going to yelp like a wounded puppy.

Even if the man sitting on his back did make him agonizingly reaware of the beating he took earlier, the punch to the liver, the throws against the wall, the sprint on a knee that barely worked. And newly aware of a few possibly cracked ribs that shot lightning-quick stabs up through his chest and arms.

The manhandling was truly a gift that just kept on giving.

“There, that wasn't so hard, was it runt?” The bounty hunter said smugly as he pinched the back of Stan's shirt and pulled him back upright to his knees, which Stan quickly readjusted to sit crisscross. He had to bite his tongue from another defiant ‘yes’ and possible ‘that's what she said’ joke.

The mercenary nudged his leg with his boot. “Verbal response, bud.”

Stan pursed his lips as he inspected the cuffs adorning his wrists, noticing for the first time the dark fuzziness that clouded the edges of his vision. “You… you could have just… let me just turn around…”

He squeezed his eyes shut and blinked rapidly, shaking his head to clear the fuzz. Unsuccessfully.

“I gave you two chances. Told you what I was about to do. Plus, you need to learn to just do what I say. We can practice now actually! Eat this!”

A protein bar fell into Stan's lap. He stared at it.

He hadn't really noticed over the various screeching aches consuming his body which warranted more immediate attention, but a small, almost unbearable void was starting to take the place of his stomach. Maybe that's why he was so lightheaded. He tried not to dwell on how long he must have been here for the hunger to get that bad, and very tentatively picked up the bar to inspect it for… tampering he supposed. Poisoning.

As he turned the bar over in his hand, a small flash of dark red blotching his hand caught his eye; A little smiley face, lightly bloodied and scabbed over carved into the back of his hand. Taunting him with its joy.

He gawked at it, clenching his fist and watching the scab move lightly over the tendons. This must have been what the mercenary had carved into his hand that made him freak out when he'd first woken up. A perversion of everything the symbol was supposed to represent.

A fucking tiny little smiley face.

“It's not poisoned or anything.”

Stan practically jumped out of his skin as the mercenary appeared right beside him and deafeningly thumped one of the chairs down.

“If I wanted to drug you, I'd just–” he pressed the side of his fist into Stan's flinching arm and made a small popping sound, pantomiming a syringe. “Works a lot quicker than orally. And I can control the dose better.”

Oh. Oh no.

If the mercenary was ever going to drug him– Which there was almost no doubt he would try at some point–

He would use a needle.

“If– If you…” he was breathless, head spinning all of a sudden, vision tunneling on the death grip he held the protein bar in. “If you try to give me a shot, I'm going to– gonna freak ALL the way out. All the way. The entire way.”

He chuckled. “Damn, maybe I should poison your food then, calm down runt. Just sit in your chair and eat the protein bar.”

Stan wrenched his gaze up to the chair. He felt so hot. Was the room always this warm? He did not want to sit back in the chair. What would the bounty hunter do to him if he sat in the chair? What would he do if he didn't? Tie him up again? Torture him? Or maybe the plan was to poison him with the food. Deeby must have known he'd be hungry, he must’ve been here for hours at this point, if not a day. Or days?! He wasn't sure he could take much more of a beatdown, he already felt like he was teetering on the edge of a never-ending spiraling hole that he would never be able to escape from if there were any more restraints, more pain, more collars and taking away his powers so he couldn't defend himself even though he tried, more nonchalant bantering as if his entire life wasn't being torn apart at the seams, as if he weren’t in chains on the floor of some unknown warehouse with a collar forced onto him again with absolutely no chance of escape and no chance he would ever see any of his family ever again, no way to protect Chloe from the same fate, no–

“--Chico! STAN!!”

Two thunderous finger snaps shot through his consciousness. Stan screeched and tried to slam his elbows back, straining against the cuffs and shoving back into the wall as hard as he could, breath shuddering, feet skidding across the floor, eyes darting around trying to see through the pinhole that his vision provided for the source of the noise as the world spun on its axis around him.

Then his vision locked on the source of the noise, darkness slowly receding back to the edges of his vision. The source of the noise stared at him with a probing look on his face. Stan shrank even further into himself, if that was possible. He had curled up into a little ball at some point.

“Let go of the collar,” the hunter said, voice scarily even.

Stan felt his heart skip a beat as he realized that he was indeed white-knuckling the collar. He pried his hands off of his neck as his heart pounded in his ears, only barely drowning out the deafening sound of his own gasping breaths

“Wait wait, I didn't–!...” The mercenary stalked toward him, and suddenly he felt like a trapped animal again, collar and chains and all. “Please, I– I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, I wasn't trying– trying– I wasn’t–!”

The hunter squatted down right in front of him and sharply held up a finger, and Stan slapped his hands over his mouth to stop any more words from tumbling out at the command.

“Follow my finger with your eyes, yeah?”

Stan jerkily nodded. Tears burned his eyelids and wet his hands.

Deeby moved his hand around and around in front of Stan's face. Stan did his best to follow it. The motion made Stan's head spin, as well as the piercing red gaze of the mercenary staring into his pupils that he did his best to ignore.

“Oof, yeah,” Deeby said finally, resting his arm back down on his knee. “Concussion.”

Stan finally removed his hands from his mouth just enough to squeak out a response. “Concussion?”

“Concussion. You're off balance even though you're literally sitting down, staring into space, spacing out. Not making eye contact. Swaying. Plus your pupils are all blown up and you can't track for shit,” the mercenary laughed. “Maybe tossed you around a bit too hard back there. But hey, I told you what would happen if you tried to escape. That's on you, bud.”

Stan’s breath hitched on a light growl bubbling up in his throat. So it was his fault that he was beaten so badly that his brain literally rattled around his head? His fault that he was having a very understandable breakdown?

He wiped at the tear tracks running down his cheeks and around his eyes. Snorted, tried to get his chronically hitching breath back to normal. He couldn’t even remember what normal breathing felt like. The metal of the cuffs was surprisingly warm as they accidentally scratched at his face.

“So… What're, uh…” he whispered breathily. “What’re we gonna– gonna do about it?”

“The concussion?”

Stan nodded.

“Nothing to be done really. Just don't try anything stupid and you won't get tossed around again, I guess. But you can’t really treat a concussion.”

Stan clonked his head back against the wall with an exasperated whine. The mercenary just gave an amused shrug in return with an almost empathetic smile. “Maybe don’t do that though. Want some painkillers?”

“No,” Stan growled at the air. His vocal cords sounded strained and whiny from the crying, and he cleared his throat to get his voice back to normal. “I want you to let me go–”

Deeby scoffed, but Stan reinterrupted the interruption before he could start with another quip. “– OR failing that, I want you to leave me the-the hell alone!”

“Hm. Yeah, no. I'm bored. I’ve left you alone for the past day, and I think you're supposed to stay awake for a bit if you have a concussion anyway. So you're not going back to twitching on the floor for the time being. And I’ll assume you’ll get snarky if I say I wanna do something more physical…”

The mercenary stood up and went to go grab his chair, setting it down just a few feet away from Stan before patting the seat of the chair that he’d set down earlier, the one Stan had previously been tied to, flashing a smile that Stan could have almost mistaken as friendly with all the brain fog.

“So sit down, eat your protein bar. Let’s just have a chat.”

* * * * * * * *

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy

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